I am 10 years old. Floor to ceiling, three walls of open windows beckon me. The sun room seems to pulse, summer breezes stirring up dust motes suspended in sunlight.
Angled toward the small lake beyond, the yearning silence of one grand piano.
No one notices me inch away as the realtor ushers my family upstairs, their voices receding.
I close the wall of French doors behind me. I’ve never seen glazed terracotta floor tiles. I slip off my Keds.
For now, I own this echoing chamber.
I ease the bench away from the keyboard. Sink onto the padded surface. Fold back the long, hinged lid: 88 keys. Ivory. Ebony. A playground in B&W.
One stocking foot stretches toward the sustain pedal.
Breath: held. Released.
No “Chopsticks” for me today, no percussive “Night and Day”—this moment calls for arpeggios, and because I didn’t ask anyone’s permission, pianissimo . . .
What half-way musical kid wouldn’t imagine the sold-out concert hall? And who on a summer’s day could lift hand over hand across ivories in brimming light and resist exerting a faster, firmer, more confident touch?
Notes blend like the half-furled petals of color on a pinwheel, spinning the spectrum into ethereal white. Joy effervesces. Time melts . . .
They come to find me, of course. Scolding a little.
***
To this day, I can summon the timeless shimmer of those moments alone at the keys.
If author Frederick Buechner is correct, eternity is neither endless time nor the opposite of time as we experience it. Like that spinning pinwheel that reduces colors to essential white, eternity is the essence of time.
Beyond fathoming. Ever available.
I seldom welcome the extended shelf life of memory when wrenching episodes resurface. They do, however, usually offer an invitation toward further healing.
It’s those replayed moments my soul glimpses God’s abiding presence that rejuvenate and nourish me. The opened door, the readied larder of the soul.
***
In these days of restricted access to people and places, is there a scene from your earlier life—perhaps still throbbing with magic and possibility—that might freshly nurture or inspire you? Perhaps it will awaken a shelved dream you might now have the time to explore.
- Your high school aha at the microscope
- That winning Little League swing for the fences
- A thorny equation, solved
- You, reassembling your dad’s radio—no leftover parts
- Mixing drops from all your mother’s perfumes for that unforgettable gift on Mother’s Day
I hope you’ll consider inviting me in . . .
***
“God, as Isaiah says (57:15), ‘inhabiteth eternity,’ but stands with one foot in time. The part of time where he stands most particularly is Christ, and thus in Christ we catch a glimpse of what eternity is all about, what God is all about, and what we ourselves are all about too.” —Buechner, Wishful Thinking
Photos: Ebuen Clemente Jr on Unsplash and Clark Young on Unsplash.
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Laurie, this is such a beautiful memory–I can see the sunlit room and hear your playing (and a little scolding).
Where has God broken in through my memories? I had to think about that–long, long before I knew Him I believe He was present in my room as I sat with an open book, diving in and away from my 4 siblings. I can see myself on the bed in my bedroom, knees pulled up like a vertical desk, “Little Women” open in front of me. Inside by myself, I dream I’m Jo, would-be writer, feisty protagonist, determined to chart her own course. I related to her personality to a T; as the oldest of 5 and a bossy big sister, I had wrapped myself in a lot of protection in my dysfunctional family. God’s rescue was on the way and He spoke to me through books–Louisa May Alcott was one of the connections.
Jody, thank you! What an honor to glimpse this memory. And what a launching pad for the spirited, redemptive sensibilities I see in you and your work today.
Rejoicing with you in the eventual rescue (and all the stories that carried you ever-closer).
Happy Easter, my friend!
Hi Sis,
Thank you. I am back in the sun room with you. What a magical moment that would have been for you. Was I there too, in that wonderful house we called home, in mom or dad’s arms, perhaps or toddling around in the living room?
As always, love your words – chosen so perfectly. And love the title, “Shelf Life – First Edition” – looking forward to reading more. Love you, Carol
Hi sweet sister, thank you for joining me in remembrance. That means me so much to me. Carried or toddling (probably both that day, considering the time it would have taken to see everything), that marvelous place must have seemed like a palace to you. Felt like a mansion to me, for sure. I’m so glad for your comment here, and for your email with more sun room memories. How did I forget those enchanting window seat radiators with their ornate pierced metal housings and those cunning little doors to the knob used to bleed off steam? My imagination is brimming again, thank you! So many memories. So many windows! The light. The air off the lake . . .
“Angled toward the small lake beyond, the yearning silence of one grand piano.”
“88 keys. Ivory. Ebony. A playground in B & W.”
“Notes blend like the half-furled petals of color on a pinwheel, spinning the spectrum into ethereal white. Joy effervesces. Time melts. . .”
