One day, as I sat down at my piano, I noticed something I had not done for a long time: before I began playing, I was not thinking about how much progress I was going to make.
For years, I had measured my relationship with music through progress and results. Questions like these were always somewhere in my mind:
- How much did I practice?
- How much did I learn?
- How much did I improve?
- How much did I create?
There was nothing wrong with wanting to learn, improve, and create. But over time, I had started measuring the value of my time with music almost entirely through those things. As a result, moments that produced no visible progress gradually began to seem less valuable.
When difficulties from the natural flow of life began to slow my progress in music, I started to feel that my old ways of measuring things no longer worked. Could those moments I once considered insignificant have carried a different meaning than I realized?
For much of my youth, I wanted to become a better musician, build a career in music, and eventually create music of my own. I knew there was still a great deal to learn, so I devoted myself to that pursuit.
As I continued developing my musical skills, life gradually introduced its own realities—financial concerns, responsibilities, family matters, and health issues. Little by little, they left me with less time and energy for music. While these things were unfolding, I felt as though I was not practicing enough or making enough progress. I began to believe the problem was my own inadequacy, and that belief brought guilt with it.
During those periods, I saw “learning more” and “working harder” as the solution. I kept pushing until I eventually reached a point where I exhausted myself, and my musical activities came to a complete stop.
Music had fallen silent, and I found myself lost in thought. I could not listen, play, or create anything. It felt as though an old friend had abandoned me. Everything related to music seemed empty and meaningless. I started asking myself questions like, “Did I fail to become a musician?” and “Have I completely lost my relationship with music?”
Then I remembered my first months of piano lessons, when I struggled to relax my wrists. At the time, I was not at ease in my own life, and I could not understand how I was supposed to feel relaxed at the piano when I felt anything but relaxed everywhere else.
One day, after noticing how deeply this troubled me, my piano teacher, Mr. Rafael Gasimov, told me that it was a problem only I could face and find a solution to.
When I returned home that day, I sat down at the piano intending to practice. Instead, I turned off the lights, rested my head on the instrument, and played a few notes with my right hand. Once I felt comfortable, I simply continued without thinking. That small moment ended up solving a much larger problem for me.
During the period when I felt inadequate as a musician, I found myself thinking about that moment from years ago. Its value was not simply that it had solved a problem. I was beginning to realize that the simple connection I had made with music was itself part of the solution.
Then I thought about everything that had been happening in my life recently. I immediately saw that the problem was neither that I had learned less nor that I had practiced less. The problem was not my inadequacy. Life was simply continuing along its natural course. I needed to allow music to find its own place within that flow.
That day, sitting at my piano, I played a few notes. My old friend, whom I had not played for so long, responded with such beautiful sounds that I remembered how much pressure I had once placed on myself. I was surprised that the solution could be so simple. Life often seems complicated, but some things do not disappear completely. Sometimes what helps us find them again is simply realizing that they have remained part of our lives all along.
That small moment of connection showed me something important: despite the passing years, life’s demands, and my long pauses, my relationship with music was still alive. I had convinced myself that I could no longer play the piano and that music had disappeared from my life, but I was mistaken.
Later, I thought about other moments like this. Small moments when I learned a new idea, listened to an album, or simply touched my piano or guitar after a long absence. I realized that even when I was unable to reach my larger goals, these small connections kept me from forgetting them.
It felt as though each small gesture was building a bridge that would not disappear over time. And perhaps the limited time and energy life gives us helps us notice those bridges in the first place.
Sometimes, while chasing larger goals, we overlook the fact that what keeps our lives and our meaningful relationships alive are small but genuine moments of connection.
We cannot place everything at the center of our lives all the time. Yet touching a piano, listening to a melody, or sharing a brief moment with a friend can be enough to keep a connection alive.
Now, whenever I sit down at the piano, I can feel the power of those small moments. They feel like bridges that may one day allow me to immerse myself more deeply in music again. And perhaps, even when we fail to notice them, those bridges remain standing far longer than we think.
Featured image by Pavel Marianov on Unsplash.
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