The Problem with New Music
Since I live in Kansas, while most of my family still remains in Texas or Oklahoma, my opportunities to connect in person with extended family are rare. Like all families, sometimes those rare connections are very positive. Other times, not so much. My most recent was one of the most memorable of my seven-plus decades.
This may well have been my elderly aunt's final interchange with me.
It came after Sharon, my mother's very congenial personal caregiver, tried to open a conversation that could have pulled together a few meaningful moments we'd just experienced, doing exactly what our family has done for generations--sharing music, that is. In this case, around an old rickety piano in my aunt's living room.
Days earlier, the hostess had initiated the idea with my mother. in their odd way of loudly whispering something they are afraid to say "out loud."
When Aunt Jo suggested that day to Mom that they try to persuade me to give the group a little concert on our next visit, I didn't respond--after all I wasn't supposed to have heard from my vantage point of three feet away, but I did.
So, three days later, as a pianist who seldom needs my arm twisted in the first place, I'd come prepared--with Christmas carols, that is. Actually, a whole medley of Jim Brickman arrangements--from a holiday album I love.
To my very rigid aunt, who likes everything to be done "by the rules," this wasn't just odd. It was totally bizarre. Almost intolerable, in fact!
Not to Mom. Though four years older than Aunt Jo, it was a delight to her, she later told me. I was sure of this without even asking. Shaking up routine is something Mom loves as much as she loves Christmas. Since her frontal lobe has begun to disintegrate, taking away the rigidity that's been built up from all the horrific Adverse Childhood Experiences these two experienced along with their two other sisters many years ago, she has relished jazz and many other forms of music even more.
Even on an old rickety piano, I was determined to give them both a run for it--perhaps one last time, since we no longer have a piano at our disposal in Mom's new care facility.
On top of that, Aunt Jo couldn't sing to these arrangements. That really upset her, as I knew it would. Mom has about quit singing now with her dementia because she can't remember all the words--a fact that really upsets her these days. So she's gotten used to just listening more and more. I even took time to explain this to Aunt Jo when she complained I wasn't playing a version she knew, making it impossible for her to sing.
Little did she know this was a part of my plan. Mom would be able to listen in comfort, and Aunt Jo's screeching attempts to sing would not be in the mix, since the phrases were so arranged into tidbits of the old carols that made singing to them next to impossible.
It almost worked. Except......Aunt Jo couldn't not keep her mouth closed! Within two new measures of any of the four arrangements I'd prepared, she was running away with chatter, unable to bear listening. Or allowing anyone else to. Mom had to respond, of course, because her sister, unable to be quiet for a moment, needed conversation to quiet her long-standing anxiety.
Eventually, I decided it was time to turn the whole program over to Aunt Jo. It was time for her part on the program. Time for things to go as she'd assumed they would have gone from the beginning. No problem at all. There's room for everyone and every kind of music in my way of thinking.
Unlike me, she seemed to be able to work around all the keys that no longer play on that old klonker that occupies front and center of the living room she shares with her ever-patient, 95-year-old husband. After playing two hymns about the blood of Jesus, she topped it off with his favorite, The Old Rugged Cross , without a single discord. Strangely, I realize only now, nobody thought to sing!
It was when nobody was occupying the bench that Sharon unknowingly set off the memorable firestorm. What followed sent shock-waves thru her, she later told me. Not me. I'm prepared for about anything and always expect something memorable with Aunt Jo, who would give any baseball pitcher a run for their money, considering how fast she throws surprises.
Sharon had innocently shared some words from a hymn she'd recently learned about sailing on. A spiritual message that turned out to be perfect for the interchange to follow.
At that point, I made the mistake of suggesting that one of the values of learning new music is how it makes us stop and think. I should have known better. Complex thinking is one of the forbidden territories for the most extremely rigid, religious fundamentalists, of course.
The valve on the long-standing pressure cooker couldn't handle any more! Without warning it exploded--fortunately with me sitting across the room. For I seriously doubt my mother's dear sister could have resisted physically slapping my face as she has been known to do with others in the family.
Flashing her arthritic finger straight at me. "That's what's wrong with you. You should stay with the old hymns--that's all we need. Nothing more!"
With the valve removed from the old pressure cooker, I simply did what comes naturally for me--at least, in the moments I manage to be on my toes, calm and collected
"Well, I don't think we have time for a sermon today. We need to get Mom back for lunch," I declared, speaking two truths at once. Gratefully, I took note of how quickly Mom and Sharon rose to their feet as if on cue. It was the fastest, smoothest exit I've made from any volatile situation in years.
Complete with the usual hugs so a part of the routine for any loving family, we sealed the deal. Each stepping to the music of our own making, we all went our separate ways.
True to Family Systems theories, it was the outsider who unknowingly shook up the system in a good way. Because of Sharon's contribution and the buffer she offered, some of us left with a new sense of direction and cohesiveness, appreciative and willing to let the rigid remain stuck in old comforts, believing whatever is needed to manage the anxiety of the hour.
