When I was five years old, mom redecorated the house and decided a baby grand piano was exactly what the front room needed. In truth it was the only thing that could possibly fill the space and give it a solid function. And hence, the music room was born.

If my family already sounds a bit extravagant, well perhaps we were. But this was 1980, the start of the Regan years and would kick off a decade of flagrant American spending. This would also kick off the beginning of weekly piano lessons.

I remember being excited when we were told about this, but I also remember hardly understanding what it was we were excited about, my sister and I. And it wasn't long before our excitement was replaced with dread of daily practicing. It wasn't all dread, I remember I liked to try to make up songs and I also remember being frustrated.What I don't remember, that was revealed by a recent visit to Paris by my Hongarian Aunt, was that I had already been an experienced performer by the time I started my lessons. Singing You are My Sunshine to small crowds of family and friends whenever I was prompted by mom occurred quite frequently. Apparently I hardly shyed from the spotlight then. Something that changed drastically by the time I quit lessons at age 13. By then I had developed acute shyness and a sincere doubt that I had anything to offer the world musically. What happened to that little sunshine I was. What turned me from fearless to dreadful?

Life happened, that's what. Same thang that happens to most of us - except maybe the few who remain innocent and whole, never loosing their audacity to believe in themselves.  They are the true geniuses of this world. 

Who knows where the idea came from, but I got it in my head that only special people like Mozart could compose songs. Most of us did not have their talent and hence did not have the right to create songs. We were doome to play what the greats had played. This seemed the rules of the world to a young girl trying desperately to understand what the hell was going on. I do know that I believed by age 13 that I was nothing special. Though secretly I still fantacized I would be discovered someday, I set my immediate sights on fitting in.

A few years back, I read a book called Reviving Ophelia by Mary Pipher, which describes in psychological terms the mindset of adolescent girls. Dropping our identity in favor of one more pleasing and universally accepted becomes our goal at all costs. I sold myself to the demon of popularity and spent a soulless 7 years as a popular, but lost American teen girl.