14. Silent Logic
When mastering Chopin required confronting and accepting myself
One Sunday afternoon, I studied Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1 on my iPad while listening to Arthur Rubinstein’s rendition of the piece, over and over again, before touching the keys, bracing myself before making noise.
Even after dozens of piano lessons with an excellent teacher, the keys still felt awkward. I never really played music. I only practiced the piano. Practice was integral to my routine, something I eagerly looked forward to each morning and evening. Yet proficiency remained elusive. Musical talent was not within me, no matter how many hours I practiced. Why my desire to play stuck despite my struggle and lack of aptitude was beyond me. It was as if the piano held secrets I needed to unlock.
As a small child, lessons with Mrs. Taylor always began with her skepticism of my claimed practice hours, followed by endless repetitions of the same tedious pieces that I never quite got right. My older sister, on the other hand, barely practiced yet advanced rapidly through the levels. She frequently drew compliments, while my playing provoked irritated shouts from family members begging me to shut up. The criticism never stopped me from sneaking my sister’s sheet music and plunking out songs that were far too advanced for me.
I closed my eyes, determined to silence my self-doubt and channel the expressiveness I admired in Rubinstein’s rendering of the nocturne I was attempting. I could hit the correct keys, at least most of the time, and I understood the timing and dynamics well enough. However, the resulting sounds remained mechanically accurate but emotionally empty.
“Impossible.” I cursed to myself. When you live alone, you’re freer to curse at yourself. It only took a few measures for me to get frustrated enough to step away from the piano to refill my wine glass.
I was interrupted by Houston’s name lighting the screen of my buzzing phone. I knew he wouldn’t stop calling until I answered. Our Sunday video chats had begun shortly after my second marriage ended. Most of the time, he did all the talking from whatever hotel in whatever part of the world he happened to be in. He blamed his biotech company for his inability to settle.
“Hello, dear,” Houston said, a broad smile further wrinkling his already crinkled face. “Is that the famous new piano? It looks fantastic. So, do you. You’ve been running. And wine at five on a Sunday? Really?”
I smiled at his annoying habit of noticing and announcing every detail he judged. I chose not to confess that it was my third drink.
“My little Steinway grand is fantastic. You were right. Worth every penny. Thank you for pushing me. Where are you?” I asked.
“Denver. What are you working on?” he asked.
“Chopin’s Nocturne in F Minor. But I suck. Having a good piano hasn’t made me a good pianist. Notes, fingering, and timing, I can manage. But this piece, more than any so far, highlights my ineptitude. I'm supposed to intuit things that aren’t even written and make it sound and feel like… something. I don’t even know what. I’m supposed to just… make shit up!” I was beyond vexed. But if anyone could soothe my frustration, it was Houston, who had witnessed the tumultuous arc of my ambitions and losses for the previous decade.
Houston waited for my exasperation to die down before speaking, “Ah! Very expressive piece. I remember it. So, technique isn’t your problem, then?”
I had forgotten he was an experienced musician. “I mean, technique is a problem. But I can learn how to time movements according to what is written,” I said, grateful he would try to grasp my struggle. “But how to make it sound like singing a feeling?” I felt my shame rising, burning my chest.
Houston was silent. I imagined he was reaching into his memory to pull out some far-fetched story from which I was to glean a lesson, as was his way. When he spoke, however, it was not with his usual gloating animation, but in a gentle tone. “Do you remember the night we spoke shortly after you left Bemidji?”
Tears immediately pressed behind my eyes. I managed a trembling nod.
“You asked how I knew exactly what you needed to hear, even though you had not spoken a single word. I knew what to say only because I was present, willing to see you just as you presented yourself in that state of profound sadness, and I trusted my intuition. Maybe music is the same.”
His words resonated deeply, unsettling yet comforting. Houston had always been more than a friend. He and my father had both served in Vietnam during the same years. They both shared a type of silent knowledge that I could sense but never fully understand. He likely understood my father and the unseen currents that had shaped my identity far better than I ever could. I resisted his suggestion, though. The kind of intuition he referred to flew directly in the face of my carefully guarded pragmatism.
“I prefer to think of music mathematically,” I confessed, immediately embarrassed by the absurdity of my thought spoken aloud. “I know it’s stupid.” I prayed he hadn’t heard me. He was hard of hearing and mostly liked listening to his own voice.
Houston chuckled warmly. “Erin, that's actually not so unusual. Do you know the pianist Glenn Gould?”
“No,” I admitted. Now I had even more reason to feel embarrassed. Houston was like a walking encyclopedia.
He went on. “Gould was a brilliant pianist, exceptionally precise, sometimes accused of being mechanical. He intensely disliked live performances, saying they were unpredictable and emotionally exposing. He recorded almost exclusively in studios, meticulously editing his performances to erase imperfections. He preferred the structured clarity of Strauss and Bach compositions to Romantic composers like Chopin, whose emotional expressiveness, he said, was too subjective. I suspect he preferred precision, too.”
