Without Thinking

Yes, there are times when I don't think about anything.

These rare moments come when I am playing the piano. I'm not performing, playing with a band, or even worshiping (although I do end up worshiping God at the end of these moments). I'm playing for the sake of playing. And everything that I think, feel, worry, or celebrating comes out from the tips of my fingers and onto the keys. And somehow, the music comes out and it is beautiful.

I don't get to play piano often. Time and resources are limited; and the times when I get to play are squished into a mere few hours when I am playing on the worship team. In the ten years (!) that I have lived in Tacoma and without a piano, I realize that it isn't enough. I have a deep desire to play and it often gets pushed off to the side to make room for other things and responsibilities.

The piano that I learned how to play on is housed at my grandparents'. It may sound sad, but that piano is home to me. Playing piano on that Always-Out-of-Tune Wurlitzer upright has saved me in more ways than I can recall.

I visited my grandparents on Friday. I often opt not to play the piano while I visit, in fear that they will make it into an awkward performance. I used to hate to practice playing piano in front of them mainly because they made my practices into a performance. "Abby, can you play...?"

Grr. Argh.

But I didn't care. I needed to play.

I pulled out the piano bench and lifted the cover. The wood squeaked a bit from not being used in ages. I ran through a few scales, cringing with an odd delight that the same keys were still out of tune, if not more so. The D over the high C produced its familiar tinny sound and the A above middle C still made a grating sound as it scraped against its neighboring keys.

Ah. The sound of home.

I didn't have any music with me, so everything had to come from memory. I played a few worship songs, a handful of hymns. After I had exhausted all I had remembered, I tried to play a few classical songs.

I won't lie--it was rough. And the delight from the first hour of playing had turned into frustration. Then a voice came from the corner of the room:

"Stop thinking. Just play, Abby."

My grandfather, who can't hear very well, had been listening to me pound away at the piano.

Sheepishly, I let my fingers rest on the keys, as I tried to conjure up a song from the recesses of my mind. I took a deep breath and resolved to not think for the next few minutes. I closed my eyes and let my fingers fly over the keys. My fingers seemed to remember more than my mind did. I didn't have to look to see where my hands were--my fingers knew exactly where every key was, remembered how it felt. In fact, I made more mistakes when I opened my eyes or looked at my hands. The songs came out of nowhere, but it was still sweet.

It was better when I wasn't thinking.

It was beauty.

After I was done, I sat in awe. There is so much more to me than I let on. And I wondered what would happen if I did more things without thinking.