My Mother’s Fantasie Impromptu 

 

                The piano keys moved delicately under my mother’s fingers. As I sat on the teal blue sofa, I observed how Chopin’s music flowed through her whole being. With her eyes closed and her body swaying to the crescendos and decrescendos, my mother inhabited a different world. A vision of her as a young student at Ukraine’s prestigious Kharkiv University of the Arts formed in my mind. It was hard for me to conceive of a moment when she’d hit a wrong note. Could my mother, who I idolized, have actually made mistakes at this instrument which she was such a master of? 

                 Just as she was building up towards a climactic phrase, the ear-piercing ring of an iphone shattered the spell of Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. 

                 “Hello, is everything ok?” my mother asked in a slight Russian accent. I couldn’t help eavesdropping on her conversation with one of her piano student’s parents about an upcoming festival. In an instant, the mood in the room changed from one of beauty and inner struggle to our everyday reality. A six-foot tall fortress of power and presence, Svitlana Lukyanova navigated her space with a distinguished poise. Endless hours spent at the piano had given her a slight hunch, which became more noticeable when she cooked my three year-old brother, Timur, and me warm Pierogi. 

                  Even as the busy pianist and teacher that she was, my mother constantly tried to put us first. “My children mean the world to me!” was a frequent response to anyone who asked about us. From purchasing a pile of books that she thought would peak my interest on our family vacation to playing for hours outside on the lawn with Timur, my mother invested so much time and care in us. Whereas many of her friends would park their young kids down in front of an ipad to watch their favorite Cocomelon episode, my mother would encourage Timur and me to notice the different birds that were singing outside the window. She would check in about my understanding of a certain Pushkin story (as Russian literature was her dream major, but because of immigrating to the States, she could never pursue this). 

                  After a few minutes, my mother hung up and sighed with a tired expression on her face. I could tell her students would need an extra practice session, which meant she wouldn’t have much time to spend with us this weekend. I tried not to resent this because I knew that her job was extremely important to her. Her dedication to supporting us had stemmed from her own upbringing in Russia and Ukraine, where the high standards for performing as a pianist were part of the culture. 

                  “Mama, what was it like when you were at Kharkiv?” I asked her while she hustled in the kitchen to prepare dinner. 

                  “Well, it was very prestigious! You needed to have a perfect sense of rhythm, perfect hearing and a great ability to learn and perform! I myself got accepted at your age! Only fourteen!” she smiled to herself, a distant look glazing over her eyes like she was being transported back in time. 

                   Comparing her to myself, I realized how mature she must have been, how she built up the courage to live by herself and take care of herself for years to come. During these years, my mother grew in her pianist skills, developing from a student musician to a great concert pianist. Her skills and love for music rapidly increased day by day. This love for music had created another world in my mom’s head, and she was so lost in melodies and harmonies and the wonder of a foreign country, that she left Ukraine and followed my father–also a musician–to the States when she was 24. 

                   Upon arriving in the US, my mother’s eyes sparkled with the opportunities that stretched before her. “There was just so much to do! I was free! I explored all day!” my mother exclaimed, as she began marinating the lamb chops.  She described how in the United States, music was approached in a rather relaxed way. Teachers were less strict and the overall competition level was extremely moderate. Back in Kharkiv, teachers would invest extensive hours with each student, striving for perfection for victories in various competitions that would earn the students distinguished titles for schools. 

                   Despite being in a brand new environment, my mother decided to share her knowledge of piano with children. She was driven by a desire to provide them with a love and future with piano just like hers. Long hours of her passionate explanations, expressive hand movements and my mother’s own version of yelling which she referred to as “emotional speaking” eventually resulted in three students being admitted  into Juilliard, the most highly regarded music school in America. 

                   Yet, amid her accomplishments, my mother would constantly attempt to shift her focus towards starting a family. Regardless of being the busy woman she was, my mother held an appreciation for the significance of family. She cherished a dream to pass her deep passion for the piano to her own children. 

                   My mother often shared with me, “If my children play at that high level, my dreams would be fulfilled.” Her words would always carry a strong determination, and I, too, was implicated among her “children” who played.  I started playing at 4, entered into my first competition at 7, and won my first competition at 9. 

                   My mother’s idea of music was more than notes and melodies, it connected to her vision of a lasting impact she wanted to leave within the bonds of our family.                            

                   A few days later, the long-anticipated festival day had finally arrived, and many students crammed into the recital hall excitedly awaiting their time to warm up on the piano and try to outshine each other. Attempting to prevent the urge of throwing up, I watched them as I waited for my turn, as the butterflies in my stomach embarked on a tilt-a-whirl of their own.

                   “You have to believe in yourself,” my mother encouraged me, her voice a soothing melody, while gracefully touching up her ruby red lipstick. “Don’t think about anything or anybody else and do your own thing.” 

                    As the performances unfolded one by one, I could feel the energy in the room dropping. Missed notes, lack of connection with the music, and a smudge on a scale were apparent. My mother wore concern on her face–her leg was twitching and she sent anxious glances my way. 

                    When it was my turn to perform, as I got up from my chair, a surge of sudden adrenaline rushed through my body. I imagined I was my mother. I visualized the hardships she faced when she was my age to afford the opportunity to perform, the sacrifices and tireless effort–it all flashed before my eyes, giving me purpose for my performance. 

                    At the piano, my fingers moved with a delicate precision just like my mother’s, my body movements flowed, mirroring the connection between me and the piano. 

                    From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my mother, beaming with pride as she held her phone to record my performance. Among the audience, her face gleamed with fulfillment which was passed along with the music notes echoing through the hall. The radiance of my mother’s smile was not just a moment of joy, but one that revealed that her passion for the piano had eventually been passed down to me.