For My Friend

I've been putting this off.

It's painful, and part of me believes when I finish writing this post...well, that there's a finality involved.

But this needs to be shared. I made a promise that I would share this, and this will tear me up inside if I don't.

Last Saturday was a day full of emotions for me. My oldest child graduated high school. A lot of people see graduation as the end of a road...just like getting a black belt. The goal was set and has been reached! I learned long ago that getting a black belt is just the first step...a weeding out process. After you get that black belt, the REAL learning begins.

Now that my child has that metaphorical black belt, a world of possibilities is now open.

That's a big deal, right?

We live in a different state than my children from my first marriage, so we made a long road trip to celebrate graduation.

As it turns out, our trip coincided with another celebration.

Later that same day, I had the opportunity to reminisce with some old friends at the Unitarian Universalist church that I started attending right before my divorce.

I went back to that church for a Celebration of Life...what others would call a memorial service.

You see, a friend, husband, father, master of puns, and avid forager left us. He left us by his own hand. I'll always remember the day he left us. It was my 45th birthday.

Exactly how he left us is unknown to me. His family requests that the details not be asked about, and really it doesn't matter. This beautiful soul is gone from this existence and his memory lives on.

In a sense I do know why he left. It's because of something I myself am painfully aware of: depression.

Actually, it's one of the things that brought this friend and me together.

Early on after joining this church, our families became friends. They have kids close in age to my kids, so we would share the joys and commiserate as parents do.

A year or two into this new church life, an opportunity arose for me to make dinner for groups of people on Wednesday nights. That's when there were all the music rehearsals, meetings, and some people who just came for dinner and to hang out.

This friend had a great appreciation for my cooking. He always thanked me, he expressed eager anticipation about the next week's menu, and he told me on more than one occasion that I should seriously consider opening a restaurant. It was an ego boost and humbling at the same time.

Around that time, he approached me for the first time with an offer. I'm not sure if he sensed the depression in me, or if someone told him. He offered to listen, if ever I wanted to talk about what was going on. He said that he knew well what living with depression is like and he'd be happy to lend an ear.

He made that offer several more times over the years. I don't know as I ever really took him up on it. Maybe a few thoughts here or there, but I never really poured it all out.

That's the great irony with depression...mental health in general: we often feel shame at feeling the way we do, and don't want to burden anyone else with it. We turn it inward, and it grows and deepens. Often, we isolate ourselves too...which makes the cycle worse. We don't want to bring others down, maybe we think we should just be able to snap out of it.

You see, I worked on an acute mental health unit. I've talked with a lot of people living with depression, and a lot of those people exhibit suicidal ideation. There are two levels of SI. SI itself is having persistent thoughts that your family, friends, the world would be better off if I was dead. That's serious, but SI with a plan is even more serious: I'm going to end my life, and here are the details of exactly how I will do it. That's critical.

I used to tell my patients that most people (I would term it this way so as to not invalidate anyone's feelings), most people don't actually want to end their lives. Most people get into a severe depression, or are in extreme physical, or emotional pain and they want that pain to stop. Many see the only option to ending that pain is to end their life.

Keep in mind, I was working in a locked mental health unit with brilliant psychiatrists and social workers in case one of these patients needed immediate care. Talking about these matters is always delicate, and I’m glad my patients had a safe environment to express those feelings in.

Sometimes, people do like my friend did. My understanding is that for years he told his wife that one day he'd just walk into the woods and not come back.

I think that's what he did.

From the outside, it doesn't make sense. He has a beautiful wife, and beautiful children, and from the outside things seem pretty good.

It's never that simple with depression though.

From the outside, I have a beautiful wife, and beautiful children. We have a pretty good life, but for me, even when everything seems to be nearly perfect, often times I find myself pausing and saying to myself "What the hell's wrong with me? There is absolutely nothing I would change in my life right now...so why can't I be happy?"

And I'll let you in on a little secret: no treatment I have tried over the last 25 years has ever worked for me long term. I have tried a whole laundry list of antidepressants, anti anxiety, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, bipolar meds...I've even done something called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation...an uncomfortable, sometimes painful series of magnetic bursts being directed into specific areas of the brain in order to jumpstart the correct neurons into firing properly.

