“Good morning, Cunningham!” is the peppy greeting my piano teacher, Andrea Senderov, calls out to me from her kitchen. It’s just after 6 in the morning and it’s all I can do to mumble back some incomprehensible response and a half smile. “Let me just get my coffee, and I’ll be right in,” she says. I slowly start to set out my music, delicately placing the books on the piano. It’s a Steinway grand, and even after eight years of playing this same piano nearly every week, I refuse to treat it with any less reverence than I did my first lesson.

               Well, I think. I’m here now. Might as well wake up. Welcome to my Wednesdays.
It’s hard to be a classical musician. Especially when your lessons start and 6 in the morning.  Every week. For eight years.

And, the best and worst part of my love for classical music, especially the piano, is that it’s threatening to take over my life. Not that I really mind. It has lured me into an idealistic dream of becoming a music major. Except for the part where it’s not idealistic.

Despite what I tell myself sometimes, I haven’t known what I wanted to do with my life since I was little. I went through the phases just like everyone else: archaeologist, vet, superhero. Eventually though, I had to figure out something to spend the rest of my life doing.

I’ve been on sports teams, joined summer art classes, and completely destroyed many desserts in my attempts at being a pastry chef. My drawing skills are rivaled by those of a toddler, and knitting only results in a rather large tangle of yarn instead of a scarf or something.

I don’t know quite how it happened, but somehow I was inspired to start taking piano lessons. However, not all beginnings are the happiest beginnings. When I first started my lessons, I had some pretty terrible teachers. They paid little attention to detail and refused to correct my mistakes. They didn’t instill a love of music in me. Eventually though, I fell into the hands of Mrs. Senderov, one of the most amazing women I have ever met.

Mrs. Senderov has been a constant presence in my life for these past eight years. She is someone I know I can trust. Someone who pushes me to do my best even when I don’t feel like I can.

I don’t know when exactly I decided to have a career in music, but I do know that she is a huge part of that decision. And I know it’s an overstatement to say that she has helped give my life meaning.
               Even fellow musicians regard music majors as something that could very well be a loss of money and time. And for a long time I was on the fence as to whether I should attempt it after all.

But there is something alluring about music. About the way it feels to place my fingers on the keys and play. There’s something about playing a piece that was written by a dead guy hundreds of years ago. Something about finishing a piece and hearing the word “perfect” spring from my teacher’s mouth.

Beyond that, maybe it’s in spite of  the danger. In today’s tough times going, after a job that makes you not want to die seems risky as hell. Music has never been looked upon as a stable career, although it helps that I don’t aspire to be the world’s next GaGa. In a way, it’s almost humble, wanting to get a doctorate in music for not only myself, but as a bit of a homage to Mrs. Senderov, getting to teach others what she so lovingly taught me.