A Sensation of Spiritual Pain

My daughter is a skillful pianist. Her love affair with the piano began when she was quite young. When she left home for college, her last teacher was the revered Eleanor Sokoloff (née Blum; June 16, 1914 – July 12, 2020), a long-time piano faculty member at the renowned Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. [Note: the dates given are correct. Madame Sokoloff lived to age 106!]

At some point in her piano education, my daughter’s diligent practice brought her original instrument to its breaking point. We decided to buy a new piano. It was expensive, and I wanted to ensure it was properly cared for. It had a lockable fallboard, a hinged cover that is part of the piano used to cover the keyboard when the instrument’s not being played. It protects the keys and internal components of the piano. So I asked my daughter to always close the fallboard when finishing a practice session, although she needn’t lock it.  

However, I frequently found the keyboard uncovered. I decided to drive home the necessity of shutting the cover. Once I found it uncovered, I closed it, locked it, and hid the key. I wasn’t a particularly wise father, nor, as I would soon learn, did I understand the depth of my daughter’s passion for practice. It wasn’t long before she approached me and asked if I knew where the key was. Here, I thought, was my teaching moment, my opportunity to stress the importance of caring for her instrument.

What a fool I was! On the verge of tears, my daughter begged me for the key. She wanted, needed, indeed, must practice. I quickly relented, gave her the key, and never checked to see if the keyboard was covered again. How many kids studying piano are brought near tears when they can’t practice? As a piano student, I certainly wasn’t like that. To practice was a chore, hard work, to be avoided or minimized whenever possible. Please don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed playing the piano; it was simply the practice I disliked.

I say this even as one who earned a Bachelor of Music Degree in Piano Performance. In college, I would practice from six to eight hours a day. And I never got used to it, enjoyed it, or looked forward to it. For me, it was a necessary chore and a grind. In the over fifty years since leaving college and performing my Senior piano recital, I have played very little and practiced almost not at all. I don’t write this happily but rather with a tinge of sadness. Recently, though, I’ve set out to rectify the situation.

I am currently two weeks into a complete re-study project, the goal of which is to re-study every course I took in college, doing so in the same order as was done originally. My college was a liberal arts college. Thus, there were several courses I was required to take that were not directly related to my major. According to my re-study map, it’s the summer of 1968. I attended summer school before the first official semester to get some non-major courses out of the way. The courses were Survey of Old Testament and Survey of Western Civilization. Both were the first semesters of two-semester classes.

But, because this is a self-study program, I can tweak the subjects in cases where I think doing so is beneficial. So, my replacement courses are Survey of the Hebrew Bible and Survey of Jewish Civilization. In both cases, I have located excellent online resources, including videos, textbooks, and exams, that I can use to accomplish my study goal.

Now, what about the piano? After completing my two survey classes, I will officially begin my first regular semester (repeating Fall 1968). That’s when the programmed re-study of the piano will start. But this time, my goal will radically differ from when I was a Freshman piano major in college. Back then, I thought I was preparing for a music career and fully expected, unrealistically, I now know, that music was my future. Well, guess what? Life is full of little surprises. And here’s another one: at seventy-three, I desire to play the piano again, not as well as I did at eighteen, perhaps, but to play it as well as I can.

To aid me in achieving my goal, I am employing a wonderful book by Charles Cooke, published in 1941: Playing the Piano for Pleasure: The Classic Guide to Improving Skills Through Practice and Discipline. Instead of the six to eight hours I spent practicing piano in college, I will spend one hour daily. And my goal, in the words of Mr. Cooke, is this and only this: to play the piano better and better from month to month and year to year. [(p. 32). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.] 

I must develop a new habit of consistent daily practice to accomplish this goal. Here’s how Mr. Cooke describes habit, in general, in his chapter, appropriately titled, The Pleasant Necessity of Practicing.

When you substitute a good habit for a bad one, or when you decide to acquire a habit where none existed before, the new habit must function at first, for a little while, from power supplied by you. This is the stage where we have to make a strong conscious effort, even to the extent of a sensation of spiritual pain. But in a surprisingly short time the habit begins to take over the task of supplying power; it begins to develop its own momentum; and finally we get a sensation of spiritual pain if we don’t exercise the habit. Furthermore, the period during which a habit functions under its own power is infinitely longer than the initial period when it must function under your consciously supplied power.

Cooke, Charles. Playing the Piano for Pleasure: The Classic Guide to Improving Skills Through Practice and Discipline (p. 42). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition. 

Cooke’s statement that with habits, over time, “we get a sensation of spiritual pain if we don’t exercise the habit,” reminded me, of course, of my young daughter’s pain upon finding the piano keyboard locked so many years ago. I’m realistic enough to know that I will never be able to play the piano as well as my daughter. But I’m hopeful enough to believe that I can consistently improve my playing and get to a place where not being able to practice generates spiritual pain.

I have learned more from my daughter and son than I ever taught them.

All the best,
Gershon