Chopin's Charm

For the last few days, I can't stop listening to Chopin's Ballade No.1, Op.23.

Growing up I was never a fan of Chopin's work. I played quite a lot of his waltzes but otherwise had very narrow exposure of his music. Also I was going through a rebellious feminist phase, turned off by anything romantic. So I discounted his music as "nice background music" and never explore further.

As I return to practicing the piano, I attempt some of his Etudes to improve my technique, and ended up falling in love with Op. 10 No. 9. If he could write an exercise piece that breaks my heart (take that Hanon!), what else he could do? Browsing through my current favorite pianist's work I found the ballades, and I'm still at No. 1.

Well it is anything but background music. Its dramatic narration is at times melancholy, reflective, and at times hopeful. It grabs your heart to a stormy journey and leaves you with a maddening ending.

I'm sure my inclination to repeat listening is partly due to my obsessive nature. But the popularity of this piece has proven that I'm not the only one drawn to it. Now I have to scour other interpretations of the piece to compare. Maybe next year I'll be able to move on to Ballade No. 2.

Back to Tickling the Ivories

Recently I've return to playing the piano after more than a 15-year hiatus. This is a significant event for me. Since I thought I left that life 20 years ago.

Throughout my years in elementary through high school, I was known in schools for my piano playing. I accompanied for years for choirs in schools, played Catholic masses every week for 6 years, even played for two weddings for my high school teachers, which were supreme honors. My reputations was hinged on my playing, and unsurprisingly, my head got pretty big in those years.

Then came college away from home. I had picked a practical field to major in, but of course I have to check out the music department. There I heard freshmen students practicing, and I was floored by how good they were, and more importantly, how much they were better than me. I realized I wasn't as talented as I, or people around me thought. But I wasn't as crushed as I thought I would. After years of stressful piano exams, competitions and reputation-maintaining, I was ready to move on and explore other interests. And eventually I changed my major to a field I'd never get a job in, and had a great time taking fun classes with hefty tuition paid by my dad.

From time to time I'd stopped by the practice rooms and banged out a few pieces, but that bought me very little joy. Because unless I managed to sneak into an unlock room with a grand piano for graduate students, the rooms for the "mortals" are stuffy tiny boxes with falling apart unknown brand pianos, with sticky and out of tune keys. The walls are filled with graffiti, either of pretentious poetry, or lusting of the department's only cute professor. I don't think I was ever there for more than a half hour at a time.

Then come graduation, jobs, moving, getting married, having kids. In other words, life. I didn't have access to a piano all those time, and even on the back of my mind I always thought I'd get a piano someday, I never thought I'd go back to it as intense as it is.

to be continued...

The Swiss Army Knife Show

I feel dorky to admit that lately I've been watching MacGyver on the CBS website. The viewing began for nostalgia's sake, but now I think it's actually a pretty good TV show. Sure, it can be campy at times, and Richard Dean Anderson, as handsome as he is, his mullet in the later seasons is still hard for me to get used to. But the show is smart, clean, and surprisingly, I can learn a thing or two about science. Do you know that you can break a light bulb with drain cleaner? Yes it really works! Remember that next time you need to escape from various thugs!

I watched MacGyver during my teenage years when it first aired. Soon I had my heart set on getting my own Swiss Army Knife, which my doting daddy complied. Though I hardly use it, I still think it's something everyone should have.

But as I find out more about the show now, questions on political and social issues were raised. Boy, I can't just enjoy a TV show without going into those topics, can I?

To be continued...

No Laughing!

Recently, my three-year-old son has been talking non-stop:

Are your teeth falling out?

No honey.

Because you brush your teeth?

Yes, I brush them every night.

I brush them every night too!

That's great honey.

If you eat sugar, you have to brush your teeth so your teeth won't fall out!

That's why we don't eat sugary food.

Only once in a while.

That's right. Only once in a while.

The way he is so serious about what he says is just super cute. But I have to remind myself I can't laugh because he'd perceive as me laughing at him.

A friend's mom laughed when overhearing her pouring her heart out with her sister. It took her a long time before she trusted her again, even she was only 12. I remember a teacher in high school, when I told her teenagers can have our share of troubles too, she snickered. And right there and then, I lost ALL respect for her.

Of course it doesn't mean I can't laugh when I share them with my husband after they fall asleep at night!

St. Louis, Circa 1994

My first and only trip to St. Louis was during my junior or senior year in college. I, along with four other foreign students, participated in video project about our college life in America. It was such a big hit we were sent to present it at a international student conference in St. Louis. On that trip, I traveled with great company and had an amazing time. I even played tambourine on stage with a band in a bar! But it was something else that turned that trip into an unforgettable experience.

On the trip with me were Karin, the smartest girl from Denmark, and Ansa, a kind and gentle boy from Africa. Together we were like a walking music video of "We are the World", drawing attention wherever we go. We finished our presentation and immediately skipped out of the conference for sightseeing.

We shared a room in a seedy motel. Before we headed out for a night out, we heard noises like a hard object being banged on the wall, and then screaming and crying. We told the owner at the reception about it. With a thick Indian accent, he told us the phone in that room didn't seem to work, but he promised to try again later.

When we came back, we heard a man complaining to the owner about being hot in the room, AND the phone not working. It dawned on us that's the man in the room across from us. "Brother, let's have a talk," Ansa approached the man, as Karin and I went up to his room to check on his family.

His wife, in her early twenties, had a bruise on her face, and three young children with her. We tried to play with the kids, but they just stared at us with the most vacant eyes I've ever seen. We told her she got options, there are places that she could take the kids to and be safe. She said she'd go stay with her mother.

Ansa returned, with the news that the husband went out for a drink. We returned to our rooms, promised the family help if they wanted.

The next morning, with muffins and orange juice in hand, we knocked on their door. The wife answered, and told us she was just going to stay with her husband. Our hearts sank, knowing she'd get hit again, and there was nothing else we could do.

The drive home was quiet. For the first time in our sheltered life, we experienced the ugliness of the world outside our comfortable college campus. We aged years in the space of a few days.

Regrettably, I've lost touch with both Karin and Ansa. I wonder if they still remember that trip. I pray that in some way, however small, God had used us to extend some comfort and hope to the wife and the children that night. I pray that the family is now doing well, that God's grace and mercy had transformed their lives.

And Deliver Me from My Own Stupidity, Amen.

It's amazing that I'm alive and well today, consider all the stupid things I've done in my life.

Case in point: As a college student, I decided to photograph and interview a local artist for a class. He lived half an hour of driving away, and I had no car nor a driver's license. I enlisted a friend to drive me there, but she couldn't drive me back. So I checked the Greyhound bus schedule and planned to go home that way. Well, by the time I arrived at the bus station after 5 p.m., the last bus was long gone and only one staff remained. As I pondered my next step, he offered to give me a ride home when his wife came to pick him up. While I know hopping into a car with strangers wasn't the best idea, I agreed to his plan. I guess I felt at ease because it wasn't just him, but his wife will be there also. So the couple and their son went out of their way and drive half an hour to get me home. I thanked them profusely, and they would not accept anything from me.

They could be serial killers, and I could meet my well-deserved end there by my own stupidity. But instead God delivered me and kept me safe.

So to those kind souls who were so generous with their time to help a foreign student, I can't thank you enough. I hope that somehow in some way you know you have my gratitude, and God is praised because of you.