Bringing it all back to "Do"

I live in New Jersey, and everywhere I went during the two weeks after mega storm Sandy (work, the grocery store, the library, the gas station), people asked me, "Did you lose power?" 

And I was struck by the metaphor contained in the question: "Did you lose power?" 

People in this area experienced, quite literally, being- let alone feeling- "powerless" (on a lot of different levels). They struggled through "power failure" and had to wait for their "power to be restored." 

Many of my students at Montclair experienced "loss of power", leaving them sounding  somewhat rattled when we returned to class. A music therapist I know described her disabled clients' distress as they coped with yet another storm requiring their temporary relocation to safer and warmer living quarters (we had Hurricane Irene last year, along with a freak snow storm at the end of October, both of which caused a lot of power outage and flooding). 

In pondering our collective experience, I got to thinking, as I tend to do, about how this connects to our work as music therapists- how we react to the unbalancing effect of going through a frightening experience such as a major hurricane (for example). 

As I played around in my mind with this idea of power loss and restoration, I thought about how we in music therapy are, essentially, working in a musical way to restore power, intra- and inter-personally. 

And, sure, this may be sort of a weird way to say it, but, if I were to say this using musical terms, I guess I'd be saying that in music therapy we're working toward "bring(ing) us back to 'Do'." 

[A special thank you to MJ Landaker for her recent post about the important connection between music theory and music therapy. It certainly helps to understand why music is so "powerful" (if you will).]  

Beautiful and thought-provoking quote

From the transcript of the January 15th, 2012 On Being episode in which Krista Tippett interviewed singer/songwriter/author Roseanne Cash.

Ms. Cash: Sure. You know when I first became a performer, I was so anxious about it and it took me a long time to grow into it, because I thought that being a performer was about getting a lot of attention and I didn't want that much attention. I liked the writer's life. I liked the privacy and the solitude and being inside my own little mind cave. And over time I realized that it's not about the attention, it's about the energy exchange. I'm doing something for them, but they're doing something for me too, you know? And there's no hierarchy really. It's — and some nights that exchange is so beautiful, you know, I can feel my own energy stretching out to the far reaches of the room and theirs coming back. And there's something sublime about it, and also the temporal nature of it that at the end of the night it's over.

Ms. Tippett: Right.

Ms. Cash: It's like a monk's sand painting, it's wiped clean. And so you can't grab it, you know, which is part of the — the mystical beauty of it. You can't repeat it. You know, the next night might be just awful, like, your energy might not expand beyond two feet beyond you and they are not giving you anything and it doesn't work, but you know, that's the way life is.

Ms. Tippett: Yeah, it's that spiritual discipline of knowing impermanence.

Ms. Cash: Knowing impermanence and showing up even though you don't know what's going to happen.

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

I love that! 

"...showing up even though you don't know what's going to happen." 

Isn't that gorgeous?

Aside from the fact that it was just...overall, a beautiful conversation about creativity and music and spirituality and how it all melds together, this particular snippet just captured my attention instantly. 


Here's what I loved about it:


First, it is so absolutely descriptive of my daily experience as a more or less psychodynamically-oriented, relationally-focused music therapist. I am not (really, I am NOT), by nature, what one would call a "flexible" human being. However, many years of practicing music therapy using this approach (and taking part in my own therapy, of course) has gotten me to a point where "showing up even though you don't know what's going to happen" has become okay. It's a concept I've grown into and have come to embrace with a comfortableness I would never have imagined for myself. 


Second, I was drawn in by Roseanne Cash's sharing of her struggle, as a musician and as a writer (basically, as an artist), to come to terms with her art- playing, performing, being musically present, which artistic voice to choose, and what all of that means to her. 


Periodically, people will ask me, "Does one have to be a good musician to be a music therapist?" And, until very recently, I've always responded with what my clinical supervisor has said to me, which is: "Well, the more accomplished you are as a musician, the more you have to offer your clients." And that still makes sense to me. 