None of it worked long for me.

So I've resigned myself to maintaining a spiritual, exercise, and music practice in order to manage my symptoms. Honestly, sometimes that doesn't work either.

I don't know what daily life was like for my friend. Admittedly, since I moved away, we kept in touch mostly through social media, sharing that mutual love for word play and puns. I never thought to ask how things were going. I mean, sure, there was the typical inquiries that friends do, but I never asked, "No, really, how are things?" with that compassionate, caring look that I saw in his eyes all those times he offered to listen.

Maybe on some level I figured that if he was offering an understanding ear to me, that he must have his own depression well in hand. Maybe that's just the story I tell myself because I don't want to admit that I'm a hypocrite. That I was out there helping other people with their mental health issues while I was barely keeping mine in check. Or that if I was paying attention, and not in denial about how my own depression was crushing me, that I could have seen that my friend needed help. Maybe by offering to listen to me, he was trying to help himself too. Maybe if I would have opened up to him, he wouldn't have taken that walk into the woods that day.

I know. That's wasted energy thinking that way. I know I’m not responsible for anyone else’s choices, but there's always that part of me that will wonder if I could have helped.

I had been thinking about him over the past couple of months. We went to a workshop on edible plants in Florida a couple of months ago, and the presenter wrote a book on foraging in Florida. I thought how much my friend would enjoy that book, and exploring edibles in a new place, but then thought it might not be practical since he probably doesn't get to Florida all that often. I didn't get that book for him, and I never thought that I wouldn't have had the opportunity to give it to him anyway.

We were driving through Georgia when my wife told me. A mutual friend sent her a text informing her the night before, not realizing our relationship with the family. My wife waited until she had a little time to process and ground herself so she could be supportive of me.

I've lost a lot of people. When I got the call that my Mom died, tears instantly poured down my face, but I never cried for anyone else right away until my wife told me our friend was gone. I just kept saying "it's not fair." Over and over again. And the tears did come. With all the loss I've experienced, I've never experienced one from suicide.

But in those moments after I learned of his passing, my friend gave me one last gift. I've experienced suicidal ideation, sometimes on a regular basis. In those moments as the thought "it's not fair" repeated itself in my mind, I decided that when it is my time to transition from this life, it will not be by my own hand.

As someone who's studied some psychology, and who married a psychologist, in the midst of a flurry of textbook responses, like flying through all of the stages of grief in a few minutes, that one realization remained constant: I will fight for every second of life. In those moments, I made that vow to myself, and my family, and my friend.

I don't know if he ever realized how much I appreciated his offer to listen back then, and in a sense he'll never know how precious his final gift to me is, but I will remember. I will remember and I will work to share my experiences so when others walk into the woods, they will come back.

Bright blessings in the next life my friend.

I Believe Women

My wife and I watched the Senate hearing today.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford reminded me of a line Heath Ledger said in A Knight's Tale: "I'm a knight, and I will put myself to the hazard!"

Today, I saw this brave human being, Dr. Ford, put herself to the hazard. She was triumphant. No matter what happens after this, she was triumphant. Dr. Ford told her story, in a good way, with poise, truth, and integrity. She has been placed under a brutal microscope, and received death threats, and yet she stood front and center on the national stage and spoke her truth with courage.

At the end of the evening, I stumbled across a clip from The Daily Show where Trevor Noah was commenting on specific moments of the hearing. Seeing Brett Kavanaugh address the senators was like watching a petulant child throwing a tantrum while blaming the dog for the broken dish on the kitchen floor. I kept thinking to myself, "how can anyone think that this is a good person, let alone put this person in a lifetime position of power?"

I said to my wife, "I can't imagine that even the Republicans who will vote for Kavanaugh think he's actually a good person and worthy of such a position."

She reminded me that Senator Grassley (ashamed to admit I'm from Iowa because of people like him) sure seems to want to get Kavanaugh appointed.

I argued that was just politics.

