work

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight.

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

--H.W.* Longfellow

Last night, in an attempt to unwind after the long long week of studying, studying, and more studying, I sat down with Sebastian to play Liebestraum and one of my favorite Brahms intermezzos (the one that No. 3 informed me, to my dismay, is "the one everybody plays"; way to make me feel pedestrian).

Nice as it would have been to sit down and watch the music flow flawlessly from my fingertips, it was, disappointingly, an experience fraught with missed notes, murky slurs, and messy accidentals.

Because beautiful music takes work, too.

There's more than an incidental relationship between No. 3's hours and hours of practice, the endless scales and practice sessions with hands separate and a metronome reading of 30, and her Rach technical triumphs or Chopin tearjerkers.

Talent, like faith, without works is dead.

I'm not really sure what the aim of this post is.

Except to encourage me to practice more.


*A note to my prospective children: I [prospectively] love you far too much to name you Wadsworth. You may thank me with chocolate.