I subbed at church again today. Meaning, I played piano for the 10:15am service at my parish. For those pianists out there, here's the lineup:
- Brahms, Intermezzo, op 118, no. 2, A major (prelude)
- Bach, Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, arr. by Myra Hess (offertory)
- Debussy, Reverie (postlude)
The first two pieces are ones I used to play a lot in public -- I kept them in my steady repertoire. The last one I used to sight-read on gigs a lot. Really. However, that was before I went to library school (1989) and lost daily easy access to a piano. I didn't practice as much as I should have this week, but really worked my butt off Friday evening, yesterday and this morning to be somewhat happy with how it turned out.
When I start to play these pieces from my past life, I have to remember I am not in a concert hall, but at church. People are there for worship, not to listen to ME. So, when the child spills something that sounds like a box of beads, I must keep focus. When the person who has some sort of mental disability starts talking loudly during the prelude, I must keep focus. Focus on the music and why I'm there.
I had forgotten how my hands felt during those days of practicing 3-10 hours a day. They feel so alive -- a part of me, yet not a part of me. Heightened sensation -- in part because muscles are stretched and used that are not used in daily activities. And so vulnerable. Strong, supple, and yet vulnerable. Quite the dichotomy.
I worked in a woodworking factory two summers to earn money for college. My mother also worked in this factory setting up and running a mitre saw. She told the foreman about my college studies and that I would be making a living (or so we thought then) with my hands, playing piano. He assigned me to jobs where I would not be in close proximity to saws. When I say close proximity, I didn't feed the ripsaw or run the bandsaw. I had to feed or take wood from a sander, a tenon machine, or nail blocks and trace forms for the bandsaw. But he kept me away from anything too dangerous, and I'm thankful for that.
I wore Wells Lamont Whte Mule work gloves every day. Each and every day
there. The temperature might be 105F inside, but I wore those gloves. Used masking tape to tape up the wear holes. Eventually the tape covered the palms and circled each finger to the tip. One of my colleagues there nailed my gloves up on the wall just before quitting time on my last day there. They're probably still there.
Working in a factory was a wonderful and humbling experience. It's hard work and it's hot. This was a woodworking factory -- no air conditioning, just lots of hot machines, large fans, piles of sawdust, and lots of chemical smells from the glues, the varnish, the paint, etc. You're on your feet the entire time. I worked downstairs on the machine floor with 2-4 other women and probably 30 or so men. You learned to keep the eyes focued above the waist. You also learned to avoid piles of sawdust, because they ususally had been spit in -- usually tobacco juice and it would stain your shoes badly. The folks upstairs worked putting the items together, and finishing them (paint, varnish, etc.). I got along fine with folks. After all, my mom worked there and it wouldn't do to get someone upset with me or with her. You don't want people angry around dangerous machines with saws, heavy duty staple guns and an elevator run on arm-muscle power (pulley rope system) with a flimsy gate.
I was humbled by how many times I was encouraged to "go make something of myself" so "you won't be stuck working in a factory when you're my age." Real quotes. I certainly didn't look down on a factory job, but it is tiring and rough work. And I think everyone should work in a factory for at least 2-3 months. It's an enlightening experience.
I also think everyone should work for 2-3 months as a restaurant server (waitress, waiter, waitstaff -- whatever you want to call it). You'll never give a lousy tip again unless it's truly deserved.
So... joy? Joy that my hands can still make music. That according to the measure of the folks in my hometown, I've "made something of myself." Joy that people still want to hear me play. After all, I did have a small audience after the postlude hanging on every note.
Thank you God for the joy in my heart and the song that still sings through these hands you gave me.
