I must practice what I preach. I continue to play.

Stumbling across the faded ivories, my hands start to settle into the rhythm again; I feel a resurgence of confidence.

In a perfect world, I’d be hitting all the right notes now. My inner muse would take over again, and the long-forgotten chords would emerge like magic. My family would come crowding around me, watching a masterpiece unfold. The birds would chirp along.

But I keep slipping up, keep making mistakes. The harder I try, the worse I play. Now, I’m hitting all the wrong notes. I’m off on a musical tangent of discordant sounds, of minors mixed with majors, all the wrong chords, everything going utterly, totally wrong. It’s the frustrating feeling of waking up to a forgotten dream: It’s in my memory somewhere, but the details are elusive. I can’t grasp this, no matter how desperately I want it.

In my mind I see slumped shoulders and crumpled looseleaf papers. Darting eyes and fidgeting feet. I hear the staccato attempts of kids struggling to read, and even worse, the silence of the ones who don’t want to read at all. I listen to the sighing of students who tap their pencils and watch the clock, waiting for recess, when they can finally, for 15 minutes, feel good at something.

I see the brave smiles and soulful eyes of little human beings who are weighed down by much more than the books in their backpacks. As I continue to play all the wrong notes, I think about the children who experience struggle every single day.

I’m still playing piano, but I’m not speaking this musical instrument’s language anymore.

Falling behind. Losing motivation. Not following instructions.

I’m not in the mood to pull out the sheet music, slow down, learn the tune from the beginning. It’s too hard. Instead, I speed ahead, smashing the keys.

The melody is gone. Now, I am excelling at one thing: doing it wrong. And in between the blacks and whites, I sense the tension of the students who wish they could fly. I see children who want to play all the right notes, but can’t do it, no matter how hard they try.

My energy winds down, and my fingers falter. A trail of sound. An unfinished measure. An inconclusive note. And finally, without any oomph or triumph, the song collapses. I’ve reached the end.

Silence.

And then a sound coming from the birdcage in the corner. Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirp.

Years ago, when I was learning to play this melody, the birds learned along with me, chirping in perfect harmony. Now, our cockatiel and parakeet are singing that same rhythmic tune. Their whistles echo in the silent room. They persist, repeating the melody.

They’re just birds, I remind myself. But my shoulders straighten. Those birds heard my efforts. They knew what I was trying to do. It’s been months since I’ve played, but where I heard mistakes, they heard music. They heard potential.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’m going to look out for songs in my classroom. In the hallway. By the lockers. I’m going to help students find their melodies. I’m going to listen to their faltering, stumbling tunes. My eyes are going to light up. Hopefully their eyes will light up, too.

And maybe they’ll understand that when it comes to what really counts, they’re playing the right notes after all.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 894)