Jennifer and I are doing an exchange, gardening for lessons. Before my lesson we worked in the garden, raking the soil amendment called ‘Walt Whitman’ over the lawn area, discussed the parsley, sage (and later on the deck above) rosemary and thyme. And oregano. Trimmed the lemon. Inspected the worm bin.
In the music room, before she got half through with her question about what kind of music I was most interested in playing, I answered “Waltzes.”
“Okay, great. There are a lot of beautiful waltzes.”
We work on Au Clair de la Lune, the tune we had glanced at last week. The bass hand, the bellows, the keyboard hand, the notes that keep changing line and tempo. In pencil I write following J’s lead beneath the notes, OCOC OC OC etc. standing for Oom-Cha. Oom, music of the spheres, Cha, music of the hips. I sally forth, and manage a whisper of actual music in the wheeze and disorder. It all seems so impossible, as if I will have to bulldoze new passageways through a thick brain. I wonder if, you know, I am hopeless.
Jennifer says, “This is way we’ll do it, you’ll learn one song then the next. We won’t move on to new songs until you’ve mastered the three I give you.”
Au Clair de la Lune is rising in the charts.