my piano teacher in a one inch picture frame
in which I share a vivid memory of my piano teacher, who died by suicide in 2016; and, how to write when you don't know what to write.
More than admittedly, I did not come up with this idea. (The one inch picture frame.) It’s a little exercise some of you will have undoubtedly already come across in Anne Lamott’s heartbreakingly gorgeous work on writing, ‘Bird by Bird'‘; but it’s so beautifully bite-sized and delicious that I just couldn’t help but share it here in case you hadn’t heard of it.
If you like to write, or want to write, or both, then you already know what it feels like to be driving to the store or to the doctor and think to yourself one or more of the following things with a sense of self-loathing or frustration: Ugh, I haven’t written in weeks. I want to have written but I don’t want to write. I don’t know what to say. The idea I have is too overwhelming to tackle.
Well! I have your solution right here in a five word phrase: ‘a one inch picture frame.’ Are you writing about a man summiting Everest? Zoom out and look at the whole picture of the story; then imagine taking a one inch picture frame in your mind and zooming in on one moment; then write about it. If a moment is too big, write about his hiking boots before he starts the climb. Has he been climbing in them for months already? Are they (foolishly) brand spanking new and un-broken in? Do they have hard tan dirt in the crevices between the treads?
If you and I write with a one inch picture frame every day, in a year we’ll have 365 one inch picture frames to hang up on the wall. It might not make a book, but we’ll have written 365 scenes, moments, or descriptions. When you look at it that way, it’s not so overwhelming anymore.
So here’s my one inch picture frame for today; I’m writing here about the day my piano teacher unexpectedly came to visit the little Plymouth Brethren church my family attended. We didn’t get many visitors, especially if they weren’t invited, so it was a jarring feeling for me. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I found out today that she died by suicide in 2016, and it made me just absolutely well up with gratitude for my years of learning with her, and for this moment that I describe here.
“My piano teacher Debbie, who I believe was a devoutly sincere and open-minded Christian, visited our church once because it happened to be several tree-lined blocks from her home in sleepy Fanwood, New Jersey. Fanwood was home to about ten small businesses, a train station, and a post office—and our little tree-shaded church, tucked in between the train station and the Dunkin Donuts, unobtrusive and private and quiet. I remember Debbie’s soft and shiny brown roller-set curls, even while held back decorously by a tortoiseshell clip, standing out starkly in a room where the hair on every other woman’s head was veiled by a lace mantilla or topped with a crocheted doily. Usually we kept ours folded in the front or back cover of our well-worn and emphatically underlined Bibles, but we kept a basket of head coverings at the back on a small oak console table, in case a lady had forgotten to bring her own.
I had no idea she was coming, and was surprised that Sunday to see her gleaming bare head just a few pews away from me. I remember the delicate arches of her brows above confused brown eyes, and how whenever I’d glance her way during the meeting, she seemed mystified and horrified by turns. I felt as though I was watching our service for the first time through her eyes. Only men spoke and read from the Scriptures and served the bread and wine while we women and girls bowed our heads reverentially and silently, never speaking or drawing any attention to themselves. We made eye contact once or twice, and I remember feeling nerves in response to her warm smiles. I suddenly felt afraid of her seeing where I was, and I grew increasingly uncomfortable as I watched an outsider, someone I knew from another context, observing us—observing me, there. I felt seen, and strangely embarrassed. It was almost like something in me knew that this wasn’t in alignment with my heart or my wiring, my spiritual and emotional composition. But I was a child—I didn’t really have an eject button. All the same, her observation of me in my religious habitat sent tremors through my already frail sense of spiritual security. At the end of the service, from the seat where I remained with my nose in a book between services, I overheard her approach some of the men who had taken part in the service and asked to speak to the pastor. They replied that we had no pastor, and that we were governed by a board of elders. “Only men, I suppose? Well I have to tell you, I really do think this is unbelievably backward.” She was visibly and audibly miffed.
It was the very first time I’d ever heard someone vocally challenge these practices or ideas. I’d been raised to be submissive, prim, and soft, and so had the other women around me. Even the most vibrant personalities among us knew to cover her hair and quiet down when a man was praying or speaking about spiritual matters. Yet that day, this woman who had been teaching me piano lessons for seven years had walked in and immediately taken umbrage with customs and beliefs I had never for a moment felt free to question, even internally. She seemed brazen to me then—I remember feeling embarrassed for her as she was courteously but firmly ushered into a less central location of the church by the two elders who were answering her questions. I wondered what she was feeling for me in that moment. It doesn’t take much for me to see that she might have been deeply concerned to see me being muted, covered, and modestly dressed firmly into the Plymouth Brethren’s particular brand of meek femininity. I know she passionately believed in my talent and my potential, and I imagine she may have challenged them openly in front of me to show me that I could question everything around me if I wanted to. It stuck with me, though I didn’t break rank til much later.”
In loving memory of Debra Parente-Rosin. You can see her obituary here if you would like.
One housekeeping announcement:
7/7 is just around the corner, almost, and there’s still time to join me for U R UR GURU. This is a two hour gathering online (on Zoom) in which I will share and do exercises around the idea of being my own guru; how that doesn’t mean not gleaning from ancient wisdom, or even not attending church—but how the inner sense of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ that I have been able to develop in my physical body guides me through all my decision making and thinking around spirituality, career, love, and life in general. I’d be happy to have you if it sounds like something you would enjoy; if you know anyone else who might like it please feel free to spread the word.
Hope your week is off to a beautiful start, and that any one inch picture frames you look through feel intriguing and fun to explore.
XO,
Audrey
Audrey, I’m curious as to whether your piano teacher ever mentioned her visit to your church?
Love the "zoom in" picture frame. Will try it.
So much resonance on the assembly upbringing, and that first feeling of awareness that our practice was "unusual". You describe the brethren and their "particular brand of meek femininity" - yes, it's taken some years to try to unpack the baggage from that in my life and the lives of others. Ours wasn't an "official" brethren assembly, but was very heavily influenced by the PB's, and had many of the same "distinctives" (but not others, see below).
What also really resonated in your post was that I also just became aware of (and reconnected) with my childhood piano teacher (!?!?!) this past week - reintroduced because of a chance meeting between him and a friend... which happened serendipitously in Europe... wow... it's a really small world. Circumstances here obviously happier than the loss of your Debra. Sounds like she was a wonderful person and a lasting influence in your life.
I credit David (this early teacher of mine) with intentionally asking my parents what type of music I liked (at the time Steven Curtis Chapman) rather than imposing a certain "next step" on me. I think it was a copy of "His Strength is Perfect" that David found. Red cover, white pages... probably from the local christian music store. And, while it was probably above my ability level at the time, he patiently worked through it with me. To this day I continue to write and play.
Most of our "true" brethren friends wouldn't have tolerated SCC, but I'm thankful to my parents for not boxing up my creativity over art and music.