II'm like a spring after work. Shoulders are tense, breathing is frequent and shallow. Usually the sound of my laptop lid slamming shut was accompanied by the creaking of the cork being pulled out of a bottle of red wine, the wine hastily splashing into the glass, and that first sip put a much-needed end to the work day.
Then, a few months ago, I came across my now adult son's old school recorder in the attic. I blew into it lazily, instantly transported back to the days when it had been the bane of my life – his daily practice of brutally assaulting my eardrums, the piercing scream still echoing in my head hours after he'd gone to bed.
But instead of throwing it in the trash, I brought it downstairs along with the book “Very Easy Tape Tunes.” Growing up, I was the least musical kid in the world. I took recorder lessons in my children's school, but never had the opportunity to learn other instruments.
After Googling “how to play the recorder,” I watched dozens of YouTube videos aimed at children and printed out the fingerings. I searched for “the easiest tunes for the tape recorder” and was delighted when I managed to knock out a passable Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.. Yes, this was something that the average five-year-old could master before the first break, but to a deaf, impatient and stressed-out 51-year-old, it seemed like a huge achievement.
My son asked what the hell I was doing (and please if I could stop), but I persevered—I loved the way the recorder made me feel. My inability to remember anything meant that I had to concentrate on the piece of paper in front of me and painstakingly copy the finger positions. My breathing slowed, I focused, and once I mastered that first choppy melody, I felt euphoric. I could play an instrument.
Now, a few months later, I can “play” other nursery rhymes and a passable “Ode to Joy.” Yes, my timing is bad and I still need to write down the names of the notes, but for me it's not about the skill or being a “musician” – it's just about the pleasure it brings and the fact that I can't think about anything else when I play.
I read that only one in six children now learns to play the recorder, which was certainly music to a parent's ears, but it made me a little sad and nostalgic for my own school days, as well as my son's.
I try to pick up the recorder every night after work before I do anything else, and in those 20 minutes or so I'm in my own little world. And after that I feel a complete surge of energy and inspiration.
My friends think it's funny, but a very wise therapist friend told me that not only am I reducing my stress levels, but I'm also improving my cognitive skills like memory and auditory processing, which is invaluable at my age. And in terms of my daily well-being, it truly is an “ode to joy.”
