Moonlight Sonata

I have vague memories from my youth of weekly trips up to the University of North Texas to take jazz piano with a PhD student named Steve. I remember sometimes the drives, how long they felt in traffic, and the shame of sitting down having not practiced enough, and of course the recitals, the nerves, heart beating out of my chest, walking up in a collared shirt tight on my neck, playing a dumbed down classical tune in front of a crowd. But from right around the time I started high school, all those memories disappear, because I didn't play a single time for what feels like forever, until the moment I rediscovered my old keyboard at my mom's house a few months ago and decided to bring it back to D.C.

That decision was one of the best I've made, and when I look back at the tumultuous time that was COVID-19 and all the many hours spent alone indoors, one of the absolute best silver linings has been music entering my life again. It's shocking the degree that it is still in my fingers, rusty, like riding a bike, but all of it still there, the muscle memory, the rhythm, and to some extent the strength. This all elicits so much from me each time I sit down, one part daily meditation and another the satisfaction of working towards a long-term goal. Like books, I look ahead and see an ever-expanding list of sheet music I want to fumble with and bring to life. Tiersen, Chopin, Debussy, Schubert, Mozart, and that catchy tune from The English Patient are all on the agenda somewhere down the line. They call out to me, ringing softly in my ears.

And then there is Beethoven. For several months I sat with Moonlight Sonata, my first big undertaking upon returning home, slowly moving forward note by note. When I finally played from memory that haunting six minute melody from start to finish, it felt for a moment like all I needed from this period to be happy, hearing this song - written over two hundred years ago for a women he loved but could not have - fill a room by way of my own hands. That is a connection forged across time and space that few mediums can accomplish. But I realize now this undertaking represented something more to me, something deeper and personal, that I think only can be described as immense gratitude - the kind that comes when you regain something you loved but thought you lost forever.