The Piano,

A Vital Organ

They wondered mostly where she would put the piano, which was a fair question, given that the space was only 600 square feet. A jewel box of a house, she liked to say: a mousetrap, a confessional, a tissue box, an ice tray, depending on the weather and the current occupants. Anyhow, it was small. Walking from the front door to the farthest wall could be done in less than ten steps, everything within reach, a good home to grow old in. That had been something she’d been looking for her whole life: the home she would grow old in. Actually, it was the home she would die in that she was in earnest search of, but that seemed too morbid to confess out loud to anyone. With every move, and there were many, she would scan the walls and ceilings, study the views from the window, and inevitably ask, “Is this the home I die in?”

It’s not that she was morbid; perhaps it was pragmatic. Her first home was the one where she witnessed her mother slip through the veil, surrounded by friends and family, and in that moment, a thousand things changed for her, one of which was that a home now took on the responsibility not just of being a place to live, but eventually of being a place to die.

And for all the times she had asked this question of the myriad previous abodes, never had she felt as certain as she did with this 600 square feet of cabin. This! This was a place she could die.

But first, she would live, and so would the piano, the piano that made so many people scratch their heads. Are you sure? How are you doing to get a piano? And where will you put it? The question made her brow furrow; having to defend it, having to explain, felt like her sanity was being called into question. And maybe it was. But in her mind, in her heart and soul, the piano wasn’t a luxury. It was a vital organ, no pun intended. The heart of the home. And no one ever asks, Where are you going to put your heart?

She was put off by the interrogation. Kind of a strong word. But she was a drama queen. Of course, it was an honest question from people who genuinely loved her, but she didn’t like having to justify things. It made her feel defensive, which, by nature, she was.

She tried to wave it away, the confusion of her friends, reminding herself that they were simply seeing it differently, more concerned with the container than the content. And the redirection caused an honest swell of subtle compassion, which proved to be grace enough to forgive them their short-sightedness. Truthfully, they had every reason and right to question her choices. She was not known for her decision-making.

But despite their well-meaning prompts, the piano’s location was never a riddle; it had always been provided. The one solid wall in the home sat patiently in its purpose. It held itself open like the center of a Bundt cake, or the bare space just north of the second knuckle on a romantically minded single woman’s right ring finger. The space for the piano sat unadorned, uncluttered, uncommitted, knowing it would one day meet its most divine appointment: to hold and host a piano.

When Rosemary moved into the cabin, she didn’t own a piano, nor did she play. Still, the bare wall could not be persuaded to be anything else. And once Rosemary understood that this was, in fact, the only use that wall could be at peace with, well, she could not unsee it.

There was no budget for a piano, but that would not be an issue. When things are meant to be, it’s hard to prevent them from happening. With a single mention of her desire to acquire a piano, her singing teacher sent a text about an old man a few towns over who was giving his away for free. The message came with a photo of a dark-wood, upright, old-fashioned beauty, but Rosemary didn’t need the picture. She had known it and named it before she ever laid eyes on it.

Still, the image was a fine confirmation that the universe was conspiring in her musical endeavors.
“Sweet Caroline,” she whispered as she read the text.
And that was how the piano came to be named.

Sweet Caroline was also the name of her most eccentric aunt, who was not exactly sweet. In fact, that would be the last thing you’d call her. She was feisty and blunt and sharp as a whip, as were all the women in Rosemary’s family. Thinking of Sweet Caroline made Rose think of her father, and how he had taken care of Caroline, subsidizing her rent and groceries even when he himself had eight mouths to feed. That was how her mother put it.

“We can’t afford this or that,” she would explain. “Your father has eight mouths to feed.”

At first, the saying disturbed Rosemary; she hadn’t connected the mouths with her siblings. Instead, she imagined her father in his workroom, facing a wall full of hungry mouths as he diligently tried to feed. But once she did make the connection, Rose wondered why her mother hadn’t included her own mouth, or her father’s, let alone all the other mouths that found their way to the table at dinnertime. The widowed grandpas and latchkey kids of the neighborhood, who seemed to have gotten the message that her father was in the mouth-feeding business.

At any rate, it would have been a stronger argument to include them all when it came to not being able to afford the current request. Nevertheless, even with all those mouths to feed, he also fed and housed the mouths of his sister, for whom the piano was named. Because aside from the fact that she was feisty, blunt, and sharp as a whip, Aunt Caroline was also an artist, the only one Rosemary had known.

There was a rumor that Aunt Caroline had once worked as a secretary for a newspaper, or was it a magazine? It must have been a long time before Rose came along, as far as she could tell. Secretary was like the word sweet, not something you would naturally associate with Aunt Caroline.

For as long as Rose had known her, Aunt Caroline lived in a basement sanctuary in Nutley, New Jersey. Her walls were filled with framed art of all kinds. Her sewing machine was always out, along with a long wooden antique table piled with bottles of beads and buttons, bottle caps, thimbles, and an eclectic array of found-object costume jewelry and scraps of bits and bobs that, as a whole, looked like pirate booty. She used these items to create her masterpieces of miniature dollhouses, which made Rose and her seven siblings lean in awe, pointing out every tiny detail: the coffee cup on the kitchen counter, so small that even a mouse would find it dainty; the folded newspaper on the couch, as if some little person had just gotten up to gather the laundry. They could almost read the headlines, though the print was so small you needed a magnifying glass to get the full story. But make no mistake, it was there. Aunt Caroline was not one to phone it in with incoherent squiggles; there were words and sentences, carrying the current events. The big story of the day… for the little people of this world.

Aunt Caroline’s actual apartment was 400 square feet, but in her miniatures, she owned mansions. And so it was obvious to Rose that the piano should be christened Caroline for her ability to honor art even in cramped spaces, and that, in honoring that art, she could transform inches into an eternity. Giving Rose that conviction that not having a piano was never an option.

And when it was finally delivered to her doorstep*, and miraculously maneuvered into place, it of course fit right in, as if the piano itself knew where it belonged. And when it rested in its designated spot, the wall seemed to finally sigh and surrender the ache of waiting.

One good question: How are you making space for the muse and the music in your life? Leave a comment.

*see video in dessert section below for that magical moment.

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LOVE, Maur

Dessert!

This is how sweet Caroline was delivered by Bob Teisberg and his a lull, which is a powerful piece of machinery, but “lull” also means a soothing sound. Perfect poetry to my ears.

Let’s Hang Out

If you are on Madeline Island, join me at the yoga yurt for a sound healing this Sunday.

Join us at Voice Box Stories & Serenade this January 10th for our Valentine’s show.

Winter Torch, a night of stories, songs, and art at the stunning Epiphany Center in Chicago.

Escape the cold and chaos outside and step into the warm embrace of Winter Torch! Presented by Woman Made Gallery, this gathering celebrating sisterhood blends the soulful acoustic guitar of Robinlee Garber, along with the powerful storytelling of Maureen Muldoon and Jae Green, illuminating voices too often left unheard. At the heart of the evening, the screening of Woman Made Gallery’s virtual exhibit - Quiet Piggy: We Cannot be Silenced, serves as a backdrop and a beacon—representing collective voices of resistance that will not be silenced. Together, the music, storytelling, and exhibit form a chorus of resilience, reminding us that creativity is a radiant torch against the darkness.