It's a (musical) process

As I thought further about Video Journal #1 I did some writing about it and this is the song that emerged from that bit of processing. 


I think I said everything else I needed to say on the actual video. 


I do, however, want to reiterate the fact that using music to process my sessions has been incredibly useful in terms of trying to understand what may be going on for the folks I see for music therapy. Since they aren't able to use speech (and even if they were, none of us are always completely aware of why we feel out of sorts, and that's what we have our therapists for), I try to use the countertransference material so that I have better questions to ask.

Here, as promised, are the lyrics (with my further hypotheses thrown in for good measure in between things). (Apparently I didn't say everything I had to say on the video.) (Oy.) Sorry if it gets a bit difficult to read:

Blowin' In the Wind 

(Thank you, Bob Dylan!)

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?
     (So much in just the first line alone! Many of the initial countertransference songs with this particular person were songs sung by girls- not just women, girls. And I have had the sense, off and on, that trying to develop an identity as a man has been an issue for him. Living in an institution, not using speech to communicate, and being seen as a disabled person first doesn't exactly  enhance one's sense of self much either.)
Yes, 'n', how many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly before they're forever banned? 
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is blowin' in the wind.
     (This may or may not be stretching it a bit, but I wonder if he feels as if he's "blowin' in the wind" without a real sense of direction/meaning/purpose in his life.) 


How many times must a man look up before he can see the sky? 
     (Maybe this means something and maybe not, but his days are spent in a room that doesn't have any windows at eye level, and the windows that are there are, ironically, very high up and next to the very high ceiling.)
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have before he can hear people cry?
     (There's that whole sense of futility there and feeling unacknowledged and frustrated.)
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take 'til he knows that too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is blowin' in the wind.


How many years can a mountain exist before it is washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist before they're allowed to be free?
     (I'm sure this line speaks- loudly- for itself, but it certainly connects to the feeling of being bound and stuck.)
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head pretending he just doesn't see?
     (I don't know about any of you, but this line always makes me sad, and it is particularly poignant in this context.)
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is blowin' in the wind.
     (Oh, I just realized that one of the struggles I've had in this man's sessions is this sense of "I don't know" and perpetual uncertainty. The answer, indeed, seems elusive!)


The answer is blowin' in the wind. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One last thought: I'm always amazed at how clearly my clients are able to convey to me when I am (finally) on the right track. There is such a sense of discomfort within me until I'm finally able to process (or at least start to make sense of) the feelings that come up as a result of projective identification. Once the processed material is shared with my client, and the response seems to be, "yes, you're understanding me," I experience a literal internal shift, and the discomfort eases almost immediately. 

Who's in charge here?

I realize this is going to sound like I'm ranting. And not only that, I'm fairly certain I'm going to sound judgmental. And you know what? Maybe I am. This issue is so profoundly important that I think it deserves a bit of a rant, so I'm going to ask you to bear with me today, because this is serious.


It's not exactly news to anyone that I work with people who have intellectual and developmental disabilities (many of whom also happen to have autism and many of whom do not use speech). When I'm talking about clients (below), I mean it to apply not only to doing music therapy with folks who have a whole bunch of labels, but I'm talking about working as a music therapist in general.


So, why am I carrying on? Let us commence with the rant now, shall we?


I have an important question I want us to consider: Is it our clients' jobs to listen to us? Or is it our job to listen to our clients?


I ask this, because I've been noticing what seems to be a tendency in music therapists to go in to a new session and expect their clients who have severe disabilities to just do what they ask them to do. As in, "here are the planned activities/events, and here's what I think you ought to do. Your job, client of mine, is to perform these tasks/activities. And my job is to get you to do that. Period."


Well. Okay...but...


Let's pause a second and think: whose need are we here to meet?


If we want to teach our clients to be better listeners, are we modeling that by listening to them? If we want to help our clients to be be better at paying attention, how willing are we to pay attention to them? If we want people with significant disabilities to engage with us, what steps are we going to take in order to engage on their terms? 


If we can't understand the language someone is speaking (particularly if their language does not contain words), are we truly serving that person when we expect him/her to do what we ask before we even make the effort to try to learn about who they are?


Again I ask the question that my college music therapy professor asked us all the time: whose need are we here to meet? And is that need best met by our coming to our clients in a music therapy session and expecting that they will do what we'd like them to do? 


Or is that need best met by asking that person to help us learn about who they are (even if they don't use speech to say it) and then creating the musical space within which our client can find a way to communicate and then making a point of hearing it?


We are music therapists. Let us honor that fact and work hard to develop skill in the art of listening. 


Let me end by saying this: when we work with folks who confuse us (and even if we think we know what's going on), the first place to start- always, always, always!- is by paying close attention and listening as hard as we can! 

Who knows?

Image by kool_skatkat via Flickr

One of the things people always ask me when they learn that I work with people who don't use speech to communicate is this: "Yes, but, how much do they really understand?"


And I always respond in the same way: "Just because someone can tell me verbally that they understand what I'm saying doesn't mean that they do."


My policy (if in fact one can call it a "policy") has always been to treat people as if they're understanding me. I figure it's the most respectful approach. And I'd way rather err on the side of presuming competence than insult someone by assuming incompetence. 


Usually, for me anyway, the more salient issue is whether or not I understand what the people I call "my clients" are trying to say to me.


Last week, for instance, I could clearly see that B was trying to communicate something to me. He wasn't doing it in a particularly effective way, but he was clearly trying very hard and being quite patient. He'd stand up, repeating his action in almost exactly the same way each time, and then he'd pause, waiting for me to miraculously get it.  


I didn't. 


Well, really, I couldn't. He wasn't giving me enough information. 


It was obvious that B perceived my attempts to hear him, because when I said to him, "I'm not understanding you" he'd sigh, and he'd try again. 


I encouraged him: "Use the music to tell me." 


And he picked up and tossed the instruments on to the floor, retrieving them and throwing them again. Over and over.


After, I swear, ten or twelve times of making this effort with no hope of my figuring out what he was trying to say, we just sat there together. 


Frustrated.


Neither one of us could fix this. 


So we sat. In silence. And we felt fully how frustrating it is to not understand. To not be understood. To not know. And to not be known. 


I wondered, as I sat with him, if what he really needed me to understand is that this is his experience of silence.