This may well have been my elderly aunt's final interchange with me.
It came after Sharon, my mother's very congenial personal caregiver, tried to open a conversation that could have pulled together a few meaningful moments we'd just experienced, doing exactly what our family has done for generations--sharing music, that is. In this case, around an old rickety piano in my aunt's living room.
Days earlier, the hostess had initiated the idea with my mother. in their odd way of loudly whispering something they are afraid to say "out loud."
When Aunt Jo suggested that day to Mom that they try to persuade me to give the group a little concert on our next visit, I didn't respond--after all I wasn't supposed to have heard from my vantage point of three feet away, but I did.
So, three days later, as a pianist who seldom needs my arm twisted in the first place, I'd come prepared--with Christmas carols, that is. Actually, a whole medley of Jim Brickman arrangements--from a holiday album I love.
To my very rigid aunt, who likes everything to be done "by the rules," this wasn't just odd. It was totally bizarre. Almost intolerable, in fact!
Not to Mom. Though four years older than Aunt Jo, it was a delight to her, she later told me. I was sure of this without even asking. Shaking up routine is something Mom loves as much as she loves Christmas. Since her frontal lobe has begun to disintegrate, taking away the rigidity that's been built up from all the horrific Adverse Childhood Experiences these two experienced along with their two other sisters many years ago, she has relished jazz and many other forms of music even more.
Even on an old rickety piano, I was determined to give them both a run for it--perhaps one last time, since we no longer have a piano at our disposal in Mom's new care facility.
On top of that, Aunt Jo couldn't sing to these arrangements. That really upset her, as I knew it would. Mom has about quit singing now with her dementia because she can't remember all the words--a fact that really upsets her these days. So she's gotten used to just listening more and more. I even took time to explain this to Aunt Jo when she complained I wasn't playing a version she knew, making it impossible for her to sing.
Little did she know this was a part of my plan. Mom would be able to listen in comfort, and Aunt Jo's screeching attempts to sing would not be in the mix, since the phrases were so arranged into tidbits of the old carols that made singing to them next to impossible.
It almost worked. Except......Aunt Jo couldn't not keep her mouth closed! Within two new measures of any of the four arrangements I'd prepared, she was running away with chatter, unable to bear listening. Or allowing anyone else to. Mom had to respond, of course, because her sister, unable to be quiet for a moment, needed conversation to quiet her long-standing anxiety.
Eventually, I decided it was time to turn the whole program over to Aunt Jo. It was time for her part on the program. Time for things to go as she'd assumed they would have gone from the beginning. No problem at all. There's room for everyone and every kind of music in my way of thinking.
Unlike me, she seemed to be able to work around all the keys that no longer play on that old klonker that occupies front and center of the living room she shares with her ever-patient, 95-year-old husband. After playing two hymns about the blood of Jesus, she topped it off with his favorite, The Old Rugged Cross , without a single discord. Strangely, I realize only now, nobody thought to sing!
It was when nobody was occupying the bench that Sharon unknowingly set off the memorable firestorm. What followed sent shock-waves thru her, she later told me. Not me. I'm prepared for about anything and always expect something memorable with Aunt Jo, who would give any baseball pitcher a run for their money, considering how fast she throws surprises.
Sharon had innocently shared some words from a hymn she'd recently learned about sailing on. A spiritual message that turned out to be perfect for the interchange to follow.
At that point, I made the mistake of suggesting that one of the values of learning new music is how it makes us stop and think. I should have known better. Complex thinking is one of the forbidden territories for the most extremely rigid, religious fundamentalists, of course.
The valve on the long-standing pressure cooker couldn't handle any more! Without warning it exploded--fortunately with me sitting across the room. For I seriously doubt my mother's dear sister could have resisted physically slapping my face as she has been known to do with others in the family.
Flashing her arthritic finger straight at me. "That's what's wrong with you. You should stay with the old hymns--that's all we need. Nothing more!"
With the valve removed from the old pressure cooker, I simply did what comes naturally for me--at least, in the moments I manage to be on my toes, calm and collected
"Well, I don't think we have time for a sermon today. We need to get Mom back for lunch," I declared, speaking two truths at once. Gratefully, I took note of how quickly Mom and Sharon rose to their feet as if on cue. It was the fastest, smoothest exit I've made from any volatile situation in years.
Complete with the usual hugs so a part of the routine for any loving family, we sealed the deal. Each stepping to the music of our own making, we all went our separate ways.
True to Family Systems theories, it was the outsider who unknowingly shook up the system in a good way. Because of Sharon's contribution and the buffer she offered, some of us left with a new sense of direction and cohesiveness, appreciative and willing to let the rigid remain stuck in old comforts, believing whatever is needed to manage the anxiety of the hour.
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