It was a year or two after college and I was living in NYC, sharing a fourth-floor walk-up with a dear college friend.
I can’t remember exactly when I began piano lessons––it was definitely in elementary school––but I studied and practiced throughout Yale.
Playing the piano was just part of my life; something I simply did casually but with gifted amateur enthusiasm.
More and more, I found myself really wanting to play again, and so I started looking at ads for used pianos, frankly none of which I could afford.
One day, however, I found one that was reasonable––I think the owner just wanted to get rid of it ASAP––and I hired a man with a van and his partner, and roped a friend of mine into the project.
It was a handsome old upright, mostly in tune, with golden wood and a mirror above the keys reflecting your fingers.
Getting the piano out of its former home was nearly effortless in that building’s freight elevator.
We arrived at my building and even managed to find parking directly in front.
It was relatively easy to get the piano through the front door and into the lobby of the small vintage townhouse, one with a single apartment unit on each floor.
We knew the challenging part, the one requiring all the manpower, was really about getting the piano up four flights of narrow stairs.
It was only then that I realized while I had measured to make sure our apartment had room for the piano against one empty wall, I’d neglected to measure whether the stairs themselves were wide enough to allow smooth passage.
And…They weren’t…
The two movers, my friend and I, and my very eccentric landlady (who lived on the ground floor) just stared at the 800-pound piano blocking the stairwell.
Suddenly, I had quite a problem on my hands.
The piano couldn’t go up the stairs.
It couldn’t be returned to the original owner.
It couldn’t be left on the curb.
And it certainly couldn’t live in the lobby, blocking the stairs.
Everything felt heavy and impossible.
And then, the “solution” came to me:
I’ll just take the piano apart piece by piece and reassemble it upstairs.
At the time, it seemed quite logical, even obvious.
Somehow, with the completely unfounded confidence of a 23-year-old, I assumed that I could just figure it out.
Amazingly, my eccentric landlady volunteered to temporarily host the piano in the ground floor front room of her apartment during its dissection.
(I don’t remember whether her motive was camaraderie, curiosity, or just plain pity over my predicament.)
And then, over several weekends and evenings, my friend Tim and I took the piano apart, bringing it piece by piece up four flights.
The final part––the soundboard––did require another two guys to get it up to the apartment.
And then we began reassembling the piano from memory.
(This was, after all, in the near prehistoric era before iPhones).
And…drumroll…
We actually did it!
Even though there were a few mysterious pieces left over, we reassembled the piano and brought it back to life.
It was a little more out of tune than before but that could be easily fixed.
Against all odds (and common sense), somehow we’d done it.
I’m happy to report that I spent many hours playing for myself and friends, delighting both in the music and in my previously unknown construction skills.
I was reminded of this story by my project partner Joshua this week.
We were discussing adaptability, figuring things out, and the value of sometimes being a little over-confident (having some chutzpah if you will).
Yes, there was something youthful and absolutely foolhardy in not measuring everything I should have for the move.
But in that youthful foolhardiness, there was also an undefeatable spirit of determination, confidence, and creativity.
That’s definitely a winning combination.
Frankly, I wish that I always consistently had that same level of chutzpah for all the other 800-pound problems in my life.
There have been many that have stared at me from the bottom of the stairwell, insisting there was no way they could ever be moved four flights up.
I also wanted to share this because there’s also something, too, in this unique time where so much feels like it’s been deconstructed, taken apart against our will.
We’re all struggling to see how (and if) we can put things back together again.
Time will tell, but I hope this story encourages you to know that you can (even when it seems impossible).
Please note, however, that the reconstruction may not be perfect.
And it definitely won’t be the same as it was before.
(As I say, there were definitely a few mysterious pieces left over in the process.)
Yet somehow my re-constructed piano still made music.
And the music may have even been a little sweeter, knowing that I had labored so diligently to make its playing possible.
I’m hoping that’s true for everything that’s happening now…
I’m wishing you a little more creativity (and chutzpah) next time you face an 800-pound problem of your own.
Namaste for Now,
P.S. I did find the one creative coaching client for the fall last week.
But I also had so much fun talking to people that I’m going to open up a few more slots just in case there’s someone else who I can help construct––and deconstruct––something interesting.
Explore the invitation HERE.
