My mother told us that in the beginning she sang to us all the time because it was one of the only reliable ways she could keep us happy and entertained when we were babies. To this day, she tells me, she hasn't met a baby who isn't captivated by music.
I am the oldest of five, and music is in my family's bones. Classical music was as woven through the fabric of my childhood as rock, folk, blues, and many other genres. There were different kinds of music in our house for different kinds of moods. My mother played classical radio when she wanted a moment of calm or when we dressed up and had tea parties; the Beatles and the Beach Boys crooned when she was feeling playful, and she tended to turn to Frank Sinatra and traditional Celtic tunes when she felt nostalgic.
Whenever my mother had an opportunity to sit down at a piano, she played the opening lines of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata in the most beautiful, melancholy way. It made me feel in awe of her, that she could play something so beautifully and entirely captivating. I yearned with my whole body and imagination to be able to create something like that.
The first song I learned to sing was "Baa Baa Black Sheep" — the old French melody "Ah! Vous Dirai-Je, Maman," on which many composers have written variations (perhaps most famously, Mozart). I was about 2 years old when I first sang it in its entirety, and if my mother's story is to be trusted, my rendition went something like this:
"Baa baa deet, habool, yetoo, yetoo, reek, rack, roll!"
As I grew up, I had the fascinating experience of watching my little siblings develop and grow into their own musical identities over the years. The first time I saw my little sister sing her first song all the way through, I understood the magic of that moment. I understood why my mother had told me that story of "Baa Baa Deet" so many times over the years.
I practiced classical music pieces for the litany of music lessons I took over my growing up years. I learned Gershwin, Vivaldi, Handel, and so many other composers as I sang and practiced their lines over and over through years of choir and band rehearsals, violin, guitar, oboe, and voice lessons. By the time I was in early high school I had taught myself a few songs on the piano — including Beethoven's "Fur Elise" and Bruce Rowland's "Jessica's Theme."
My mother worked as a liturgist, so her office was in the church. I sometimes was able to sneak into the empty church on late nights when I was waiting for her, just lighting one spotlight and losing myself in playing these songs over and over to the empty pews on the church's beautiful glossy black piano. Growing up in a family of seven, it could be difficult to find quiet alone space at home; I cherished these times of playing in the empty church, one of the few places where I could completely relax, let go entirely of self-consciousness, and lose myself in the feeling and experience of playing music, without distraction.
My mother taught me and gave me space for music to be an expression of whoever I was, wherever I was at that moment. To calm and soothe myself with music. This is one of the most precious things she imparted to me.
Now I am 32 years old, and I still turn to music to soothe myself. My Spotify playlists generally contain an array of mixes from Beethoven to Zakir Hussain, Yo-Yo Ma's Cello Suites with Neil Young's early records, Joao Gilberto, and FKA Twigs. After all, I have to be prepared for all possible moods.
And every once in a while, when I really need some inspiration, I find a piano and lose myself in the opening lines of the Moonlight Sonata.
Corina Bernstein has been looking at the world through a lens ever since she received a Brownie Camera at the tender age of six and began her journey as a storyteller. Corina has photographed and written extensively, nationally and internationally, documenting intimate, inspiring, and compelling moments of the people and places she encounters. She currently resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
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