Through the process of my divorce, I was blessed to walk away with a baby grand piano graciously donated by my in-laws. (Of course, I am far from a 98 pound weakling and might be able to carry the lid, but you get the meaning.) In fact, my mother-in-law insisted that I hold onto the piece once the divorce was finalized. That alone was a gift. Being granted something so valuable despite the separation from her kin really fostered a beginning for the healing process.
So, I took the piano to Colorado, hoping that I would find solace in the playing. I did. In the two bedroom apartment I rented, the beautiful piece of furniture occupied approximately one-fifth of the floor plan. I would play and sing when I was sad or angry. I would sit upon the bench and pluck out melodies and cry or pound out my frustrations. But, I was limited in this therapy. I could only play from 9AM to 7PM since I was sandwiched between two other residents. I appreciated these parameters, since that also protected me from free spirits expressing themselves at times I was attempting to rest.
I got it in my head that I needed to purchase a house. For many a rough night, all I wanted to do was play for hours until the pain subsided, but my location hindered that need. I hunted for three years until the abode I believe God found for me became available and my lofty visions of the amenities that were deal breakers reduced. Not frequently, but there are moments when subtle or boisterous renditions of old favorites can be heard in the wee hours of the morning, with no fear of reprimand.
Moving the beast into a second floor apartment was an ordeal. I hired a professional piano moving company rather than trusting the treasure to the movers who escorted my entire household from Texas to Colorado. Initially, I slept on an air mattress, feeling as if I were in a vacuum of someone else's design. I was thankful when the contents of my 21 years of married life arrived, but the unpacking was quite traumatic. So many triggers and resentments surfaced, leading to almost as much tossing as storing. My generous spirited sister gave so much of her time as I negotiated the process.
One day we decided to take a break and drive up Pikes Peak. Internet research was done in order to ensure safety and preparedness. I was a Texan in a Prius and images of popsicle sisters praying for rescue did cloud my mind. We packed a lunch, layers and had plenty of water. Stories of altitude head aches were quite prevalent. One final acquisition was a pamphlet of historic as well as scientific facts about the jaunt to the top. Not only were we regaled with the construction of the road and the topographical features for which we were to hunt, but the percentage of oxygen available at each pull-out. Maybe it was subconscious, but the ease of breathing definitely decreased as the blue hybrid ascended.
Each stop, we hopped out and tested the temperature. If the view far surpassed the level of chill, pictures were the first course of action. If the shiver might impede the shot, additional layers were donned first. The pavement stopped at one point and we encountered graders along the way. We were on an adventure, two city girls with no real survival skills other than my sister's nursing background. It was such a relief to be away from all the reminders of the home and marriage to which I no longer belonged.
At one pull-out, gloriously meaty snowflakes began to pepper the windshield. Squeals emitted as we wondered at the notion of snow in July. It was as if God was welcoming me to His paradise and the new season of my life. In retrospect, it seems much more profound than at the time since I was still emerged in the idea of loss. Needless to say, we sisters jumped out of the vehicle, added a layer of fleece and jogged towards the retaining wall that revealed a majestic view of the Rockies. Exploration, flashing, exclamations and then my phone rang at about 11,000 feet. I was flabbergasted that my T-Mobile serviced flip phone received a signal. The reception was spotty, but the content was clear. My glossy, black-laquered baby grand was in Colorado. My heart raced, mind relaxed, body skipped as I panted at the lack of oxygen. Within a week, the tool of potential soothing would be at home awaiting my trembling appendages for our therapy sessions.
It has been a while since I have considered this process and the healing this weighty instrument garners. It is difficult to explain, but when the tips of my fingers find their way to the ebony and ivory, my mind is transported to a different dimension. I do not claim to be very talented, but the act of drawing melodies and harmonies from the keyboard releases tension and purges oppressive thoughts. Before I know it, 2 hours have passed and things look a bit clearer. The need to decompress and regurgitate toxic images, opinions and memories is less frequent. In fact, I even catch myself drawn to the musical altar in times of joy in order to express my gratefulness to the One and Only Heavenly Father.
Oh Lord, thank you for the soothing keys of a Kawai. I am healthier and moving forward not in small part due to a keys encased in a curvaceous housing.
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