Name That Tune

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. - Friedrich Nietzsche in the Zen Calendar (December 6, 2007).

Day 318. I have been one snappy reveler today. Attended my office holiday party and distributed six baskets resplendent with the spoils of my rabid baking frenzies. Met my son to pick out a Christmas tree (we are amongst the .007 percent of the world's population that is holding out on an artificial tree. I'm not sure where this tenacity places us on the Green Scale, but it sure makes the house smell nice). Decorating the tree is always such a pleasant trip down and around Memory Lane. This prodigal daughter learned at the feet of the master (who learned at the feet of my grandmaster) that one NEVER disposes of a Christmas ornament. The ones made by my son are my favorites. Especially those that look like a couple of the artifacts I constructed in the 1960's. Reindeer out of popsicle sticks never go out of style.

In the midst of our snappy reveling, my son decided to teach himself to play the piano. I instantly became a willing teacher AND ardent fan. I am a member of the "took lessons for five years until it started getting hard and I couldn't master the pieces in a 30-minute practice session so I quit" club. However, since I was graced with ownership of my grandmother's century old upright, I sit down on occasion and play the recital pieces that seem permanently embedded in my motor skills memory. To date, my son had never expressed an iota of interest in learning music. In fact, I'm fairly sure he thought the piano was strategically placed at that spot in the living room specifically to land the keys and wallet he habitually tosses in its direction. I doubt he knew there was a keyboard lying under the perpetually closed cover.

Suddenly - Voila! He's obsessed with tickling the ivories (or, in this case, the slightly-dull-yellows). We sat down side by side and my fingers, of their own accord, flawlessly played all the major sales. Imagine my surprise when my son flashed up some 'screen music' to numerous beginner Christmas songs on his handy dandy laptop. I played them all on sight. I haven't sight read music in over three decades. My eyes and my brain and my fingers didn't seem to care. They just took off across the keyboard, busting out festive versions of "Joy to the World" and "Jingle Bells." My son was impressed. He hasn't been impressed with anything I've done since I beat several of his friends in arm wrestling at fifth grade Super Kids' Day. It felt good.

Equally impressive was his ability to learn bass and treble clef notes in less than 10 minutes. He slyly let on that he had been perusing a music theory book online. He said learning time signatures and counting notes in measures "reminded (him) of algebra," which he has always been remarkably good at (those facets of learning piano must have reminded me of something far different from anything mathematical, because I STILL don't know what x equals). My magical musical memory evidently extended to correct fingering while playing scales, so I provided a brief lesson on reading music and playing without looking at his hands.

Next thing I knew, he had Googled a beginner's version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I hung ornaments; he plucked out Mozart. As I reached the not-one-more-thing-could-possibly-fit-on-this-poor-tree's-overladen-branches (the only acceptable stopping point for decorating a Christmas tree, according to the tradition of my clan), he performed a flawless rendition of Mozart's little tune. At the moment I am striking these keys, he is striking keys of his own - keys arranged in the melody of "Jolly Old St. Nicholas."

This is becoming a bit surreal. I am trying to blog, while meanwhile engaging in a game of "Name That Tune" as my child eyeballs music on his computer screen and (apparently) has taught himself to play the piano in one night. He just finished a second run through of "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee." From where I sit at the computer in his room, it sounded perfect. Just now, I laughingly hollered out the song name. He replied, "Yup," and proceeded to "When the Saints Go Marching In." I named that tune in four notes. This is cracking me up. I am in the midst of greatness.

We may be setting a new precedent for Snappy Reveling. At the beginning of tonight's post, I didn't anticipate that, by the end, I would be providing a real time narrative of my son embarking upon a promising musical career (with the same hand smashed to smithereens during a football scrimmage a mere eight months ago). It doesn't happen often, but this is one time when Reality exactly matches My Preferred Version of It. Peak Experience.

I would love to continue narrating the miraculous, but I think I'll stop for now. I'm headed into the living room to Name That Tune.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc