I was three years old when my mother first sat me at her piano. I thought that my hands would magically float on the keys, like my mother’s. I tried my best, but I wasn’t able to re-create Chopin’s Waltz as my mother had so effortlessly done moments ago. I was annoyed and wanted to get off the bench and play with my other toys, but my mothers delicate yet firm fingers pushed me back down onto it. Eventually the music coming from the piano became irritating. Many years of practice against my will have passed. Several years later my grandfather asked me to play a piece for his birthday and I did. After finishing the last chord I jumped up, ready to run off to join my friends, but I was stunned by the astonishment on everyone’s faces. At that moment I understood how amazing it is to be able to play. Today piano is my life because when I play I’m in a place of solitude and beauty. Looking back, I’m so thankful that my mother forced me to play, because now I know how much I would have missed.