The rain stifles my otherwise positive mood this evening, and I wonder why this is so. I feel like a piano who wants to be happy, but the pianist places her soggy fingers upon my keys and plays only slow, dark, nocturnes. I begin to discover how much the piano and I have in common.

Much like the piano, I'm an independent, self-contained unit, fully capable of playing even the most complicated pieces without accompaniment. Not that I crave solitude, but I find the thought of being lost in a symphony of screams and whispers maddening. The magic of the piano becomes diluted in such an ocean of sound.

The piano shines, however, as part of a trio or quartet, as do the other instruments involved. The harmony generated by a small group creates an air of intimacy, allowing each member to express him or herself more fully as an individual, which, in turn, strengthens the group. Every voice is heard, every syllable noted. Sour notes become amplified, but human, and therefore forgivable.

I find that the acoustic nature of the piano mirrors my spirit. It is innocence, unpolluted by electricity, although certainly not naive. Like a meditation, the simplicity overwhelms me, then I'm struck with the notion of how complex the simple can be, and vice versa. The feeling can only be compared to an entire universe in a single atom, or a lifetime in a second. In a world of high tech gadgetry, capable of producing literally millions of sounds, I find it ironic that Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, played on an instrument that has undergone almost no change since before the time of Mozart, still brings tears.

In my life, I've screamed my heart out as a vocalist in a heavy metal band, slept in a muddy foxhole as a soldier, and provided relief and comfort to others as a massage therapist. I consider myself versatile. Granted, versatility is not generally associated with the piano, but how many instruments are equally at home in a swank country bar, onstage with a jazz ensemble, or playing Carnegie Hall with the Boston Pops? The piano wears blue jeans, as well as black ties.

In a metaphysical sense the piano seems to have a life of her own, evoking an emotional response from the pianist as well as all who hear. Some would argue that she is merely an instrument of the artist's expression, but aren't we all such instruments of some higher force or power? If God had peers, I wonder if they would marvel at his/her artistry, or laugh in disgust.

I strive to attain the piano's level of uncompromising integrity, in which the highs and lows are determined by emotion, not an electronic box. Opportunities to become a fifty-dollar Casio special present themselves daily. Most important decisions aren't black and white, and sometimes choosing the baby grand is difficult. I find, however, that coasting through life, while embracing an air of pretension and dishonesty, to be as far removed from integrity as a shallow pop song is from a Beethoven masterpiece. I wonder what the band Air Supply is doing these days?