Halfway through making his record, Marlon developed carpal tunnel. He blamed the piano, then the computer, then age, then the piano again. His wrist hurt when he played octaves. Occasionally his thumb seemed to receive instructions several seconds after everybody else. Terrifying. A doctor sent him to a physiotherapist, Rachel Lafontaine. Before their first appointment Rachel explained she had Tourettes syndrome and occasionally made vocal tics.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Fine,” Martin said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You say that now,” she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was funny and direct.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Show me how you play.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was an upright piano in the clinic. Martin played scales. Rachel watched his shoulders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Again.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He played. She made a sudden sound and jerked her head sideways. Martin stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Don’t stop because of me.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He continued. Another tic. He stopped again. Rachel stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Be polite by playing the scale.” She said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So he did. She watched his wrists, elbows, neck, shoulders. She asked how many hours he practised, how much time he spent typing, how he slept, how he carried equipment. Then she began moving his arm through different positions. Martin noticed Rachel’s involuntary movements didn’t interfere with her concentration. A tic would arrive, pass through her, and she would continue examining his wrist precisely where she’d left off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Meanwhile Martin himself couldn’t stop thinking about his hand. Every sensation became news. Tingle. Numbness. Tiny pain. Career over? Rachel caught him staring at his fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You’re monitoring again.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I’m a musician.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the following weeks she gave him exercises. Nerve glides. Stretches. She also made him take breaks. One afternoon he asked her something he had been avoiding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Does it bother you?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“What?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“The Tourette’s.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Sometimes.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“How do you concentrate?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel looked at the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Same way you do.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I don’t have Tourette’s.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You have thoughts, right?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marlon didn’t understand. She put his wrist down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You think concentration means nothing interrupts you. That’s not concentration. That’s a fantasy. Concentration means the interruption happens and you return.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That sentence followed him home. He began noticing it at the piano. A thought appeared – Your hand is getting worse – return to the phrase. Then another. What if you can’t tour? Return. A twinge in the wrist. Return. Wrong note. Return. He had spent years imagining that good playing came from maintaining an uninterrupted line of intention. He began to wonder whether playing was mostly the art of returning after interruption.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Months later his hand improved. He warmed up differently. He became less heroic about carrying amplifiers. At the final appointment he thanked Rachel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“You taught me something about music,” he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“I treated your wrist.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“That too.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night Marlon played a concert and halfway through a quiet piece, someone dropped a glass. The audience froze. He waited. The room became quiet again. He played the next note. For the first time he understood that the silence after an interruption isn’t the same silence that existed before it. He thought of Rachel. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Music, he realized, was never the absence of interruption. It was what continued afterward.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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