After seeing Kavanaugh assume the demeanor of a very immature 17 year old boy when Senator Amy Klobuchar asked him twice if he had ever been "blackout drunk", then dodging the question, twice, and responding, "I'm curious if you've ever been blackout drunk", I simply cannot imagine that anyone believes this man should be in such a powerful position.

But I'm probably wrong.

You see, men often have power over women. It's like Palpatine says in Revenge of the Sith: "All those who gain power are afraid to lose it."

So maybe it makes sense that men who are afraid of losing their power would actually want someone like Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court. He presents as someone who would try to maintain male dominance.

But in this lifetime, I've been hardwired to rage against people who want to dominate others, especially men who try to dominate women. The fire in my Indigo soul is stoked every time I hear about or otherwise witness the sad reality of the patriarchy in action against women. That's why I used to love teaching women's self defense classes. All people deserve to go through this life being treated with dignity and respect. If however a man won't take "no" for an answer, I don't think it hurts for a woman to know how to crush an eyeball, and just how much pressure it takes to do so.

Recently, I made friends with a woman at a drum circle. As our friendship develops, and we talk, she confides that often she feels cautious around men, "because...well, you know...life." Although she also said that she does not feel cautious around me, for which I'm thankful, I began to empathize with her feelings.

A day or two after that conversation, the gravity of her words hit me.

I sent her this message:

I remember you saying something to the effect that you are often cautious around men. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you feel the need for that. I’m sorry because you’re very justified in feeling like that. You and every woman deserve to feel safe all the time. I’m sorry you don’t.

She thanked me for those words. Those words are not enough. I don't know if anything will ever be enough to make up for the millennia of men treating women like second class women, forcing themselves and their power lust on them, and generally being awful human beings toward women.

During the hearing today, I watched one women with immeasurable courage, stand up and state quite clearly that she was assaulted, and that the truth had to be known.

Her example, her courage, her honoring of the truth gives me hope.

For what it's worth Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, this author believes you.

In Memoriam- A Story of Holiday Loss

I used to say that the holiday season has ALWAYS been hard for me. Always isn't quite the right word, but now that I think back, the holidays have been hard for me for a good 20 years now.

With so many things in my life, there's this odd juxtaposition is seemingly opposite things. My first wife was born in December. My wife now, born in December. My oldest son, my sister in law, my stepdaughter, my father in law...all December birthdays.

In Pagan traditions, December brings about (with the Winter Solstice) the rebirth of the Sun (God figure). Christians celebrate the birth of Christ (no matter the historical inaccuracy of the date).

In my sphere of existence, there is a whole lot of birth and rebirth celebration going on this time of year.

It is also a time of grief, and loss for me.

You see, exactly 20 years from the date this blog post went live, my mother passed from this life, and my life hasn't been the same since.

It was three weeks after my first wedding.

My Dad called a few days before, and asked me to come talk to Mom. He was worried about her. Said she hadn't been feeling well, but refused to go to the doctor. He was also concerned by the fact that she had apparently been having difficulty writing their last name. Misspellings, incomplete words.

He showed me envelopes that she had been addressing for Christmas letters...unusual in and of itself, because she hadn't sent out Christmas letters in recent memory. Her behavior was off too. She just wasn't herself. We thought maybe she'd had a mild stroke, but I'll never know for sure.

I remember saying to her, as my new wife and I were leaving, "Take care of yourself. We're going to have children someday, and I want my children to know their Grandma."

That turns out to be the last thing I ever said to her.

I don't remember if I told her I loved her or not. I hope I did. It's so rare that we actually know that our final words when leaving someone are actually our final words to them.

So on this morning, 20 years ago, around 7:30 in the morning, I was just starting the day as a shift leader at a Hardee's in the student union of the local university. The boss told me I had a phone call. When I answered, I heard my Dad's shaky voice on the other end: "Stephen? Mother passed away. Can you come?"

For the first time in my life, I experienced what to me was a strange phenomenon...tears instantly streamed down my face.

It seems she left us in the night.

I don't know if by rights, I could say that the denial stage of grief had already crept in, but certainly, disbelief at what I was hearing.

