My teacher is a remarkable woman. I can only hope to be half the musician she is, for her relentless dedication to music and to her students have fueled my love for this art. Having studied with her since the age of six, I am bound to inherit a few things from her. For instance, the coffee table near my piano erects a tower of music books that wobbles each time I put a book on top, and God save me if I need to retrieve a book from the bottom. I have also picked up the habitual, well, talking to oneself when looking for a misplaced book, as if the book could hear me. Fortunately, I have not yet found myself teaching piano with velcro rollers in my hair (because she only does this on occasion). Though what really kills me is this next thing we have in common: our perfectionist character.

Realize that for a pianist, the slightest carelessness of touch produces a completely different sound, and thus, a completely different meaning. And it's all about making the notes mean something -- every single note. This kind of exacting standard is for the most part positive, and arguably, absolutely necessary for the musician. But for the perfectionist who searches but cannot find the ideal sound, this is depressing. Very depressing. This search becomes an ambition, an obsession...only to become a blunt reminder that nothing is ever good enough. It isn't clean enough, expressive enough, light enough, fiery enough, on-time enough, balanced enough, sweet enough, brilliant enough. It's not enough; I'm not enough.

...but His grace is enough.