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.

"Will you remember me?"

B has been having a tough time of late in music therapy.  I think it’s a combination of holidays and feeling safe enough with me (after ten years) to start dealing with his feelings.  He’s been so down-hearted and angry in his sessions.

This afternoon he came to music therapy with God-only-knows-what all over his hands and face.  I set about polishing him up a bit (we have Sani-Wipes or something in the Music Room), because he was starting to rub whatever it was off onto me and because I knew he’d want to use the instruments (if only for target practice). 

We use different instruments, which we’ve designated to express specific feelings, so he can give me an idea of what’s up for him (since he doesn’t use speech).  The tubular shaker is used to say “I’m okay today” (interestingly, he almost never picks up this instrument),  the maracas tell me “I’m frustrated/angry,” the cabasa is for “I’m feeling sad/disappointed,” and the tambourine is for “I’m uncertain/anxious/scared.”  It’s not the best idea in the world, because it has occurred to me a number of times that these particular instruments may not (for B) express the feelings we’ve designated for them, but it’s at least a way to get started and to give him a voice.

We’ve used this system for quite a while now, so he’s pretty much got the hang of it, I think.  Lately he has been alternating between choosing the cabasa and the maracas.  What he usually does is pick up the instrument he chooses to let me know how he’s feeling at a given moment and then hurls it across the room.  Well, let’s just say there was a lot of instrument hurling going on today, and my initial inclination was to respond in frustration and anger myself.  I mean, I don’t like having to worry that a cabasa is going to hit me in the head or that the instruments are going to break. 

I heard myself starting to get preachy and into lecture mode after the fifth or sixth time the maraca was sent skidding across the floor (“You do not need to throw the instruments around to let me know how you’re feeling.  You can hand them to me, please- or just put them back down next to you.”).  For some reason I stopped myself and I said, “you know, B...I think you might be trying to tell me you’re in a lot of emotional pain, and you don’t know how else to help me understand.”  He looked my way (he’d been avoiding eye-contact with me since we’d arrived in the Music Room).  Sigh.  It’s so hard to be in the part of therapy where all your feelings are right there in your face and making you ache a lot.

We had about five minutes before it was time for us to head back to his cottage.  Here’s how the last few minutes went:

B:  Made a very small quiet sound. 

Roia:  I wonder what it’s like for you to be here in the Music Room and actually hear yourself (and to have me hear your voice).  I know it’s usually pretty loud in your cottage, so I can’t imagine that people really hear your voice very often. 

B:  Threw the mallet across the floor.

Roia:  Maybe throwing the instruments around is a way to make sure you have some sort of an impact- especially since it’s hard for you to be heard most of the time.  We’re going to need to end- is there anything else?

B:  Made a silent screaming sound with his lips closed.

Roia:  Your sound just now made me think of a line from the song “I Will Remember You”:  “We are screaming inside, though we can’t be heard.” 

B:  Listened quietly and then made his sound again.

Roia:  Interesting that that particular song should come to my mind, given that it’s about wanting to be remembered, and we were just talking about the wish to have an impact.   Maybe that’s an important song for us to think about together next time.  (I noticed his shoe was untied and we were about to walk outside in the rain.)  Can I tie your shoe?

B:  Stopped moving his foot and allowed me to tie his shoe.

Roia:  You seem to need a lot of mothering today.  (I referred to the washing up I’d had to do when we got there and to a zipping up by his staff person and now the shoe tying.)

B:  Sat quietly.

He decided we would not be singing “Goodbye” and we walked back to the cottage in the rain.  When I got back to the Music Room after dropping him off I wanted to read the words to “I Will Remember You” (Copyright 1995, Sarah McLachlan, Seamus Egan, and Dave Merenda). 

I am, as always, amazed by the power of the songs that unexpectedly come to mind while I work.  Here’s a part of the verse I quoted to him that I hadn’t consciously recalled during our session:

“I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep.

Standing on the edge of something much too deep.

It’s funny how I feel so much but I cannot say a word

We are screaming inside or we can’t be heard.”

and

“So afraid to love you, more afraid to lose.

Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose.”

Wow.  Just...wow.   Talk about finding ways to communicate.  Yet again I behold the power of music.

Getting lost

Last weekend I had to drive home in the middle of a sleet/rain/snow “event” at 11:30 at night.  So there I was traveling slowly homeward (or so I hoped) when I realized that I had made a wrong turn, and I was now driving along some very curvy roads I’d never been on before- even in the light of day.  I wasn’t particularly panicked, because I had a general idea as to which way I had to go in order to eventually get to where I needed to be (so I could, theoretically, get home at some point).  It did, however, take a lot more time than I expected to finally get to a road I recognized.  Mercifully, I didn’t do any sliding around and ending up in a ditch, and I did finally get home some time after midnight.  

Now, the reason I didn’t freak out when this happened is that I regularly go out driving with my friend, Darrin, and I make a point of getting lost and driving in unfamiliar places so I’m forced to find my way back.  My reasoning is that this way I won’t get so scared when I get lost.  I don’t tend to like having unexpected things occur, so I figure that practicing helps me get used to the experience.  

I started to think about this theory of mine, and I realized it applies just as much to being a music therapist.  I use a process-oriented approach.  That means that I don’t have a specific plan in mind when I do sessions.  We’re not doing Activity A then Activity B followed by Activity C.  Moreover, I work with people who don’t use speech to communicate.  This means I’m lost a lot of the time when I’m doing therapy.  I have an idea of where we want to go (increased communication, greater ability to cope with strong feelings, using the music to express anger rather than using actions, etc.), but I don’t always know how we’re going to get there.  And that can be scary.  

Lucky for me I practice getting lost a lot so I don’t have to worry as much when it happens.