So began the story of my mother Lidija Krupljan. Back then, she was a little girl with long pigtails, sitting on a wooden stool in front of a black and white piano keyboard. It was the first time she heard sound flow from her fingers to her heart. And even though she was only five years old, she knew at that moment: It's not just an instrument. It's a language. It's a way. A mission.
Her teacher gave her a hand - not only technically, but also in a human sense. She recognised in her the gentle stubbornness, perseverance and curiosity that only children who are ready to build their dreams have. And it was because of this experience - because of a teacher she trusted and respected - that my mother later became a piano teacher herself.
Today, more than sixty years later, the piano is still at the centre of her world. Not as a piece of furniture, but as a life companion. So many generations have sat beside it, so many children have opened their worlds through the notes. Some have gone on to become professional musicians, others have left the piano behind, but they have never forgotten the teacher who gave them more than just knowledge.
Lidija taught with feeling. Every rehearsal, every performance, every first note from the fingers of a new student was a (p)personal moment for her. She always saw the child as a person first. She never forced, she never educated with strictness, but with trust. She knew that the greatest successes do not come from pressure, but from a sense of security. And she knew how to give that feeling. She was as firm as a beat and as soft as a moth.
Her classroom in the music school in Slovenske Konjice was more than just a space - it was a refuge, a laboratory of dreams, a place where children from different families became more confident with their stories and doubts. It was all based on respect - for the music, for the effort and for the journey, which is not always easy, but it is worth it.
But my mother was not only present at school. Her notes also reached out into the wider community. In her early twenties, in 1981, when I was still alive, she attended a choir festival for the first time. It was the Ptuj municipal magazine. At that time, she sat on stage quietly, collected, but with that inner strength that only a sincere heart can give. Her collaboration with the choirmaster Milena Korošec marked many choral events, where the piano was not just an accompaniment, but a living thread between the singers and the audience.
When I think of her today, I see more than just a mother. I see a teacher who took her role for real - not as a job, but as a calling. Music was with her all her life and she used it to connect people. When the sound of the piano was heard in the room, it wasn't just about practising scales or songs, it was about contact. It was a shared experience. It was about the courage a child gets when someone says to them, "You can do it. I trust you."
And when I look back today, I know that her journey is proof of the profound impact of a teacher who truly believes in what he or she is doing. A teacher who loves her profession. A mother who knows that it's not all about the perfection of execution, but more about the value of a genuine relationship. In sincere respect, in patience, and in the small miracle every day when a child plays a piece of music for the first time on his or her own.
The power of music unites us. This phrase is not just a nice saying, it is my mother's life. Through every note, every pupil, every smile and the silent support she gave from behind the piano. And one day, when this story passes on - perhaps to the fourth generation - it will still contain those first notes, played (for the first time) by a little girl called Lidija when she was five years old.
Zala Krupljan, 10. 6. 2025
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