Oliver: Playing piano after decades away brings newfound, surprising joy

I was supposed to be a ballerina. Or at least that’s what my heart told me when I was 4 years old.

My mother used to tell me that I would walk around on my tiptoes and twirl. Apparently I also liked the first position in ballet so much that I’d walk around like The Penguin from “Batman.”

I loved ballet so much that I moved up to dance with the older girls, a small fry amid the taller, more statuesque dancers.

My heart was broken when we moved from Lake Zurich to McHenry when I was 6 years old and my mother told me that I’d no longer be going to Barrington for my ballet lessons.

Although I was offered the option of taking lessons locally, my childlike loyalty refused to even consider that. I didn’t want to leave my teacher. Please don’t make me.

My mother’s solution was to have me take piano lessons instead.

I suppose I came around to the idea, although practicing the piano did not hold the joy that dancing did. Since I was one of those kids who picked up things easily, I learned how to read music and learned enough to impress my family and my parents’ friends.

Sadly, though, I was a bit stubborn. If I didn’t care for the piece I was supposed to be learning on any given week, I would spend my time playing something I liked better.

My piano teacher was on to me, and she just played along. Fine, you don’t like this one, we’ll just move on.

In the long run, this wasn’t ideal. I didn’t learn correct fingering or some of the fundamentals. Had I paid better attention, I would have been a much better pianist with the jazz band in high school. Maybe I also wouldn’t have faked my way through the piano parts for the spring musical my senior year.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t dislike playing the piano. I got to do a lot of fun things in school by being able to play. Piano helped me with the other instruments I’d pick up in band.

When I left for college, I left behind my piano, both physically and emotionally. I knew my days of pursuing piano in any form were over. Besides, some of my sorority sisters were piano majors; clearly they had a passion for it that I lacked.

The difference between being good at something and being great requires more than pure talent. It takes a drive, a desire to excel. The musical talent I had inherited from my father didn’t make up for my lack of desire to put in the effort needed to be great.

Still, over the years I’ve toyed with the idea of playing again.

Years ago, I borrowed a keyboard from one of my friends on a lark. Even though I’d kept all of my piano books, I found that my attention waned fairly quickly. Besides, it wasn’t a full keyboard, and it didn’t sound like a real piano. And soon enough, my friend wanted her keyboard back.

Recently, though, another friend mentioned that she had an electric piano that she no longer wanted. I jumped at the chance, especially when she said it had a full keyboard.

Determined to make this work, I found a place for it. I hauled out my old piano books once more.

Little did I realize how emotional that first session trying to play would be. Granted, I was very rusty, but when I found that I still could (sort of) play Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” I got teary-eyed. My father used to like me to play that piece for him.

I was surprised at how quickly things have come back. Those neural connections in my brain, though unused for decades, are firing once more.

I do have to laugh at some of the notes my teacher left in my books. I roll my eyes at my younger self and how she would rewrite the music to suit her own whims. These days, I’m even trying to pay attention to proper fingering. Better late than never.

The other surprising thing is the pure joy I feel at being able to play again. It’s a joy I know I didn’t have all those years ago.

Maybe that’s because I was supposed to be a ballerina.

• Joan Oliver is the former Northwest Herald assistant news editor. She has been associated with the Northwest Herald since 1990. She can be reached at jolivercolumn@gmail.com.