My teacher was a genial man with white hair and an encyclopedic knowledge of all things musical, from the lives of composers to exactly how many versions of a Chopin nocturne were found in his desk after he died.

“Here,” he said, setting a piece of sheet music on the stand. “Play just the right hand’s part.” I peered at the page, touching the keys of the grand piano hesitantly. My fingers felt twice as thick as usual; my hands, half as flexible. Even though I’d spent hundreds of hours in exactly that position — eyes on the page, hands on the keys, right foot on the pedal, left foot on the floor — it felt brand new. The piece was a Burgmuller étude in 4/4 time. I settled my hand on an A, then a G, then an F, then … “Is that an E?”

“It is indeed!” my teacher said, sounding as proud as if I’d recognized an obscure mathematical formula, instead of just a note.

Slowly, haltingly, I played the song through: right hand, then left hand, then both hands together. “See, that wasn’t so bad!” my teacher said.

I began playing half an hour a day: working through Mozart’s sonatinas, sampling Tchaikovsky’s “Seasons” and gloomy Norwegian folk songs by Grieg. As a kid, I hated to practice. As an adult, the time flies. I peer myopically at the sheet music, wincing as I hit an A instead of an A sharp six times in a row. A hundred responsibilities beckon. I should be working. Folding laundry. Starting dinner. I ignore them, and lose myself in the task of puzzling out the notes.

After six months, I purchased a keyboard with all 88 keys. After nine months, I found a free piano on Craigslist. Now, a year into my second stint as a piano student, I can proudly announce that I am … still pretty terrible. Except playing the piano has accomplished what all that yoga and meditation never could. I can quiet my mind and focus entirely on something: not my breath, but the music.

Right now I’m working on a Chopin waltz in C sharp minor. It’s part of the ballet “Les Sylphides.” You’d know it if you ever took ballet class. The first section is slow , with a few trilly flourishes. In the second part, the right hand plays rapid-fire eighth notes, going faster and faster and faster, getting softer and softer and softer.