But, in a recent email conversation with my colleague, Brian Abrams (who just had a terrific article published in the Arts in Psychotherapy journal), I realized that not only do we, as music therapists, benefit greatly from this type of engagement with our experience as artists and musical beings, but, on some level, maybe because of our chosen professions, we actually need to go through that kind of a struggle. 


Put another way, I think a willingness to come to terms with our own sense of what it means to be a musical self and building an identity as musicians and artists enables us to be present to our clients in a more profound, authentic, and meaningful way. 


You might even say it prepares us to  "...show up even though [we] don't know what's going to happen."

A musical portrait

Image by mommy peace via FlickrAt first I thought he was angry with me. He certainly looked quite solemn. True, I'd been away for a couple of weeks, but usually he's at least willing to stand up and go to the Music Room with me. 


So I pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "You don't want to go to your session?" I asked. He hung his head down. "Okay. Can I just sit with you for a little bit?" He looked up briefly and then face down again. 


We sat for a minute. "You can come and tell me in the music if you're upset about something." He was listening, but not moving. "You know, I'm going to just go get your jacket and hold on to it. If you still don't want to come with me that's fine. But if you do, we'll have your jacket. I don't know. Maybe we could just go for a walk. It's pretty nice outside." 


I went to the coat closet, fished out his, and went back to sit next to him. The guys in his group were all watching television, so I chatted about that. After a little while, he half-smiled, got up and reached for his jacket.  "Cool!"


We headed outside into the sunshine and walked slowly. I wasn't sure whether we were just walking or if we'd be going to do his session.  As it turned out, we made it to the Music Room. 


He moved the instruments I'd put out for him onto the bench at the end of the couch and proceeded to lie down so he was facing me where I was sitting at the piano. I could hear, from the way he was breathing, that his sinuses were really giving him a hard time. 


His facial expression was still quite serious, unsmiling. I sang a greeting and asked how he was feeling. He responded with a heavy sigh.


"I realize you may have some feelings about my having been on vacation. I wonder if maybe you're feeling angry with me." And I invited him to look my way if that was the case. He did not.


Oh. Hm.


"Feeling abandoned?" A little bit of eye-contact.


We stayed there, quiet. Where to go with this?


"I'm having a hard time figuring out what might be going on for you today. I'd like to play a musical portrait of what I think I might be seeing or hearing, maybe just sensing, from you right now. If you can, will you help me by letting me know if what I'm playing makes sense. Also if it doesn't sound right, can you find a way to steer me in the right direction? I'll do my best to listen."


I played, using the piano. It was halting, dissonant- really quite dissonant, and it didn't feel very grounded. I guess you could say it sounded like someone floating and unsettled. 


As I played, I realized I hadn't "heard" his initial response accurately. He wasn't angry. The music he inspired didn't sound remotely angry. It sounded, and felt, very sad. And it probably wasn't really about me. 


"I misunderstood. I'm sorry. I think, as I'm listening to the music, I might be hearing your sadness." Slowly he turned to face me. Wow. I felt his sadness too.


What now? Where to go with all this sadness? 


As I thought about how to respond, how to be present, I was reminded of my friend, Greg, who often quotes John McNeill to me: "If anyone is willing to enter my private hell and stay there with me, then there are grounds for hope."


I invited him to hum with me as I played. I started the music where I had left off- at the musical portrait. Gradually, the sounds on the piano became slightly- only slightly- more consonant. Eventually, I was just moving between A flat and B flat, humming quietly. 


I heard sounds from him- not a lot, because it was difficult to vocalize with his nose all stuffy as it was. I moved from humming to a quiet "ee" sound, thinking it might be an easier sound for him to make.


His eyes closed and he smiled briefly. I thought he might fall asleep, as he often does. But he didn't. He listened. And we sat together in the sadness and in the music.


It was time to go. I sang a quiet goodbye, reminding him I planned to be back on Thursday. I got up to get my sweater, and he followed me to get his jacket.


He took my hand and we walked back to his cottage in the sunshine. 

