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We don't always train for the right things. Or, more properly, not always the permanently right things. After all, a life is full of change, and what serves us well at one point may be entirely the wrong thing twenty years down the road.
At least, this is how I justify my own situation. I trained for the piano. I played and practiced and noodled. I played for pleasure. To alleviate sorrow. I trained for a very dimly envisioned future that might involve music. I thought I was the bee's knees and the cat's meow, yes, but I loved the feeling of accomplishment and mastery that might come after diligent practice. I made it a point to have a piano wherever we lived, not being able to imagine life without a keyboard in my home. From age six until age 75, I fancied myself some minor kind of musician.
That's one thing I trained for—until I didn't.
I also trained to speak French, starting with two years of college French and then a year in Montpelier, where I celebrated my twentieth birthday on Christmas day, dining with a kind host family. I ate oysters for the first time in my life, and I found a pearl in my oyster. What an omen, eh?
I continued to train—to study French, to teach French, until I didn't. From about 1970 to the present I let my French slide (except for the three months we spent in Menton in 1990, when I had an embarrassing and somewhat exhilarating crash course in conversational French).
And now, my French is almost totally gone, except for a few pronunciation quirks. I am unable to pronounce "croutons" in the North American way and instead produce a very affected "crrrouTOHNG" whenever I discuss our Caesar salad toppings. In the same way, I can't get my head around the North American pronunciation of that lovely French crescent-shaped roll. Instead, another affectation, it is "crrrwaSSAHNG. What a pain to be around me.
Nevertheless, I once trained in French. I once trained in piano. And now all those hours of training count for nothing, for if you don't continue training, you run to fat, metaphorically speaking.
The big question here is: do I care? Do I miss those former accomplishments? And the answer is an emphatic "no". I've moved on to other things, whatever they may be. My days are full even without the piano and French.
The mystery right now is why we still have a piano in the living room. I've always had a piano, my nostalgia tells me. But really! In that tiny room, why keep a big black box that isn't used? What would Mari Kondo advise? Aren't you supposed to inventory your belongings every year and get rid of what you haven't used in the past twelve months? My piano qualifies. I should sell it. Should I sell it?
All that training down the drain. But that isn't true. During the years when I was learning the piano and learning French, both interests were real and filled me with joy and accomplishment. I am to be admired, I think, for having the courage to let go of what no longer serves me or even makes me smile.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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