My entire life the expression “practice makes perfect” has been drilled into my head by so many adults. No one, however, preached it more than my piano teacher. “PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT,” Ms. Pascal, my 90-year-old teacher, would shout at me for 10 years. She was a sweet lady, and she shouted because she couldn’t hear well, I guess she didn’t think I could either. However, she did inspire me to try my best, and I continued to improve and gain self-confidence in my playing. When I was in 8th grade, the minister’s wife at my church, Barb, asked me to play the prelude before service one Sunday; I said yes. What could go wrong?
The song I chose to play was Chopin’s “Polonaise in G minor”. I had been working on it for six months and had just played it at my piano studio’s recital. I knew it like the back of my hand. I could play it in my sleep, upside down, and backwards. I had spent the previous afternoon playing it over and over again to ensure I wouldn’t have any unexpected slip ups. Practice makes perfect. I went to church early the next morning to practice on the piano in the sanctuary. Halfway through I started making small mistakes. I was playing wrong notes and messing up chords. I stayed calm and started the piece again. I was still making mistakes, and I started to panic.
My palms were sweating, and I could feel the tears coming. It was getting close to service and Barb and my parents could see that I was starting to freak out.
Barb told me I did not have to perform if I didn’t want to. That would be worse than performing and messing up. I had committed and I needed to go through with it. I had dedicated six months of my life (which is a long time to an 8th grader) to this moment and I was not about to throw that all away. Plus, it was in the program so everyone would know something was wrong with me. There would be so many questions from the old ladies that loved to hear me sing and play in service. I was not ready for that kind of confrontation.
“Jane, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” my mom would say over and over again as I attempted to get through the piece over and over again. Tears kept coming the more my parents and Barb pleaded for me to step back and take a break. As a very easily overwhelmed piano perfectionist, you can imagine the kind of stress I was under.
“I have to do it,” I said in between sniffles and wiping my eyes, “I want to do it.”
As I got up and walked to the piano for the prelude, I felt all eyes on me. I sat down, set my hands, and started playing. I could feel myself shaking, which is not great when you’re relying on your hands, and my mind was everywhere but Chopin’s Polonaise in G minor.
I don’t remember anything from the actual performance. I remember crying because I knew I was going to mess up, and I remember having to stop and start again, although I can’t tell you where in the piece it went wrong because I effectively blacked out for the two minutes I played. After finishing the song I went back to the pew full of defeat and anger. I had failed and it was the end of the world.
Looking back on that day in church, I realize that I had over-practiced the Polonaise. This created a confidence that prevented me from focusing on the task at hand. I have since learned that practice doesn’t make perfect, because you can never reach total perfection; a rude awakening for someone who always needs things to go exactly right.
I did not let that day in church define my musicianship. Though I no longer take piano lessons, I haven’t stopped playing the piano. I have recently accompanied choirs and solos in school, and even accompanied myself during multiple performances. I’ve learned that practice doesn’t make perfect, but by staying focused and dedicated, I can get the job done. I think Ms. Pascal would be proud.
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