Music and countertransference

If you're a person who has been reading this blog, then you know I make liberal use of songs that emerge as a part of music therapy sessions (a couple of other examples can be found here and here). The way I think of these countertransference songs is as a form of unconscious communication that's going on between therapist and client- the stuff that's not being said.


Obviously, since the vast majority of my clients don't use speech, it would stand to reason that these songs are a particularly helpful (and necessary) aspect of the work. 


So, I've been thinking a lot about one of my clients who has been falling asleep in his sessions lately. He gets tired from his medications, I think, but he also doesn't tend to sleep particularly well (a lot of my clients don't). 


At any rate, it seemed to me as if there was more to it than just being tired (I'll explain in a second). I mean, sometimes he'd look fairly wakeful, want to come for his session, get to the room, go lie on the couch (I know, I know, how Freudian can you get?) and suddenly he was exhausted. 


Hey, man. I know how it goes. I've been there before when there's stuff I'm having a hard time looking at- I start journaling about some difficult issue, and suddenly...I need a nap. I get it.


Anyway, here's something that completely fascinated me about our sessions: for the longest time, whenever I played an improvisation in his sessions, I'd think, "Wow! That was gorgeous! I must write down some of those chords, because they'd be great to play around with when I'm writing a song!" And I'd quickly write down the chords, and then, after the session, I'd play them, and what the hey? They never sounded quite the same after my client left. They were nice, but there was something...missing, and it just...didn't sound right. 


After a while of this unusual musical situation happening over and over and over (hey- these things take time!) I started to wonder, "What is this about? Why the heck is this happening?" And I realized this was some kind of countertransference, so I started to talk about it with my client, trying to enlist his assistance in figuring out what he might be needing me to hear (through the music that was only beautiful during our sessions but never afterward). 


I've spent the last couple of months with the following working hypotheses: 
1) Maybe he feels like he has to put on a nice, happy face because somehow he's gotten the idea that this is what people in his life want from him (can't imagine where he could possibly have gotten that message).


2) Maybe he only feels as if he's "beautiful" when he's in music therapy.


Of course, I could be wrong about all of it, but these are what I started working with and bringing up in sessions. So, I started talking about this with him. And the more I talked about this, the more he'd get to snoozing! 


Think I hit a nerve? I think so.


As you can imagine, he and I have been stumbling along now, and somewhere back in May, we were in a session together, and I suddenly heard the lyrics of this song (Joni Mitchell's "Trouble Child") enter my mind. And, as always, as I mentally sang through the song, I thought, "Hunh! This is worth giving a joint listen." 


Interestingly, it's taken a while for us to actually get through the whole song in a session (did I mention he keeps falling asleep?). And as soon as I share the lyrics with you, you'll see why. 


[I debated whether to use my version of the song or the original, and I opted for mine- but linked Joni's version- because it's about the therapy and the use of songs to have a deeper understanding of our clients. I'd add a lot of disclaimers, but they're not going to be of much  use to any of us, so here it is. I had to cut out all of my blabbering because I talked for too long, so that's why it sounds as if I started in mid-sentence.]

Trouble Child

(Words and Music by Joni Mitchell, Copyright 1973 and 1974 Crazy Crow Music)

Up in the sterilized room where they let you be lazy,

Knowin' your attitude's all wrong, and you gotta change and it's not easy.

Dragon's shinin' with all values known,

Dazzlin' you, keepin' you from your own,

Where is the lion in you to defy him when you're this weak and this spacey?

So what are you gonna do about it, you can't live life, and you can't leave it.

Advice and religion you can't take it, you can't seem to believe it.

The peacock is afraid to parade, you're under the thumb of a maid.

And you really can't give love in this condition, still you know how you need it.

They open and close you, then they talk like they know you, they don't know you.

They're friends and they're foes too, 

Trouble child, breakin' like the waves at Malibu.

So why does it come as such a shock to know you really have no one,

Only a river of changin' faces lookin' for an ocean.

They trickle through your leaky plans, 

Another dream over the dam,

And you're lyin' in some room feelin' like your right to be human is goin' over too.

