Close, But No Star

I started taking piano lessons at around the age of five or six. At that adolescent stage, it seemed like a fun little gimmick of a machine to produce some cool sounds. At the time, it also seemed to be not only a joy-inducing, but also an easy instrument to play. I’m not sure if it the original pace of learning songs was slow, or if the 2+2’s of piano pieces were actually just unchallenging, but I breezed through the beginner practices for piano with the full on excitement of a newly inflated balloon.

As an incentive to motivate her students to give their full effort into practicing the piano, my piano teacher developed a reward based system based on the quality of the student’s playing at the actual lesson. In the case that the student accrued four satisfactory checks, four weeks consecutively, they would be awarded by having the ability to pick a reward out of the prize drawer. There were all sorts of prizes: candy, pens, toys, hmm… thinking back, they were all simple, lackluster that nonetheless appealed as much as anything to the childhood mind. But the great point was that by devising this reward system, my teacher successfully beckoned her students to think twice about neglecting to give their full effort to practicing the piano.

For the first year or two, I’d always amass four consecutive stars. Every four weeks, I’d have the opportunity to choose between Charleston Chew and Starbursts. Possessing the interest that one would after they purchased a brand new car, I was attentive to all the minutiae of the delightful little pieces.

But just as enthusiasm of a new car’s owner wanes as the car becomes old, less revolutionary, and more repetitive, I had begun to feel gradually less interested in playing the piano, almost comparing it to a chore or a burden. But despite the decline of my interest, my will to play the new pieces continued to be strong. With every new composition, I discovered the nice, special perks that they possessed that allowed them to stand out among the other pieces.

Therefore, I was particularly devastating when, on one rainy day in March, I found myself struggling to perform a certain piece while I was trapped in the forest that was my piano teacher’s house. I couldn't play the notes correctly. My fingering was off. My counting was offbeat. The domino effect had discombobulated the precision of the entire piece.

What’s going on? Is she going to not give me that star? I need to step it… what’s this? She’s telling me I don’t deserve it this time? Nonsense. Poppycock. How could… Never have I ever… Why…

Yet soon, this flabbergast had turned to dejected woe. I was bawling at the thought of failing something that had seemed so humdrum yet elementary to me.

As I sobbed through the car ride home to the angry disappointment of my dad, who had shared my expectations for novice piano playing, I realized that it was a stupid way to go on. I had to move forward without looking back in anger. Having fallen off my high horse, I realized that the difficulty of my piano pieces was constantly increasing. Now, I’d have to adjust my effort to the piano to stay proportional to its difficult.

By changing my mindset and developing a new plan to go about my piano practicing future, I had rebounded from my irrecoverably lost star. I had set my mind onto a different goal: to retrieve the new star, not think about losing my old one.

What’s going on? I’m in the middle of playing the piano. Hey brain, stop being such a distraction. Get back to practicing.