A love note

I took piano lessons for three years as a kid. I learned three songs. One song per year—a prodigious rate. 

I went to one of those high schools where choir was cool. My friends played a game with me where they’d sing out a note, and I’d try to match it. Well, really, I’d just aim high or low. Matching the note seemed like a skill the gods gifted others. So I didn’t try. Inevitably, we’d laugh at how far off my notes were. 

I struggled to clap on beat. Dancing was out of the question.

To counter insecurity, I took pride in my inability. I liked the attention I got for being bad at all things musical. So I dove into that identity. So much so that I wrote Jonathan off as a potential partner because he loved music so much. I thought he’d never be into me because I couldn’t sing, or play an instrument, or follow conversations on arrangement and tempo.

But years later neither of us could ignore how into each other we were. And—it turned out—Jonathan didn’t think the gods passed me over. He thought I could learn to clap on beat, to match pitch, to love music. Because can’t everyone who wants to?

So we started playing music while we cooked. He helped me: Tap. To. The. Beat. Tap. To. The. Beat.

And once I knew I could learn, we were off to the races. I danced at our wedding. Hard. I started enjoying entire genres of music I’d previously written off. I started accepting the artist in me.

Last night, Jonathan and I lay on our bed with our eyes closed. He lent me his new headphones. And we listened. Really listened.

Is there any greater gift than expanding love?

Here’s one of the songs that hit me hardest: