Dear Reader:

I have been hesitant to post in the last few days because I'm not sure that I know what to say here on this page about the things with which I have been wrestling.  And, I wasn't sure that I wanted to share this experience in this way.   Back in December of last year, I wrote a blog post about bravery which centered, among other things, on the beginning of a fight that my piano teacher, Christine Kefferstan, was waging against cancer.   She did wage a brave fight, as those who followed her "caring bridge" journal entries can attest to - her humanity, her caring, her acceptance and her joyful approach to life carried her through this last year.   And, things seemed to be looking up as she completed her aggressive course of chemotherapy earlier this summer.   However, the cancer returned in recent weeks and she died this past Wednesday.    Someone, in a spectacular move of insensitivity, told me today that I should feel glad that the source of my sadness and pain (they witnessed it on Wednesday morning when I heard the news about Christine) was not about something that had happened to my children.   It was just my piano teacher.   It hurts just to remember those words that were spoken to me this morning.   Because I want to write down somewhere, right now, the ways in which this woman was every bit my piano teacher and, more importantly, my life teacher.   And, I want to express how much I have lost, as well as the amount of gratitude - intense, overflowing gratitude - that I have for her presence in the fabric of my life.

I have her in my fingers when they play the piano.   I have her in my ear as I make decisions, both artistically and personally.   I have her in the words and techniques that I use with my students.   I have her in the memories of some of the most pivotal moments of my life.    I have her in the way that I appreciate a beautifully phrased Mozart Sonata movement.   I have her in the way that I can sink down into the colors of Ravel's Jeux d'eau.   I have her in the bittersweet opening bars of the Schubert G Major Sonata.   I have her in my heart when I contemplate doing something that seems difficult, challenging, and beyond my scope.    I have her in my mind when I realize that I've been getting in my own way and limiting myself.   I have her voice in my ear as I approach every professional success and failure, telling me that it is not about success.   It is about growth.   It is about beauty.   It is about compassion.   It is about excellence.   It is about joy.  

What I have lost, however, is the presence - in the world - of someone who knew me on a level that no one else will ever know me.   She KNEW me.   Most of this knowing was non-verbal.

I met her when I was 12 years old, playing Mozart K. 545 (I) and an arrangement of Gershwin's "Fascinatin' Rhythm"  at a regional piano competition.  She was the judge.  She said that I sounded more at home in Mozart than Gershwin.  She was right.   She told me I had a melodic gift and that, if I worked more on some rhythmic energy in both pieces, I would enjoy them more.   She was right.   I shook her hand after the competition and thought that she was elegant and sophisticated and beautiful.   I was right about that.

I had my first lesson with her at age 16, when I attended piano camp at West Virginia University.  I had lessons with all of the professors there.   I was thoroughly in love with Christine by the end of the first lesson.    I played the Chopin Fantaisie-Impromptu, and she told me that my thumb was too heavy on the fast passages and demonstrated a trick to keep it light.   I was able to play the passage as if it was on wings.   I was amazed.  

I studied for four wonderful years with Christine during my undergraduate study.   I went to college at a small liberal arts college, but was able to travel an hour to Morgantown each week to have lessons with Christine and transfer the credit back.   That first year of lessons made me feel like I was Dorothy and had just landed in Oz with a Technicolor switch.   It was my first encounter with my own artistry and potential.   Every lesson was the favorite part of my week.   She opened up the doors of technical ease and artistic communication for me, and I ran headlong over the threshold.   She was demanding and did not accept less than my best effort, but for some reason, it filled me with a sense of encouragement.   I was capable of things because she thought I was capable of things.   If I close my eyes, I can see myself walking up to the far left end of the Creative Arts Center from the parking lot and can see her office door with its inspiring quotes and hear the strains of the lesson before me coming through the door.   I can feel the action of her Steinway, see the pictures in her studio, and gaze out of the windows outside her office while she sat behind me and asked me how I felt about what I had just played.   "It wasn't what I wanted,"  I would say.   "Yes, I thought so," she would say with a smile.   "Well, let's work on it and get it there.  Play that phrase at measure XX and see if you can match the tone of the F# to the G that came before."    By the end of the lesson, I would have a tape with her voice and my playing, a list of books to read, a movie to watch, and a feeling that life was, indeed, rich and laid out before me.

