Life is like a piano. What you get out of it depends on how you

The words of Tom Lehrer—“Life is like a piano. What you get out of it depends on how you play it.”—carry with them a melody of wisdom, as simple as it is profound. In this metaphor, life itself is likened to an instrument of infinite possibility, neither inherently sweet nor bitter, neither joyous nor sorrowful, but capable of becoming all these depending on the hands that touch its keys. The piano, with its broad range from the lowest, darkest notes to the highest, most luminous tones, reflects the vastness of human existence. And Lehrer reminds us that it is not the instrument that determines the song, but the skill, care, and intention of the player.

The origin of this reflection lies in Lehrer’s own life as a satirist, mathematician, and musician. Known for his wit and sharp humor, he understood both the structure of music and the unpredictability of human experience. To him, the piano was not just a machine of sound but a mirror of life itself: some play it with discipline and mastery, others with chaos and discord; some avoid it altogether, never discovering the melodies they might create. In this, his teaching is both liberating and demanding: life offers you the keys, but only you can decide how to play them.

History gives us many who illustrate this truth. Consider the life of Beethoven, who, though struck deaf in his later years, continued to compose some of the most powerful and beautiful music ever written. His life-piano was not free of broken strings or silence, yet by the force of his will and the depth of his soul, he played it into greatness. Another might have surrendered to despair, producing only silence. But Beethoven shows us that even with hardship, the melody depends on the spirit of the one who plays.

At its heart, Lehrer’s wisdom is about agency. Life is not wholly controllable—we do not choose the piano we are given, its condition, or the room in which it stands. Some inherit instruments rich and polished; others are handed ones battered and missing keys. Yet within these limits lies the power of choice: you may still create music, or you may strike discord. The piano does not play itself—it waits for the hands, the heart, the imagination of the player.

There is also here a lesson in practice and patience. A piano cannot be mastered in a single day, nor life lived well without persistence. To stumble, to strike wrong notes, is part of the learning. But each attempt builds skill, and each failure can become part of the eventual song. Just as the pianist learns through repetition, the soul learns through trial, through experience, through perseverance. To play life well is not to avoid error, but to weave even the errors into a greater harmony.

The lesson for us is clear: do not wait for life to sound beautiful on its own, for it will not. Instead, take the keys in your hands and begin to play. Approach each day as part of a composition, some passages quiet, some loud, some sorrowful, some joyful. Strive to bring out the best music your instrument can give, no matter its limits. And remember that even dissonance can resolve into harmony if you persist.

Practically, this means cultivating the habits of a good musician: practice discipline, patience, creativity, and resilience. Do not fear mistakes, but learn from them. Seek teachers, mentors, and companions who can guide your playing. And above all, play with passion—for without passion, even the most perfect technique produces only lifeless notes. With passion, even the simplest melody can move hearts.

Thus, Lehrer’s metaphor stands as both encouragement and command: life is like a piano, and its music is in your hands. Whether your song is mournful or joyous, discordant or harmonious, depends not on fate alone but on the spirit with which you play. So let us strike the keys boldly, embrace the music of our days, and compose lives that resound with beauty long after the final note has faded.