My throat tightened again as I realized how, once again, Houston understood my struggle, maybe better than I did. What I knew about him, though, was that he would never give me a solution. He witnessed, told stories, and faithfully checked in on me. That was it. He never sympathized or bailed me out. Never.
“You think that's why I struggle?” I asked. I felt defeated.
“I think you find solace in control and clarity,” he said gently. “Music, emotions, relationships, even business, maybe you’re searching for structure in places where certainty is impossible.”
I absorbed his words as a new layer of understanding settled in.
“For as long as I’ve known you, Erin, logic has never failed you. Your father was the same, before and after Vietnam. He structured his life with disciplined order and precision. But he struggled, too, when his gut told him things logic couldn’t reach. Maybe music asks the same.”
I had always thought of my father as nearly crippled by his silent routines, but maybe they were what had sustained him in the Navy and kept him going as an under-appreciated disabled Vietnam veteran after the war. Discovering my shortcomings at the piano made me fear my logic, my father’s logic, perhaps, was not only silencing the music but also undermining my entire life.
I absorbed Houston’s unexpected validation, turning it over in my mind. Routine had, in fact, worked for me, at least most of the time.
“Houston, you’re saying just forget what everyone else says about feeling music?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said. “Play something for me, your way.”
I propped my phone, containing Houston, on top of the Steinway and placed my fingers onto the keys. Just as I began, my work phone, which was connected to the iPad holding my digital score, pinged loudly, fracturing my resolve and saving me from even more foolishness.
A text from Savannah popped across the screen: Check the support email!
“Sorry, Houston. I need to check something.” He had put me on hold dozens of times. In fact, it was he who taught me that business demands could be as important as family demands. He would wait. However, I would have to talk to Savannah about checking her work emails on a Sunday. I clicked on my inbox.
“Adjustment Request Denied: No Action Required."
My heart raced and my face flushed hot with panic.
"What's wrong?" Houston asked. I couldn’t hide anything from him.
“Nothing. Just getting screwed by another insurance company,” I said. I swallowed a gulp of wine. "This company has already cost me thousands, tens of thousands. I can’t afford to pay salaries if I don’t get reimbursed fairly.”
Before I signed the contract, Ro had relentlessly warned me against entering the labyrinth of health insurance, insisting that clients who valued our work would willingly pay for out-of-network care. Her foresight now taunted me. I should have listened.
I thought getting in network with a few insurance plans would increase the number of people who would sign up for services. None of our clinicians, excluding Nancy and me, had full caseloads or were meeting my soft productivity expectations. Our numbers had increased, as had our revenue, but the insurance company reduced our reimbursement rate and delayed and rejected claims. Ro had begun referring to our huge accounts receivable balance as a ‘hopeful projection.’ I mentally subtracted the limbo amount from my dwindling retirement account. It was no longer just a number; it was a promise of sleepless nights waiting to happen.
Across healthcare, providers were pressed by relentless demands from insurers. When the sensationalized news of a prominent insurance CEO’s violent demise erupted across the headlines, the public responded with resentment, not compassion. There was a collective grunt from every practitioner and patient who had lost countless hours of their shortened lives battling the faceless bureaucratic cruelty. Patients and small business owners took to the media to recount physical and financial harm throughout years of battling an empire indifferent to their struggles. Many openly suggested that karma had finally arrived.
If not for selling my house and draining my savings accounts, my company would have already caved beneath the ruthless weight of bureaucratic callousness. Salaries could not depend on seasonal fluctuations and battles with insurers. Yet, I refused to make my therapists' livelihoods contingent upon my ability to wrestle payments from insurers. Top-quality therapists were essential, but quality came at a high price.
Houston's silence conveyed understanding. After a pause just long enough for me to calm down, he urged, “Play first. The rest can wait a few minutes.”
A sense of urgency still pressed on me, but the steadiness in his voice made me trust him. I put down my glass of wine and refocused on the Nocturne. I played what I saw, each note clearly defined and structured. Beneath each phrase was my tension. I could lose everything I had built. I kept on, my eyes glued to the lines, dots, and spaces until my fear subsided.
After I finished the first section, Houston spoke. “That’s your music, Erin. It’s authentic because it reflects who you are. Now, face this challenge the same way, logically and calmly. You’ll manage.”
I nodded, grateful for his reassurance, though knowing it would not last beyond our call. Panic warred with the calculations running through my mind, a tension between what I could control and the financial threat beyond my reach. Not being able to adjust the three-year contract with the insurance company threatened my entire practice, my reputation, and the stability I had worked so desperately to achieve.
"Houston," I said, my voice cracking slightly, “I’m not sure if logic can save me this time."
He smiled enigmatically. "Then perhaps it’s time to consider what lies beyond logic.”