I went away and studied with others at the University of Michigan, but I came back to WVU for my doctoral studies because I knew that she was the teacher that would allow me to grow towards this profession.    I remember playing the dress rehearsal of the Ravel Left Hand Concerto with the University Orchestra the night before the performance in the Concert Theatre.   I was so nervous I was thinking of making a run for the Canadian border rather than following through with the performance.   I looked out into the audience and saw her there, and knew that I had to do this thing.   She said that night that she knew that "everything was going to be all right" as soon as I played the beautiful, haunting melody after the first cadenza.   She said - "because it was you, Lisa.  You were just letting the music play itself."  She was right.   She gave me the Pablo Neruda poem to read before the performance the next night.  I still read it every time I go out on stage.

Her connections got me my first job.   I called her in deep sadness when I experienced a professional failure at my second academic job.   She told me that I would find a place that would value all that I could bring to a job.  She was right.   I would meet her for coffee at Panera in Morgantown two times a year at least.   I remember planning out before our meetings all the everythings that I wanted to tell her in our (too short) hour together.   I always had this feeling that I had to tell her all of the things that were happening to me.   She was profoundly and always on my side.   The thing is that it was always clear to me that she enjoyed our lessons and meetings as much as I did.   She would tell me about challenges in her personal and professional lives - colleagues, children.  How lucky were we to have found each other, both personally and professionally, and to have such a long and profound connection?  

I find myself adrift in a world that doesn't have her in it right now.   I know that others have this feeling, too.  I wasn't the only one.   But, I also know that she would tell me that I have it in me to face this loss.  That she would tell me that she loves me and that I brought her as much joy as she brought me.   And, she would tell me that I am one of the ones who can see the beauty and magic in the world, even in its sadness.   So, I will try to make it through without her.  I will try to be like her.  Her last "caring bridge" journal entry of a couple of weeks ago was this:  "Beyond imaginings, love can keep me in a tender place of openness."

She wrote me a letter when I completed my DMA degree from WVU.   It contained a Pema Chodron quote:

"There's a common misunderstanding among all the human beings who have ever been born on the earth that the best way to live is to try to avoid pain and just try to get comfortable.  You can see this even in insects and animals and birds.  All of us are the same.   A much more interesting, kind, adventurous, and joyful approach to life is to begin to develop our curiosity, not caring whether the object of our inquisitiveness is bitter or sweet.   To lead a life that goes beyond pettiness and prejudice and always wanting to make sure that everything turns out on our own terms, to lead a more passionate, full, and delightful life than that, we must realize that we can endure a lot of pain and pleasure for the sake of finding out who we are and what the world is, how we tick and how the world ticks, how the whole thing just is.   If we're committed to comfort at any cost, as soon as we come up against the least edge of pain, we're going to run; we'll never know what's beyond that particular barrier or wall or fearful thing."   - from The Wisdom of No Escape

She went on to say "Lisa, you have never run from anything.  The above words sum up the way you do lead your life.  It has been a privilege and personal joy to work with you, to see you mature, and seek your own way."

Christine,  Thank you for "seeing" me.   Thank you for teaching me.  Thank you for showing me what it is to live life completely and to not accept anything other than an existence in which I can be, unapologetically, myself.   Thank you for the music.   Thank you for the love.   Thank you for making me who I am.    I am terribly sad to know that I will never be in your life presence again.   It almost knocks me down.   But, I know you will want me to see what is beyond this fearful thing.   Your spirit  will be with me until I complete my journey.   I love you.

Thanks for reading.