Laurie,
Oh, your anticipation as you slipped off those Keds – it was palpable.
I hope to write like you when I grow up;)
Gratefully,
Katie
Katie, I’m so glad the story drew you in. Your words are a spring tonic. On the heels of receiving 4 rejections from publishers in less than a week’s time, your comment means a lot to me, thank you—exactly what my soul needed today. So grateful.
But please, don’t grow up. Let’s keep those inner Keds on, especially in these harrowing times. 🙂
WHAT?! I can’t believe YOU received four rejections from publishers. Your writing is magical–on a different plane of insight than most. What could they be thinking?!
Oh you are dear to say so, thank you, Nancy! I am arming myself with your words and Katie’s words and heading back into the submissions fray. As a fellow writer recently reminded me, they’re not rejections, they’re returns. And over the years I’ve had LOTS of returns (just never so many in so short a time). I am taking the encouragement you and Katie offer here as a timely gift—from yourselves, and the Author of All. End of whining. Back at it. Amen. 🙂
Such an exquisite memory, and it harkens my own of sitting at our spinet (alas, not grand), and playing pieces from the eternal John Thompson series. I loved hearing Mother play or my grandmother who, while trained, played by ear. Oh her rendition of Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag. I’ve been weeding through some books and files, which seclusion encourages me *finally* to do. But alas, they are currently not beckoning to realize dreams, but revealing lost ones, and it has saddened me. Thank you for your exquisite words which always enlighten and uplift.
Stay safe dear Laurie.
xo
Lynn
Oh we do have a grand piano now, and I love it. We encouraged Mother to purchase a grand when she moved, solo after Daddy’s passing, to her condo. She is nearly 90 and plays sometimes two hours a day (and far better than her daughter ever will). This is bringing her such joy!
What a life-giving pleasure and discipline, celebrated all these years. Lovely to think of her at the keys, filling the room with beauty. I wish I could hear her play . . .
Lynn, I like imagining you growing up that way, listening to the women of your family play such a wide range of music. And you, carrying on with keys and voice.
The grand piano that lit up my life that day did not, unfortunately, come with the sale of the house. But what a foretaste of possibility! My parents, siblings, and I also played a spinet.
I salute your sorting! May the current acts of curation offer deepened understanding and unsuspected mercies amid moments of sadness and wistful remembrance.
Just getting back to your response. So interesting you should use curating. Immediately, I spied the word “cure” in it, and upon dictionary inspection, note that there is indeed an etymological connection, and also in the old English word for pastor, curate. So . . . I am going to pray that God will use my sorting efforts (sounds more worthy to say curating, huh?), to “cure” me of past disappointments and wounds. I only realize that maybe I have not ultimately put them to rest. There is a huge difference between resignation and rest, huh? Maybe there is a grand piano in your future one day; but what makes any piano grand is the musical joy one as in rippling those ivories.
Oh, that is etymologically RICH. Wow. I salute your vibrant curiosity. You’ve doubly enriched the word for me with your research and prayerful response, thank you. Here’s to the next grand ripple effect of being His . . .
I’ve found my most memorable moments, to be beyond description, beyond words. To live many months with a parent dying, racing 600 miles numerous times to their brink…and recovery. And finally death. But this is only context only for what happened at the pool, where I went to swim laps some time in mid February. I have no words for the sun coming in the south windows. The dandle of light on the bottom of the pool immersed me in something more satisfying than joy; something greater than consolation; more encompassing than being held; more breath-taking than crepuscular rays; its presence beamed lighter that mirth of a child. Unforgettable. Sun on the bottom of the pool: God’s closeness at its finest.
Beyond words and yet . . . the ones you’ve chosen create a glimpse of once-in-a-lifetime yet somehow above-and-beyond-time Light—dazzle that’s both direct and reflected, encompassing and buoying all: you (fluidly moving through water and experiencing the release that gives, and perhaps somehow swimming on behalf of your beloved parents as well), each of you illumined and carried: body, soul, and spirit. I feel upheld just reading about it. Thank you.
You’re right Laurie. It is those times when we are participating in creativity (our own or that of others) that we have a glimpse of the eternal space where our Lord lives, outside of time.
Ah, so well said. Thank you, Brenda! Happy Palm Sunday to you and yours.
Thank you for this glimpse of eternity, my dear intrepid chronicleer of life’s illuminated moments… ❤️
You are so welcome. It was fun looking back, then musing on the way those moments have, metaphorically, echoed through the years since then. Praying for you two and the new undertaking amid such uncertain times. And because I’m answering this on Palm Sunday . . . Hosanna!