Over the next few days, I had to grow up faster than I thought possible.

I'm an only child, and my Dad was a wreck. So many details were left up to me and my new bride. During those next few days, was the only time I ever saw my father cry. The first time seeing Mom in a casket, he almost fell over. We clung to each other.

There was a flood of phone calls, people delivering food and condolences. So much of it's a blur, but on a cold December day, December 20th, we laid my mother's earthly remains to rest.

Just over a year later, my Grandma joined her. She was the only grandparent I really remember. She was living with my parents when Mom left us.

She recounted to me, more than once, watching the paramedics bring Mom downstairs, covered with a sheet, except for one foot. With those stories, I understood when I'd heard people say that a parent should never live to see their children die.

A year after that, nearly saw my end. Due to a traumatic intubation just prior to surgery, December 20 (perhaps some sort of nexus) was almost my last day of life.

My first wife, pregnant with our oldest daughter, was told to call her family, my family (just my Dad at that point), and our life insurance company...they didn't expect me to survive.

So when people say the holidays are hard because they've lost loved ones, I get it. All those memories come flooding back. The family traditions that aren't quite the same. That special recipe that is close to the way the passed loved one made it, but not quite. For me, it's so intense. I can't predict when all those feelings will hit me. I still get anxious as the holidays approach...wondering which shoe is next to drop.

Perhaps you'll forgive me, just a bit, if I seem down, or pensive while the holiday cheer is being shared. Try to understand when I listen to Trans Siberian Orchestra's "The Christmas Attic" album over and over, crying while singing all of those songs about trying to find our way home, and not being alone at Christmas.

That day changed me forever. Home would never be the same. A longing that has never left me was born that day.

And let's face it: sometimes a guy just needs his Mom.

So this time of year, for the past two decades, I've felt like I've been searching for something...something I can never quite find, and to be honest, in all this time, I've never quite gotten used to it.

The sense of loss, the sense of longing for what once was and will never be again.

As a music therapist, I know how to shift my mood with music. Yes, I love the Christmas classics, and sing along with them as well (try singing "Feliz Navidad" with a Castilian accent and TRY not to laugh until you cry!) but at this time of year, sometimes I sing those TSO songs and cry, because it reminds me of the sadness that came to me in the dark of winter, all those years ago. That too can be healing.

I do my best to hold space for the joy, and magic, and miracles of this season. The grief still comes; some years more than others.

Maybe it seems like I'm stuck.

In a lot of ways I am. I know that. I acknowledge that.

But please be patient with me.

After all, it's only been half a lifetime.

In memory of Karen, Mildred, and Steve ❤️

Never Say Goodbye

I always reminisce and get sentimental around this time of year. Maybe it’s the slowing down of the seasons, heading toward that longest night of the year on Yule. Maybe it’s chilly nights and crisp days, although for this Midwestern boy who’s been living in warm climates for three Autumns now, that chill, that crispness is quite relative.

Anyway, I got hit with some nostalgia just a while ago. Everyone else was settling in to sleep for the night, and I was getting the dishwasher loaded and the kitchen cleaned up. In addition to the pasta and asparagus everyone else wanted tonight, I continued my experiments in learning to make falafel, hummus, and toum, an intense garlic dipping sauce. In other words, more dishes than usual.

I asked the Echo Show in our kitchen to play the Bon Jovi station from iHeart Radio. It’s a great mix of some old favorites that is especially enjoyable when I’m working in the kitchen...although how the hell Nickelback gets into that mix, I'll never know.

First song..."Never Say Goodbye" from Bon Jovi's _Slippery When Wet_album.

I chuckled, and was instantly transported to an Eighth grade dance. A dance when that song was played twice. The second time was the last dance of the night. By that time, J and I had decided we were a couple. I'm not really sure how that happened, but it did...and it was my first relationship.

Now this was quite a small school, and I am using this young lady's initial to protect her identity. You see, junior high romances can be quite a delicate subject.

I was on top of the world!

The relationship lasted all of four days.