But some are gonna knock you and some'll try and clock you,

You know, it's really hard to talk sense to you,

Trouble child, breakin' like the waves at Malibu.

Okay. First of all, Joni Mitchell is...brilliant! (By the way, go and listen to her singing this song. I seriously don't do it justice.) Second, oh my God! Look. At. These. Lyrics! The experience of a man living in an institution? With a serious reputation for having been a major bad-ass in his younger days? 


I can't say it enough times- I marvel, again and again, at the amazing ways we human beings find to communicate with each other!

Video journal #1 (So THAT's what Countertransference Sounds Like)

Seriously. What is with me and all this numbering? 

Anyway...

With all this conversation about trying different forms of journaling (okay, maybe there wasn't any actual conversation, but it's definitely something that's been on my mind), I decided I wanted to try a video journal. So I did an improvisation after a session. Here's what that looked/sounded like: 

After I listened to it, it occurred to me that it sounded sad and sort of poignant. I was struck by how extremely consonant it was as well. I didn't think it would be. I guess the point is that maybe on some level I did know what might have been going on in the session, but it just hadn't become conscious yet. 

How wonderful that you're here!

Image via WikipediaWe music therapists are always trying to define what we do. Or, more specifically, help other people understand what it is we do. We write books and articles about it, we blog about it, we put together podcasts- all in an effort to convey to the masses a sense of what makes us go into this profession that seems to defy description!


But, if someone were to have asked me yesterday "what is music therapy and how does it work?", I would probably have said that it's about inviting people to be present to each other, and we use the music to help make that happen. 


Mondays are long days. For me, I go into work a little later and stay a little later. And, I think we can all agree: it's hard for any of us to transition into a Monday, which is, for most folks, the beginning of the work week. And I would say that it requires even more fortitude to get into the Monday spirit of things after a particularly long Thanksgiving weekend, which, of course, marks the beginning of the (dreaded) holiday season.


While staff frantically decorate the cottages and prepare for Open Houses (where everyone's family is invited to come and visit and there's food and music and merriment and so forth), my clients prepare for the annual anxiety of "will my family be coming to spend time with me this year?" 


So, this is a bit of the sense I got when I showed up to work with the group yesterday (Monday) afternoon- "the group" being ten men and me. 


Oh, where to begin? 


Well, let's see. There was a whole lot of messing with chairs (that would be P), switching of seats (that would be R), tossing instruments, trying to pick up instruments and then getting stuck on the floor and needing help to get up (that would be T), repeatedly rearranging and fixing the curtains so the sun wasn't blinding us (um, well, actually, that would be me), coming in, turning off the lights, and then leaving (that would be K), coming in, crying and starving to death and then leaving (a different K who does use some speech), and on and on, all accompanied by a low moaning (courtesy of J), the periodic fist to the head (of B), and the festive crashing of the tambourine (P again).


Can I get a witness? Anyone? Anyone?


Uuuhmmm. Now what?! (And if any music therapist tells you they know exactly what to do when their clients are all freaking out at the same time...just so you know- They. Are. Lying!)


I managed (do not ask me how) to get my thoughts together enough to be aware of the fact that, while the guys were all there, they weren't really There. Nobody was listening to anyone else in the room, we were all kind of...everywhere, but none of us was present to the experience of being in music therapy. 


I pointed this fact out to the guys (who, God bless them, heard me above the drama-filled din), and I asked them, "Gentlemen. What can we do here? How can we use the music? How can we use our thinking, to get ourselves to be here in this room, in music therapy, together? Why don't we just work on that, so that if we do nothing else today, we'll know that we cared about each other enough, that we mattered enough to each other, to notice that we were all here together."


Enter music. 


I moved over next to B, because I didn't want him to be hitting his head, and offered him my hand (he took it). He had been vocalizing while he was hitting himself, in a kind of a hum. So, since I couldn't play guitar with only one hand, I invited the guys to find some kind of way to hum with B to help him settle down.


