But a few days later I was onstage, performing, and a voice made itself heard in my head: “Better not play faster than you can think.” It was the notebook talking. I paged through nostalgically, reflecting on how far I’d come. Week after week, he wrote down what I’d played and how it went, and outlined the next week’s goals. Starting in 1981, when I was eleven, it sat on my music rack, so that I could consult, or pretend to consult, my teacher’s comments. I’d forgotten it existed but recognized it instantly: my piano-lesson journal. It had been excavated from a closet and smelled faintly of mothballs. They brought along a strange gift-a black notebook with my name on the front, written in my best prepubescent cursive. Travel is more difficult for my parents than it used to be, but they made the trek to hear me. Two summers ago, I was playing concerts in Santa Fe, some five hours’ drive from where I grew up.
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