My life and times as a disappointing music therapist

The session that wasn't:

Walking to the session. Pausing to pull me toward somebody's car and tapping on the trunk:

"Um, no. We can not go in somebody's car. Please don't tap at it, or you'll set off an alarm and that would probably not be a good thing." 

Slowing down and sitting on a bench:

"Yes, I see that you don't want to go to do your session today, and you'd rather we sit outside on a bench."

Still on the bench:

"Yes, I realize I'm frustrating you, but music therapy is what I can offer. I can not take you for a ride, or for an escape, in someone else's car or in my car. I can, however, be your music therapist, and you can come to your session, and we can talk about it in the music."

In front of the Music Room door, but not going in:

"So, okay. You're not going to go into the Music Room."

Pushing past me and heading for the exit:

"I guess you're telling me we're not going to be doing music therapy today, and you'd rather go back to the cottage. Okay then. I'll try again on Wednesday." 

Heavy sigh. 

"He's not cranky- he's mischievous."

Her exact words were "he hasn't been cranky- he's been mischievous!" 


I was thinking about what she'd said the previous day about S as we started our session.  As his support staff, she probably was finding him to be rather frustrating. But, in my mind, there has to be a reason for it. 


What does it mean when someone's being mischievous? What if he's learning to assert himself? What if this means he now has enough of a sense of 'self' to assert? And he's not there yet, but he's trying to figure out what having a 'self' means?


That's kind of cool!

Now, back to S in his music therapy session. He was very quiet. His music was also quiet- contemplative, more interactive (in contrast to his usual energetic crashing and playing with great energy and a few brief pauses). He didn't play when I played. He was clear that this was a conversation, not a jam session where we play together. 


Self and other. Separate beings.


Wow. A major developmental step!

A modern chorus line (Photo credit: Wikipedia

A part at the very end of the first song from A Chorus Line ("I Hope I Get It") came to my mind as we stood together (a part which, frustratingly, they didn't include in the video I'm linking):

Who am I anyway? 

Am I my resume? 

That is a picture of a person I don't know. 

What does he want from me? 

What should I try to be? 

So many faces all around, and here we go. 

I need this job. 

Oh, God, I need this show.

I sang it for him, and I talked a little bit about the context for the song. It's sung by a man auditioning for a part as a dancer in a chorus line- which, to me anyway, seems to be a sort of anonymous group of dancers in a Broadway play- the goal of which is to be as uniform and in unison as possible. The character who sang this section of the song was thinking about his identity. I interpreted the lyrics as saying here's a man who is trying to come to terms with the face, the persona he has to present in order to get a job as a dancer.

I connected it to how I thought perhaps S might feel as a man with a disability who lives in an instituionalized setting. Having to put on a face (a persona), perceived by people, based on his behaviors and what is written about him in the institutional paperwork. 


Perhaps he too is wondering: who am I anyway? Who or what defines me? How do I define myself? And what does it mean in terms of safety, my identity as a man, as a disabled person?

Again, his musical responses (taps on the drum or tambourine) were very thought out and short.

We had about 5 minutes to go. I invited S to help me know if I'd been on the right track (by glancing my way) or if not (by making a sound). After a while, he looked my way, and he went slowly to the door and walked out.

Thinking he was done with me (and that either I was way off and misunderstood him- or he needed a bathroom, or maybe he felt a bit overwhelmed), I packed up my stuff. 


I was just about to follow him out, when he reappeared at the door!

He came back over, and I took out my guitar again. I sang a goodbye, in it telling him how excited I was for him. This is a truly important, although difficult, period in his life- one with the potential to offer him growth and a deeper self-awareness. He stayed until we finished, tapped the tambourine goodbye, and we walked slowly back to the day area.

Once we got there, he hovered near me (he doesn't usually). Then he reached into my instrument bag and borrowed the tambourine again, tapped it a few more times, put it back in the bag, and he headed off slowly in a different direction. 


See you later, S. 

Sharing an excellent TED Talk with you

True, this doesn't really count as a blog post. But you need to hear this. Trust me.


I first heard Brene Brown on Voices in the Family with Dr. Dan Gottlieb (one of my favorite ways to spend Sunday morning is to listen to my local NPR station, WHYY in Philadelphia). And I loved what she had to say! She is a researcher (cool!) who studies shame and vulnerability (wow!). 


In this TED talk, she tells us about how being vulnerable is an act of courage. More importantly, she reminds us that shame is diminished with empathy. 


I have a lot to say (shocking, I know) about both vulnerability and shame, but enough of my blather!  I want you to listen to this talk, because it's important.