I started to hum (in B's general key), and it didn't take long at all before the men found ways to join in with their voices and actions. J moved his arm, every few measures, up and then down to the beat. P, in spite of his tambourine prowess (and he really does rock on the tambourine) used his voice- which has more of an "oh" and "ah" quality. Yet another K quietly chimed in on the cabasa he was holding. R stopped moving around and sat, listening, with his eyes closed, breathing deeply. 


B calmed down and kept singing (but stopped hurting himself), so I was able to make use of both of my hands again. I played a very simple progression on the guitar- kind of an Asus4, Cmaj7, to D/F#, B, E (sometimes major and sometimes minor), and I repeated it as we sang and came together.   


It was lovely. 


There was smiling. The moving around and in and out stuff stopped. There was presence. We were looking at and acknowledging each other. 


We managed to be present in the session and we used the music to make it happen. The definition of music therapy on a Monday afternoon. 


And what makes this way of using music so cool is that this particular piece of improvised music  could only have happened on this day and with this group for it to have had any meaning. Taken out of context, it might sound okay, but it will never have the same impact as it did yesterday afternoon as we all sat quietly, after we finished, even after we sang goodbye, nobody wanting to leave quite yet, watching the sun set together.

Back off, lady, I've got this!

Image via WikipediaI tried a different approach with B today.  My usual tendency is to sit there, paying as close attention as I can (without being too obvious) and trying my best to figure out what he is (not) saying by asking him bunches and bunches of questions (and driving both of us crazy in the process). 


Yes, even I realize that asking tons of questions is annoying. 


And, no, he doesn't use speech, but when he truly needs to make sure I hear him, he is quite clever in his communicative style.


Well. He was reclining (as he does) on the couch in the Music Room, and he was very specifically looking off in the distance (read as: "I am not looking at you! NOT looking at YOU!"). Okay. Got it. We are not looking at me. Fine. Onward. 


I, of course, started to leap in with my usual round of questions ("Rough day? Too noisy in the cottage? Feeling off because we changed our session time last week? Blah? Blah blah blah? Blah, blah, and more blah?"). Okay, I'm not really proud of the fact that I did this, but I did. So. There it is. B's response? Stay the course. Keep staring straight ahead. 


Hunh. That was effective. 


I stopped (thank God). And I thought, "Try again, Roia. Settle it down, and try again."


So I said to him, "You don't really seem to be ready to be dealing with stuff right now. Why don't I just play piano over here, and when you're ready, you let me know."


I rummaged through the stack (really- there's a stack) of (countertransference) songs I've used in his sessions, and I pulled out the Beatles' song, "Don't Bother Me". I hemmed and hawed (internally) for a bit and decided to just play it on the piano rather than sing it. It didn't seem right to break the silence with words just yet. 


I played through. Aside from tossing the bells he was holding and then picking up the mallet, there wasn't much (visible) change. Moving right along. 


I rummaged some more, and I found "Out Here On My Own" (from the movie Fame). (Anyone else sensing a theme here?) I really wanted to sing the words, but it still didn't feel like it was time to do that, so I played through it with just the piano. 


I feel as if I need to explain two important things here:


One is that the songs I chose were intentional- not as random as it may seem when you read my writing. I wanted to reflect his need for some emotional space, but I also know that he's been struggling with trying to come to terms with what our relationship is and is not (which is a gentle way of saying that I'm trying to help him understand that "we don't have that kind of a relationship.") He has not been happy about that, and although I think that, on some level, he gets why it is the way it is, he still feels very abandoned by me right now.


The second thing is that B spends a part of almost every single session, pulling me to the door and flicking the light switch off and on (you may draw your own conclusions as to what that particular habit may be helping B to say to me). 


Great. So you're up to date. Back to the music...


This time the mallet was tossed, but B still sat quietly listening with his gaze firmly averted. 


I sat quietly for a while (even I can sit quietly sometimes) and waited. 


