Eye of the Storm

Someone recently said to me, "You are like the eye of the storm right now."

I'm telling you, people, I am stirring it up wherever I go right now. I turn to the left, and the dust erupts. I turn to the right, and the leaves scatter. I turn around, and an avalanche falls. I walk forward, and glass shatters.

I'm trying not to take it personally, but a few too many of these sorts of chaos have happened for me to really believe it is purely coincidental.

My most recent theory is that I am living a really, really intense version of the old adage: the only way out is through.

Apparently, I have been so deeply entrenched in the muck that every attempt I make for clarity is obscured by flying debris, at least for now, at least while I keep trudging along, making my way through it.

(Example. Ring, ring. Liz: Hello? Potential Landlord: I know you are planning to move into my property in three days, but by the way, your cats are not welcome here after all. Find other arrangements.)

So...here's a very mild request to you, in case you have some life-altering news for me: Give it a few days. My plate is full.

Least Helpful

When I tell people about my recent break-up, I usually get really empathetic responses, but I have also gotten some very strange reactions.

The most helpful responses go something like this:
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Do you need a place to stay? Indian food? A book to borrow? Help moving? Hugs from my three adorable children?" ...and generous offers of that sort.

The most indulgently vindictive response I have gotten was this:
"Ooh! I hope you dig up all those perennials you planted!"

And the least helpful response, by far, was this one:
"Oh, Liz, that's good. It was such a terrible neighborhood!"

Piano Movers

The second most frightening thing I have ever seen in my entire life is three grown men with beer bellies and missing teeth putting my hundred-year-old Behning upright piano on its side and heaving it down a flight of steps.

I hired the less-reputable piano movers this time, because they quoted me a (nominally) cheaper price than the more-reputable, (nominally more) expensive company, and also because ever since I got word of the failing state of the piano, I haven't been quite so uptight about the upright.

Even so, seeing these men literally dripping their salty sweat onto the ivories while complaining of bad rotator cuffs, knees, and backs pretty much panicked me.

I watched them, wide-eyed and amazed at the terrible physical condition of the people I had hired to move a sacred 900 pound piece of wood. Who goes into the piano moving business with bad shoulders? Wouldn't it seem to be a strange career move? Perhaps a certain injury?

And as I listened to the three stooges yelling out warnings to each other, via cutesie nickname ("Hey, One-Leg! Catch that corner before it smashes into the siding!"), I began to think of all the questions I should have asked before hiring the less-reputable piano movers.

I should have asked:
1) Am I responsible for any injuries which occur while you are moving my piano?
2) If you bust my ex-girlfriend's brand new siding, will you pay up?
3) If you drop the piano, will you fix it?

As all these questions swam around in my head, I watched the three of them grunt and heave and shove my poor, sweet, heavy piano down Stacia's new front steps and into their truck. I wondered if I had made a wrong decision by hiring the underdogs. I was worried about my piano, but even more so, I was worried about the three seemingly fragile men, with their scraped up shins and bumbling banter.

"Whoops, we just ran over a garden! Those look like weeds anyway." (This wasn't my garden; it was a shade garden at my friend Dan's house, where my piano is being stored, and now his rental property is missing a few ferns.)

In any case, the piano made it in one piece, and so did all three of the men. However, the process took much longer than it should have. Besides the smashed ferns, the piano movers managed to bust a couple of pieces of plywood and nearly take off a door handle, but other than those minor infractions, all went well.

Dan stood next to me when we arrived at his house with the piano, and he watched, amazed, at the struggle and sweat that the three men exuded. "Thank God I'm not doing that," he said. (Previously, he had volunteered himself and his roommates to move the piano. I thanked him for the generous offer but had declined and insisted on hiring professionals.)

And after all was said and done, piano safely in place in its new temporary home, one of the men sat down and began to play.

...And he was fantastic!

He immediately commenced with an eight-octave jazz improvisation, rocking the entire house into a daze. I instantly forgave the hassle (the 2-hour late arrival, the inevitable jokes about such a big piano for such a small girl, the tramped-down ferns) and listened to the best piano playing I have heard in quite a while.

