Where GOOD. BEGIN AGAIN. really began
A Thursday ritual, a quiet teacher, and the phrase that shaped my life.
He arrived every Thursday at 3:30pm. I’d run home from the bus stop, wolf down a few Saltine crackers, and wait for his familiar knock—a steady knock, knock, knock—at our front door.
My mom, all “smiles everyone smiles,” would welcome him in.
“Hello, Mr. Burke. How are you today?”
“Good. Good.”
“Please, come in.” She would motion with a sweep of her hand, “Carrie is waiting at the piano.”
“Thank you,” he replied, nodding as he passed her.
(My mom always wished she had learned to play the piano as a child. So she did what all normal parents do and foisted her unrealized dream onto her children. And I’m forever grateful.)
“Hello, Carrie,” he’d say as he turned the corner into our living room.
“Hello, Mr. Burke,” I replied, looking up at him while swinging my legs beneath the bench.
Onto the piano shelf, he’d set his small spiral bound notebook and two sharpened No. 2 pencils. He’d remove the long, camel covered coat he wore and drape it on the back of his chair, revealing his gray slacks and maroon crew knit sweater.
He’d lower himself to sit on the edge of his chair next to where I sat on the piano bench. Leaning forward with a straight back, he’d say without a hint of a smile, “Let’s begin again, Carrie, where we left off last week. The Animals at the Zoo. Measure two. Right-hand only.”
I would straighten up, place my 6-year-old hand on the keys, and play measure two, right-hand only, stumbling my way through it. He would use one of his No. 2 pencils to track my progress note by note.
Once I reached the end of the measure, he would say, “Good. Begin again. Measure two. Left-hand only.”
He’d move his pencil back to the beginning of measure two, I’d put my left-hand on the keys, and we’d go along note by note.
"Good," he'd say.
"Begin again. Measure two. Both hands.”
"Good, Carrie.”
"Begin again. This time from the very beginning. Both hands.”
And so we would go along, measure by measure, hand by hand, until my fingers learned where to be and when on those ivory keys.
I began to listen for him to say "good" after I stumbled my way through each measure. His "good" wasn't praise for how well I played. It was acknowledgment of the progress I was making.
Good. You did it. You got through it. Begin again.
Once I finally made it through all the measures of the entire song and could play them fluidly for a six-year-old, I hoped we could move on from The Animals at the Zoo. But he would move his pencil from the end of the final measure of the song back to the beginning and say, “Good. Begin again. From the beginning. One more time.”
And once more, I would bang out that song with him following along in rapt attention as if I was playing Rachmaninov.
Finally, he would say, “Good. Let’s begin again with a new song.”
With his No. 2 pencil, he’d put a tiny star next to the song title, flip the page, and we’d move on to the next, slightly more challenging song in the book.
Over the years, I moved on from songs like The Animals at the Zoo to songs composed by familiar names like Beethoven and Bach. And after seven years of piano lessons with Mr. Burke, I earned the place of his most accomplished pupil at the annual piano recital he put on with his mother—also a piano teacher—in a church in our small town.
I played last and began at the nod of his head.
When I finished, he nodded his head again and said quietly, “Good, Carrie.”
I could see the tiniest upturn at the sides of his mouth and I knew this particular “good” was an acknowledgment of not just the progress I had made but of how well I had played.
Eventually we moved to a different state and I moved on from Mr. Burke to a new piano teacher. But still, no matter the teacher or the difficulty of the music, I continued to use the methodical tactic of learning a new song that Mr. Burke had taught me.
Measure by measure. Hand by hand. Both together. At the end. Back to the beginning. Once more.
And always, Good. Begin again.
Through the years, I've carried his teaching into other parts of my life. Even after I've done all the things, or I'm at the end of difficult days or very difficult years, there's always a moment to begin again. To move on to the next song. To acknowledge the progress I've made and say to myself, “Good. You did that. You got through that. Now begin again, Carrie.”
A “begin again” can be monumental like completely changing careers after decades. Or it can be small like finally taking that walk you've been putting off. Reaching out to a friend you drifted from. Or figuring out what to do now that your house is suddenly quiet and your kids are grown.
Whatever the beginning is, big or small, I remind myself that this practice continues until our time in this life is up.
I'm at the start of a new “Good. Begin again.”
The hands-on parenting job that filled my days and nights for decades has shifted into something quieter now. Me, a fan in the bleachers, watching as my children make their own way out in the world.
So I'm learning this new beginning as I go.
Each step, each measure, feels like I'm tripping over my fingers. Nothing is fluid yet. But still, I'm beginning again. And I hope you'll join me.
I don't have all the answers but I do know this: we don't have to figure it all out at once.
This week, I'm choosing just one measure—one small beginning—to work on.
Maybe it's finally scheduling that coffee with a friend. Maybe it's getting myself to that evening yoga class with the twinkle lights. Maybe it's simply acknowledging I'm at a new beginning and giving myself permission to stumble through the first few measures.
I hope you'll pick one measure too.
Just one. Not the whole song. Just the next small step in your own "Good. Begin again.”
Cheers,
Carrie