Weather gray, raw, spitting rain. Cold - low 40s. I drove to work this morning determinedly listening to "Chicago" (the song, not the group) in pursuit of an uplift. One of the aspects I consistently love about that song is its flawless chordal compatibility with the ending refrain of "The Transfiguration."

I miss singing. I sing at church on an almost weekly basis, so I do get the good music in a bit, but...I miss the folk tunes, the indie music, I miss singing Gillian Welch and Josh Ritter and splashes of Modest Mouse and The Decemberists, I miss hymns and harmonizing and relaxing on the porch while somebody else plays the guitar (my attempts at self-teaching said instrument have taken a long hiatus).

I miss my piano. I miss sitting down and getting utterly lost in "Claire de Lune," I miss slamming out the Moonlight Sonata when I'm mad, I miss playing with the fabulous musical imagery in "La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin," the delicate longing whimsy in "Wild Rose." I yearn to run my fingertips over the pure flatness of the keys before starting the second movement of Grieg's Sonata in E Minor, Op. 7. I miss the slow building pressure of "Le Cathedral Engloutie." I miss "Nocturne in E-flat major."

I haven't played any of these in so long I don't care to think about it, and my skills have rusted badly, but...I have my childhood upright waiting for me at home when I can finally afford to have it shipped to where I live (when where I live has space that can accommodate it). The piano was such a good outlet for emotion -- and it keeps the fingers strong (once upon a time I could give tireless backrubs; now my hands wear out easily). And playing piano is essentially like riding a bike -- you never forget how. There's just a lot more discipline in getting back in the groove -- like an exercise regimen.

Someday, Gussie Mouseheimer. Someday.