Dan and I were a buzz of questions for the pianist. He shrugged and said nonchalantly, "Oh, I don't perform much anymore. I used to accompany Bette Midler, though, you know of her?"

......

And so, you must wonder, what was the first most frightening experience of my life if it wasn't this?

Easy. That was watching the same piano give another set of movers quite a struggle. But those piano movers? They were my dad, my brother, and a few friends.

I don't care who you've accompanied, especially if you are my family. But I will hire someone who has the right equipment, even if they have bad knees, over my friends and family any day. No way would I want to lose my brother to my Behning New York Upright.

Vacation

I am supposed to be on vacation this week, at my parents cabin on Spirit Lake, with Luna and Stacia.

However, a series of gut-wrenching events occurred, which has catapulted me into the ambiguous land of extracting myself from a broken relationship, and which has now given me a week on my own, free from vacation and also free from teaching.

When we called off our vacation (it's no fun to go on vacation with someone with whom you have just broken up), I decided not to reschedule my piano lessons. I planned instead to fill my days with therapy, writing, hot tea, music, friends, running, stretching, and reading.

What I got instead were days and days of no sleep, not enough food, the inability to concentrate on anything creative, and a knot the size of a mountain in my stomach.

I am coming around now, able to eat and sleep again. I have consumed massive quantities of chamomile tea and even attempted running (which didn't turn out well--trying run after a few days of hardly sleeping and eating is a bad idea). I have depended on my friends to the point of running out of cell phone minutes this month (I usually have hundreds of minutes left over at the end of the month). I have tried to take it day by day, moment by moment, and have even succeeded at enjoying some of those moments, in between fits of sobbing. (Like whitewater kayaking for the first time ever--pure fun. Or visiting the butterfly tent with the girls I babysit and watching the kids immerse themselves in a hunt for caterpillars. Or even getting the chance to watch Persepolis, the film based on the comicbook-style memoir by Marjane Sartrapi, not once but twice.)

All in all, I will come out of this alright. I know it because I have done it before.

I will eventually pick myself up off the floor, reassemble the pieces, and walk on.

I didn't really consider that it might be dishonest to cancel the vacation and then stay in St. Paul and not teach piano lessons. It never occurred to me that I might run into my students and their parents, and then have to explain why I am hanging around St. Paul without maintaining my regular schedule. Of course, I am not obligated to give any explanations at all--I am self-employed and get to set my own schedule. But I am also pretty friendly with most of my clients, and it wouldn't be out of line for them to ask, "Why are you not on vacation? Is everything okay?"

Case in point: I have spent the past few mornings at a neighborhood cafe, drinking full throttle coffee (my half-caff attempts have gone out the window during this emotional turmoil) and using the internet. In the past 24 hours, 2 of which I have spent at this coffee shop, I have run into not one, not two, not three, but FOUR parents of students.

FOUR.

What are the odds? I only have like 20 students. Running into 4 different parents is a full 20% of my clientele, right there, using the same coffee shop that I am.

So to most of them, I have just said, "Oh, my plans fell through, and I am taking a week off anyway."

But I can't help feeling a little squeamish about hanging out at what is apparently the rendezvous point for all of my students and their families (it just occurred to me that I should advertise here--holy moly potential student jackpot), and then pretending like I am just taking a leisurely week to relax. I mean, maybe I am. But I feel like there is a lot going on inside my head and heart these days, which isn't all that conducive to ease of relaxation.

All in all, I am not going to remain anxious about running into my students this week. Whatever. I never cancel lessons, I'm always (usually) on time, and taking one week off during the summer, even if I haven't left the city, is perfectly reasonable. So I'm not going to perpetuate that guilty feeling of being busted, of being found out, of being clearly not on vacation during the week I had canceled all my lessons.

(I have enough to be emotional about.)

And, besides, if 20% of my clientele is an accurate sample, I can safely say that most of my clients would be perfectly fine with knowing that I am taking a week off, for personal reasons, rather than for a family vacation.

Some of those clients (maybe more like 10%) double as friends. To those few people, I have given a more straightforward explanation of the situation, and from those few people, I have received generous offers of a spare bed, help moving, and an open phone policy.

"Call anytime, Liz," one client/friend told me, sincerely. "You're not just our piano teacher, you know."