Golliwogg's Cake Walk

I was expecting to have a quiet, work filled day hiding inside from the wet drear that defines the start of of the northeast winter. But my plans were stilted when little Megan crawled into bed with me at 7:30am (I usually am up at that hour, but on PST, mind you). I pleaded for some extra sleep time, which she surprisingly agreed to. But it took only 15 minutes for her to interrupt my morning nap with a gentle, "Aunt Annie, let's not sleep anymore, okay?" How could I say no? Actually, I didn't say anything, and eventually she gave up, since I woke up alone at 9:30. Between hide and go seek, watching the Incredibles, and making sprinkled covered, chocolate-dipped marshmellows, Megan and I decided to squeeze a little piano time into our packed play schedule. And it was then that I had another revolutionary reunion.

Years ago in my junior and senior high school days, I met a master communicator who spoke more personally to me than anyone had ever dared. His ability to move my lackluster emotions to new heights compared to none. His name was Claude. How's that for an everyday name? Claude Debussy was able to make my fingers speak in ways that words could never do. His music led me all the way from deep, personal exploration to performance and competition for the enjoyment of others. In a way, he taught me to simply feel, and to feel with confidence, if that makes any sense. I met him again today. And I was reminded that this language that had become my mother tongue in my youth had been suppressed for too long. My deadened heart was awoken. The bonus in all this? It brought new meaning to bonding with my three year old niece.

Thanks, Claude.