I’ll never forget the first glimpse I caught of the New York City skyline. In the passenger seat of my Hyundai Santa Fe with the backseat filled with boxes, pillows, and a dog, I saw the dark geometric shapes stretch across the horizon as we drove along I-95. I was amazed at how clearly I saw the buildings even though the GPS said we were still 45 minutes away from our destination. Despite the 10 hour car ride, hunger pains, and sleep deprivation, I shot straight up and glued my nose to the window. As we got closer, the true outline of the buildings became clearer. Stacked rows of light shone through the square office windows making the vastness of the structures even more impressive. It was a mountain of buildings, sprinkled with lights. I thought about all the moments we would encounter here – the struggles, the work, the frustration, and the success. It’s still difficult to describe the level of shock I experienced my first days in the city. For a Nebraska girl whose idea of a traf

I have the best granny in the world, or so says the homemade, brightly colored, baked clay clumsily glued to a safety pin “broach” I made for her in first grade. Constantly levelheaded, and always sensible, my grandma can be found in the front row of every Christmas play, piano recital, and cheerleading competition, bursting with pride for her grandchildren. Each of her co-workers knows by heart the lives of my sisters and myself. “Oh! You’re Mary’s granddaughter,” they say when she introduces me. “Boy have I heard a lot about you!” She drags every person she can club over the head to one of my boring jazz band concerts or just to listen to me play the piano at Lee’s Restaurant and sip coffee. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to return her love or see her happy. Nothing. My grandma is the sort of person who could talk endlessly about nothing and all you would have to do to make her think you’re listening is unconsciously grunt or nod your head every so often – it’s one of her most love

I had a best friend for 14 years. Together we traveled the country, went for jogs, lived in 3 different states, and relaxed in the evenings. She was my dog, Duchess. I had her for over half of my life. I remember the happy, playful energy she possessed as a puppy. I remember the dread that I used to feel as she grew older, slower, and more and more tired, knowing the day would inevitably come when she was no longer there to listen to me practice the piano or walk with me to Dunkin Doughnuts to get my morning coffee. One evening, I arrived home from a gig in the city to see Duchess in our living room slowly rise from her napping position on the floor to greet me at the top of the stairs. Each move as she unfolded her legs, propped herself up, and walked towards me was more deliberate and painful looking than usual. I ached for her and gave her a reassuring pet, then walked to the bedroom to put down my things. When I came back into the living room, I was struck with terror at the si

I sat on the couch with my 9 month old nephew cradled in my arms. I stared at his face with a wonder and amazement reserved for observing only the finest works of art. His light, smooth skin seemed the result of a painter who perfected the shade with a dab of this color and that color until the outcome was a creamy peach with a hint of rose. The artist brushed the delicate paint over the perfectly sculpted contours of his plump cheeks and tiny round nose. And for eyes, only the bluest and largest sapphires would do, framed by soft strands of golden silk. As I held the bottle in his mouth, he contently stared back into my eyes, his glistening black pupils jutting about to the different areas of my face. It seemed like he was waiting to have a conversation, I just had to start it. Using the couch armrest for support, I curled my left arm farther around him, freeing my right hand. I raised my right index finger and pointed at my nose. “Nose?” I said with a bit of a question in my

It is rare for me to find a legitimate piano gig. It is even more rare for the hirer to return my phone call and/or e-mail. And it is practically an occasion to break out champagne and dance a jig when all the details work out and I am officially “booked.” So I was totally psyched when I booked an accompaniment gig at the  Broadway Comedy Club . Not the Vegan Poetry Reading House, not the accompanist for a Catholic school’s children's Christmas program, but the Broadway Comedy Club - in the heart of New York City and a legitimate landmark where many famous musicians have performed. The gig was to provide accompaniment (which isn’t my best skill) of Broadway songs (which I don’t know a lot of) for professional vocalists (who can be a bit…diva, or divo). We had one short rehearsal the day before the performance and I arrived at the rehearsal about 30 minutes early because I still had no concept of how mass transit runs in this city. I made it a rule of thumb to leave an hour before I

It’s easy to see the magic in a beautiful day - the color of the blue sky with brush strokes of white wispy clouds, the way the sun’s light enhances every color from the lush green grass to the color of the flowers swaying in the breeze. And in the setting of a beautiful park with a vast, tree-filled landscape and crystal pond in the center, I could very well call this my magic moment 2. But something in the middle of the park tugged at my heart and will stay with me for a long time. A little boy, no older than 3, sat on a child-size rock next to the pond. He was alone. His mother and brother were at the playground a few yards away. His body was unusually relaxed for a 3 year old and his gaze was intently fixed on a group of ducks in the middle of the pond. The ducks swam slowly and smoothly from one end of the pond to the other and the little boys’ head followed in correlating motion. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and occasionally, he raised a hand to point at a duck as

I am a happy person. I have a wonderful life - an amazing husband, a family who loves and supports me, I am not destitute, and I often have opportunities to do what I love most - play, write, and perform music. Despite all these blessings, I struggle with bouts of sadness, fear of failure, monotonous days, and panic as I feel my life is passing me by. Being a struggling musician, I face rejection and failure nearly every day. If I am to be honest, I have had some very dark moments of hopelessness. Moments when the tears have drenched my pillow and my eyes have nearly swollen shut. Moments when I wondered, what would it be like to crash into that tree? Moments I did not have the will to go outside. But how dare I? With the millions affected in Haiti, the health issues some families have to deal with, and the struggle of losing a loved one, what an ungrateful person I must be to break down because the mechanic ripped me off and I locked myself out of my house. Again. This is what I sho