The Sign of the Piano

This is the story of a piano.

It’s a banged up old upright that we bought for $350 when I was not-tiny-pregnant with Tiny. The Man and I had moved out of our first apartment and into our first official rental home (the first of many), and—mediocre pianist though I am—I craved a real piano with every hormonal emotion.

Yes, I knew that it was impractical. Nothing screams “easy to move” quite like a piano. And yes, I knew it wasn’t altogether necessary. I didn’t need a piano (I needed a lifetime supply of diapers at that point—I just hadn’t quite come to terms with that).

But I wanted a piano.

We bought it from a Major who, to my 1st Lieutenant wife eyes, had lived a life far beyond my imaginings. He’d learned to play on it when he was a child and then moved it around the world with him as his own children learned to play. He’d finally decided to let it go and replace it with a much more practical keyboard (obviously being smarter than I am).

It wasn’t my favorite color-wise, being a yellowish brown, and two of the keys stuck, and it was missing a piano knob, but it was ours. Littles would sit beside me and lean against the swelling bulk of his brother, and I would play old favorites that took me back to my mother’s piano and tile floors and ceiling fans that stirred the tropical heat like a spoon in soup.

Our first move with the piano, somehow, several of the keys chipped on the edges. Our third move, we lost one of the front wheels. Our fourth move, we lost the other. At this house, I found two pieces of discarded wood on the side of the road one morning while I was running and I brought them home and propped them underneath the front legs to replace the Man’s old textbooks that had more than done their time. Obviously, I was not in Major Former-Piano-Owners league for moving this piano without incident.

Over the years, I’d talked about painting the piano and replacing the broken knob. I had gotten it tuned and fixed the sticking keys, but the makeover plans never extended farther than pinning painted pianos on Pinterest and putting potential cans of paint in my Amazon cart…and lots of talking about it with my sister and my mom-in-awesome and some very tolerant friends.

But this was going to be the year.

I put it on my summer To Do list: paint the piano. I narrowed down paint colors…and put the chosen option in the cart…and then hit Save for Later while I ordered more pressing things like school books…put it back in the cart…hit Save for Later when I remembered other books I’d forgotten…put it back in the cart…suddenly realized school was starting…and figured I’d lost my chance once again.

The painting of the piano had become a thing: something I talked about but never did. A dream with a loose plan that never blossomed into reality. And that bothered me. A lot.

I want to be a woman of action (lies do not become us), and talking about something without doing it is the exact opposite of being a woman of action.

Also, it niggled me that the piano had become a symbol for a much bigger personal flaw. It kept me up at night (not really—this is artistic license: I sleep like a rock) that the piano was indicative of all my other failures—most especially my inability to get a book published.

Was this what my life was going to be, I asked myself on the low days, lots of talk and no action? Unpainted pianos and unpublished manuscripts? Was this who I was?

And then something happened. I helped my neighbors move.

Those of you who aren’t military may not know that there are limitations to what the movers will pack on the truck. Sure, they may box up your trash and the items that you specifically told them belong to the old house and the bag of onions you carefully shut away in the otherwise empty pantry, but they won’t take liquids. At all. So the gas for your mower or the leftover wood stain you used on that one project or the huge bottle of bleach you bought—finish them up because they aren’t coming with you. Or plan to give them away. (I even had one group of movers refuse to pack a bin of bath toys that I’d carefully dried off because there might be water in them still.)

In most military neighborhoods, it’s a common sight to see rows of bottles and cans out on the curb during move season. Everyone takes what they need (though sometimes I wonder if certain items just move from one house to the next to the next—and endless laundering of unmoveable items). When my neighbors moved out, after I helped clean their house, I grabbed a bottle of bleach from the curb because I was out (and had forgotten I’d already put it in with the groceries)…and then I noticed three matching cans of blue spray paint.

A beautiful coastal blue. Completely free. And, after a dozen steps, already in my home.

I took the paint home and put it away in the cabinet and got back to all the other things I had to take care of, but it was there—and I knew it.

The very next day, I painted the piano bench. It was as if I couldn’t help myself. And the piano bench seemed like a low risk way to get started.

But I didn’t have time to do the piano because I had lesson plans and meetings and kids to feed and kids to teach (and kids to keep from killing each other) and hardly any white space in my schedule…except that…well, Bee informed me that it looked funny with the piano a different color from the bench…and she was right, so, suddenly, within 48 hours, I made the time.

And I painted the piano.

Also, because I’d painted the piano, I finally replaced the knobs.

And I loved it.

But here’s the thing: I’m still not sure what this says about the larger fear of being all talk and no action.

Is this a sign that I’m a woman of action after all? Or is it a sign that one day everything will fall into place if I am patient and consistent in serving my neighbors and purposeful in being present? Or is it not a sign at all but just a piano and three cans of paint and a distinct lack of chill?

This is not one of those times when I have an answer.

Instead, it’s one of those times when I can just be grateful—for my husband who doesn’t complain when I first con him into a piano, then spend ten years talking about painting it, and then leave our home full of paint fumes for days on end; for the friend who didn’t even realize she was gifting me the paint; for my children who don’t mind me homeschooling while spray painting; for so many others—and it’s one of those times when I can just enjoy something beautiful.

The sight of the piano gives me joy. Yes, because it’s a completed task, but also because it is just nice to look at. And I think that’s enough.

So this weekend as I try to bang out a few more words on my latest manuscript, I’m going to stop worrying about whether or not I’m all talk and no action, whether or not I’m wasting my time and effort (and other people’s patience), and instead just say thank you—that I get to write, that I have time for it at all, that I’m allowed to do something just because it’s fun and I love it—and then I’m going to enjoy whatever comes next.

Thanksgiving and enjoyment and maybe worrying less about the completed project…and what its lack of completion may or may not say about me.