B leaned forward and tossed the maraca (which he uses to express anger) and tambourine (to express uncertainty) on the floor and was ready to hurl the cabasa (for conveying disappointment and sadness) as well, but I managed to stop him just in time (did I mention he can make sure he's heard when he has something to say?). 


"Maybe," I suggested, "I'll play the song I just played again, only this time I'll sing through it with the words. B, why don't you sing it with me. You can use your voice, you can pick the bells back up and use them, you can move...just pick a part of the song that feels right, and join in." 


So I went back to the piano and started (again) with "Out Here On My Own" 
(Lyrics: Lesley Gore, Music: Michael Gore; Copyright 1979)

Sometimes I wonder where I've been,

Who I am, do I fit in?

Make believing is hard alone, out here on my own.

We're always proving who we are-

Always reaching for that rising star

To guide me far and shine me home,

Out here on my own.

(Chorus)

And when I'm down and feeling blue

I close my eyes so I can be with you

Oh, baby, be strong for me, 

Baby, belong to me. 

Help me through. Help me need you...

The minute I started singing the chorus, B joined in! He got up, started to hum in a low tone and rock back and forth. Then he headed over to the light switches and started to flick the lights up and down in time to the music (I could tell, because he paused so he could stay with the beat)!!


He stuck with me- moving, vocalizing and light switch flicking- until I got to the very last words of the song ("out here on my own."), at which point he came over and stopped me from playing any more by pulling me to the door (not because he wanted to leave, but because he wanted me to stand with him). 


Wow. Just...wow. He was glorious.


Clearly, the strong feelings of loneliness and longing are still very present for him. The beauty of this profound musical moment (as I see it) is that B now feels safe enough to fully participate in the experience of actually making music. And I do need to point out that this has taken quite a lot of years. For much of the first twelve years of our work together, he largely avoided using music- often barely even allowing me to use music!


The fact that B was not only willing to sing with me (and in such a creative way), but to make sure it had meaning when he did it, is what makes this work so amazing!


I guess the question (for me) now becomes: knowing that when you back off and allow your clients to say what they have to say, they will not only do it but do it beautifully (and you don't need to worry them along), what's preventing you, Roia, from backing off so much of the time? And what is it you're afraid of hearing when your clients do "speak" to you through their music?

"I want to be here."

I noticed the word "here" came into my mind rather loudly as I accompanied W's breathing on the piano. Then..."I want to be here."


He was sitting in his usual partially reclined position on the couch and staring straight ahead. No eye-contact. Ignoring the instruments (although I think he tossed a mallet on the floor at one point). 


Just. Sat. 


I knew he was still not feeling all that well. We both had colds this past week. But he had been very clear that he wanted to come to his session.


"Breathe in; breathe out." I sang quietly, accompanying myself on the piano.


He waited until I was finished, and then he quickly tossed the maraca and the bells in rapid succession. 


Obviously something was bothering W. And as I watched him the song "Wish You Were Here" came to my mind. I found it in my folder, and I was all set to start playing when he stopped me, pushing my music folder to the floor.


Okay then. Kill the music. Better stick to just listening. 


"I'm wondering what's upsetting you so much today." 


W pushed the rest of the instruments off the bench next to his seat, making sure to send them into the distant regions of the Music Room. He watched them as they rolled off in various directions. He turned to me and tried to make sound with his voice. It came out as a quiet, brief hum. He waved his arms in frustration, unable to make me understand.


"I can't imagine how frustrating it must be for you to have so much to say and so few ways to say it. Can you go back to the music and use the instruments?" 


W got up and gave a few of the closer instruments, the ones he'd already sent to the floor, a shove with his foot, pushing them even farther away.


I looked at the clock and realized we only had five minutes left before the session ended. I let him know we would have to end shortly. 


I knew he wasn't finished. 


I recalled our previous session in which he kept picking up the bells when it was time to go (seemingly to let me know he wanted to take the instrument back to his cottage with him- like a transitional object). He didn't seem to feel finished then either. 


I asked him if perhaps his current upset was related to not wanting to let go of the bells and leave last time.


