Thunder Road

My father came home one afternoon with a lovely upright, converted player piano. It went straight into the living room, where I could not have imagined it fitting. You could open a little sliding door in the front and watch the hammers bounce off the strings as they made music, and that fascinated me. I wanted to learn to play faster and faster, to watch them be-bop back and forth. I could do scales all afternoon long, in any key, and was delighted when I mastered Scott Joplin's The Entertainer, because that was all over the keyboard, with hands reaching over hands. Loved it. It's probably also why I learned to play much more by ear than by sight (well, also because I was blind as a bat and couldn't often read the notes in front of me).

My sister, on the other hand, went the tried and true path: She studied classical music and slowly but surely played beautiful chords and read all the notes properly. I don't know if she enjoyed it as much as I did, or ever found it silly (in a good way), but she played well.

It never occurred to me to ask why we had different piano teachers, who were vastly different. Much as I had fun, I truly wanted to play as well as Carole could.

I learned the classics, from Mozart to Bach, but threw in lots of jazz, because my teachers could see that I'd pay more attention to them, and because the side of me who wanted to simply enjoy the instrument won out over the one who would have to torturously practice what I didn't want to, for an okay end-result. I wasn't that good (and that's okay to admit).

Carole went off to college and my parents asked me to choose between acrobatics and piano. I chose acrobatics; they sold the piano and I wrecked my knees. C'est la vie.

Did I make the right choice? Absolutely: It gave me a fine appreciation of music, especially of piano, and gave me strength (no pun).

My big sister came home that Thanksgiving from college, wanting to impart something important on her dorky little sister. She pulled out two albums: Billy Joel's The Stranger, and Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run. I hadn't heard of either of them (of course; see 'dorky' comment above).

"Learn the words; you'll appreciate me." There were limits on her imparting abilities.

Okay, this will show my age, but back then lyrics were printed (if you were lucky) on the inside album sleeve. There was no YouTube, and you couldn't fast-forward or repeat on an album. And you better not scratch them, either; they were only on loan to me for the weekend.

She was right. Coolness ensued when, sitting in 8th-grade science class, I could sing along to the entire Piano Man and Thunder Road without hesitation (still can, for that matter). Thank you, Carole.

“The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves

Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

Roy Orbision singing for the lonely

Hey, that's me, and I want you only…”

While I can still belt out those words, what I really hear is the piano in the background to both of those songs, and longed to play like that. I also longed to write like that, to give people the gift of my vision, via words.

And so I taught Freshman English at Northeastern University using not just Strunk & White (mainly because my undergrad was in Finance, not English), but real-life examples my students could relate to: Tom Petty, Phil Collins, Marvin Gaye and of course, Mr. Springsteen. Ballad makers. We conquered metaphors, similes, and analogies with ease, and in return, I was introduced to my favorite pianist, George Winston (thank you, Bonnie Warburton, in one of her student essays), and Norman Mailer (thank you, Brian Goldberg, in one of his poetic, alcohol-induced, charming colleague moments).

Where the hell am I going with this?

Wishes, goals and appreciations change, as well they should. Had I held onto wanting to play the piano like Carole could, I'd likely still be struggling. Many years later, with my own house and my own piano, I bought the sheet music to Thunder Road, and just laughed when I opened it. OMG; I had no idea where to even begin learning that. I knew just then that it was time to let that aspiration go, and focus on what was realistic. Could I have learned it? Yes. Would I have absolutely hated it by the time I did? Yes, too. Do I still listen to it, turn it up loudly, and close my eyes on the piano solo and love every moment of it? You bet; without regret.

Letting go is not giving up. Letting go is realizing there's a better path to pursue. Letting go is allowing yourself to stop banging your head against a wall and do what suits you better. Letting go is acknowledging you have a hard-earned college degree or two that serves you well, in a different manner than you foresaw (ahem, for instance). If it's been on your wish-list for 5 years (or longer, sigh), it’s a wish not a decision. Now might be the time to let it go (or decide to go all-in). Allow that to be a freeing moment, opening you up to greater opportunities and growth.

So, if you hate the thought of door-knocking, don't. If postcards seem insincere to you, don't send them. If you're unsure, let's assess where you are vs. where you want to be. I'm all about thinking outside the box, and will push in the directions that get you where you want to be.

What do you really want? Wish for things that ignite your passions. If real estate is right for you, call me for the words to your own jacket sleeve.