Eye-contact. Bingo!


"It is hard to leave a place where it's quiet and where you've developed a sense of safety. I know how much it means to you to be here."


Because I felt his helplessness, I went on and on. 


I reminded him that his worth does not come from me. That music therapy helps him remember and recognize his worth and value as a person. That we work toward his being able to go out in the world with the awareness that he is a worthy and valuable human being. 


I added that I realized this wasn't an easy task. We all struggle with it. "But, W, you have survived living in an institution for over 25 years. And you still care about people. Relationships still matter to you. That's a miracle!" 


He thought about this for a while. 


I gently noted again, "W, we need to stop for today." I got my coat on, brought his coat and hat over and began helping him get into his outer gear.


He paused midway through the process, flapping his left arm in his coat sleeve, not quite finished putting it on. In a second, he took off the coat, took off the hat, handed them back to me and pushed me gently backward in a clear gesture of "No."


He was staying "here". "I want to be here, Roia!" was what he seemed to clearly be stating with his actions.


I sat with him. 


"What do you think is making it particularly difficult for you to leave today? Is it that it's the holidays? Is this an anniversary date for you that I'm unaware of?" He paused and looked up and to the side to consider this.


"Perhaps you're feeling particularly lonely." Eye-contact.


We sat quietly, breathing together. "Loneliness is hard."


After a while he got up to push my tissue box off the piano. I brought him his coat again, and I let him know I thought he'd be okay. He is, after all, a survivor.


He hesitated, but he finally put on his coat and we walked out. 


Here is the song, "Wish You Were Here", that I would have sung for him in our session- mistakes, clunky piano keys and all. 

This piano's got some kind of vibe!

At long last I was able to get LR to the Music Room! 

From the minute I started working with her I knew she'd love it. The difficulty, though, was in getting her to leave the cottage with me. But today the weather was gorgeous (about time!), and I know she recognizes me now, so she feels a little safer getting out the door with me. 

After some fidgeting (on her part) and waiting (on my part), she took my hand and pulled me to the closet to get her a coat. I explained to her that it wasn't that cold, and she agreed to put on the sweatshirt (a puffy blue thing) I'd fished out of her room for her. 

We ran into T on the way out the door (T's the food service worker, but she also sometimes pitches in when they're short on direct support staff), and she offered to walk over to the Music Room with us.  

Yes. Please do join us.

We did it! We got there, and LR went straight to the piano (it's a Clavinova) and started to play. 

LR loves (no, really LOVES) vibrations. She totally digs the guitar, and she'll try to tap absolutely anything to find out if it has any sort of resonance. (I've always wondered whether she likes the vibrations that come out of people. You know how we have our own resonant qualities. It remains to be discovered.) 

I took her on a quick tour of the room. She tried out the metallophone (the low notes are particularly bong-y when tapped), the tubano, the bongos, and the doumbek. 

But she really liked the piano. And the guitar. She tried playing both at once. It was very creative, I must say. She assembled herself so she had her right hand on the piano, and her left hand was tapping the guitar. 

She used a pretty consistent rhythm in the clusters she was playing on the piano. But, being LR, she was largely focused on how it sounded with her ear glued to the piano.

And I was largely superfluous to her experience. 

Well, at least we got through this major step.

"...let nothing you dismay..."

For some reason I was dragging through work today. Actually, to tell the truth, I was tired before I even got to work.

I was so exhausted I could barely tolerate the idea of walking all the way to one of the farthest cottages (in a very cold New Jersey "Spring" wind, mind you) to pick up (and walk back with) a very bouncy 20-year-old young man with whom I recently began doing music therapy. 

I managed to temporarily get over myself though, and I'm glad I did. 

As soon as he saw me (and his vision isn't all that great), he leaped up (leaped, I tell you- I have witnesses) and bounded over to his box of stuff to drop off the little wrestler action figure he was holding. (He has a small collection of muscle-bound action figures, which: 1) I think are so darn cute, and 2) I find interesting, because he himself is tall and quite slender as yet.) 

Within seconds he was by my side, waiting for me to fish out his flimsy Spring jacket from the closet. (Someone needs to remind the people in his cottage that Spring only happens in name in these parts at this time of year- it's still March, for crying out loud!)

We hummed little rhythms on our way to the Music Room, and he was all chipper and cheery. When we got there, he quickly tossed aside his jacket (after neatly putting his hat in the sleeve) and sat at the piano with the flourish of Liberace. He began playing a dramatic series of clustered notes on the piano (using some of the rhythms he'd been humming as we walked). 

He decided my role for today was to play the guitar, and he waited patiently until I had assembled myself and handed me the instrument. After some dramatic piano music (he had to keep reminding me to keep my hands on the guitar, not the piano), and a couple of quick treks to the window and back, he turned his attention to the guitar. 

He pushed my hands away from the neck and strings, and he gave it a solid strum. As the notes quieted he listened thoughtfully, and he began to sing (he uses a half hum and half "uh" sound to sing) the notes of the open strings on the guitar. He kept repeating them in various patterns (it was very cool), and the pattern he settled on sounded so much like "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" that I had to hum it to him.

And there we were, both of us with the tune completely stuck in our heads, humming away. What particularly intrigued me was that he listened to me carefully and kept adding the different sections as we went along. In other words, he kept humming, over and over, the part he'd learned, and as I added the different sections he added them gradually too.  

I think it was difficult for both of us when it was time to leave. 

I gave up on the usual singing of "goodbye" and improvised some "I'll see you next Monday" sorts of lyrics to the tune of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" instead. He seemed okay with that mercifully. 

After that we scrambled back into our respective outer gear and headed back to the cottage, still humming the song as we walked. It was very sweet to see how excited he was. 

Admittedly, it's a rare treat to spend time with someone who so bubbles over with music, seemingly from his very soul (!).  Many of the folks I work with love music, but here is someone who just seems positively enchanted with sound!

It was definitely worth the long, chilly walk, and even in my tired state, I was glad to share in his enthusiasm for a time.

Trusting the process

I have been thinking about my practicum student this evening.  I think she’s trying to let me know that she’s nervous about the fact that during this semester she’ll be leading the music therapy group she’s been observing for the past four months.  Part of the reason for her concern is that I don’t do activities, and my sessions are largely improvised.  As such, there’s no script, no specific tasks I expect people to complete, and there’s the not knowing what’s going on- particularly since my clients can’t say it with words (or even with music a lot of the time).

It’s scary, especially when you’re new to music therapy, to tolerate not knowing the answer.  Sometimes I think that the only thing I have that a student doesn’t have is just enough trust in the process to be able to stand it when I have no idea what’s going on in a session.  After thirteen years of being reminded by my own clinical supervisor that everything that happens in the session is “grist for the mill” I finally believe her.  I’ve made tons of mistakes, I’m sure.  For the most part, my clients are still there.  We’ve looked at my mistakes, and we’ve looked at theirs, and we all lived, and we still do music therapy together.  

I happened to be looking through one of my many notebooks full of notes, and I came across a few wonderful quotes from Wayne Muller (it’s from the beautiful book How Then Shall We Live?  Four Simple Questions That Reveal the Beauty and Meaning of Our Lives).  I will have to share these with my student:  

“The important thing is not our flowery language, but rather that we are fully present and attentive to our companion.”  (p. 117)

“...it is not the act but the awareness, the vitality, and the kindness we bring to our work that allows it to become sacred.” (p. 194)

“But what if ‘don’t know’ is not a signal to push and work and struggle, but rather an indication that it is time to be quiet, listen, and wait?” (p. 180)

“I learned to trust the truth that music can tell about things.”  (p. 113)

I have every confidence that my student will grow into an excellent music therapist.  She is caring, patient, aware of her own internal struggles, and she pays close attention to people.  She’s also not afraid to make music.  Once she realizes that she has all she needs to do the work of music therapy, I’m sure she’ll feel better.