Now, I know...why nostalgia about a four day relationship? Well, it's really what came out of the end of that relationship that still brings a smile to my face.

As sometimes happens with these junior high romances, J sent a friend of hers to break up with me. Her name is J also. Same initial, same first name.

Friend J (not ex-girlfriend J) was very sweet and very apologetic. She didn't know details of J's reasoning, but offered to find out for me. Friend J came back later and reported that J was just playing a joke on me, she wasn't serious, etc.

To her credit, when J and I found each other years later on Facebook, she apologized for the way she treated me. I easily forgave her. We were young...these things happen.

We kept in good touch until one day I made disparaging remarks about the silly Facebook quizzes..."What 1980's song are you?" or "What breakfast cereal are you?"

Who the hell cares what breakfast cereal they are?

Apparently J cares.

After reading my snarky remarks about the ludicrous quizzes, she commented that she works hard, and if she wants to unwind by taking quizzes like that, then she should have every right to do so!

Then she unfriended me.

I haven't heard from her since.

Guess we REALLY weren't meant to be in each other's lives. (I still think those quizzes are stupid.)

But back to Friend J...

She became my friend. We were in a lot of the same activities together, and she was kind, and sweet, and cute. Yes, I had a crush on her for a while, though I never told her.

Some of my fondest memories with her, and forgive me if I have written about this before, is the year we had study hall together. We never studied...we went to the band room to play music. She'd play the piano, I'd play the drum set. We'd play the same songs over, and over, and we were happy. We were content to share that music in that space, in that time. Sometimes people would listen and chat for a while, sometimes it was just the two of us.

That's what I get nostalgic for. That friendship with Friend J. That friendship that we still keep up through social media.

I wonder if we could get that back. If we got together with that piano, and those drums, would those old songs come back to us?

That's one thing that I love about music. In just a few notes, I was whisked 30 years into the past, to the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Those warm feelings set aglow a place in my heart that has been quiet.

Though Jon Bon Jovi was singing "Never Say Goodbye" to J and me, it's Friend J and I who have yet to say it.

Ramblings of a Neurodiverse Insomniac

00:56

Having a hard time falling asleep.

Just moved across the country, and I'm not adjusting well to the new time zone.

That, and the fact the someone close to me had surgery a few days ago, and I'm responsible for making sure the pain meds, due every four hours, get dispensed in the middle of the night, on time.

Factor in my all too frequent insomnia and my ADHD...I'm having a tough time drifting off tonight.

I made the mistake of checking social media after the midnight medicine dose. Heard back from someone I just met at a drum circle. There's potential for a beautiful friendship, but I have to be careful.

Maybe it's bad enough that I responded to a message at 00:15, but then instead of shutting off my brain and falling asleep, I started thinking about all of the questions I want to ask this person. I stop myself from rapid firing these questions over social media in the middle of the night, but just barely. I don't want the genuine curiosity of a neurodiverse insomniac to come off as simple insanity. We're still in that first impression stage, and my intensity can be overwhelming at times (so I'm told).

Floating around in this exhausted stream of consciousness is the memory of the dream that came in my interrupted sleep last night. A dream of spiritual significance, that I'm still trying to sort. I hope I return to that dream, for a bit more clarity. At the same time, I'm terrified to do so.

Then I think about all the partially written blog posts, the unedited videos for the website...will that guy REALLY advocate for that really sweet gig for me? Why didn't that school call me back and hire me to teach? Where did I pack my contact lenses?

 01:11

The alarm is set for the next pain med dose. Maybe now that some of these ideas are out of my head, I can get some sleep before it goes off...

The Art of Improvisation: Culinary Edition

I have long prided myself on my ability to improvise in a variety of situations.

I think it came from a combination of watching MacGyver growing up and playing in jazz bands.

I realize that that ability to improvise has also served me well in the kitchen.

Many years ago, after joining a Unitarian Universalist Church, I began to take part in an age-old UU tradition: the potluck.

I became obsessed with black beans during my time playing capoeira (and going to potlucks in that community).

When I joined the UU church, it was during the end of my first marriage, and into my divorce. Money was tight. I wanted to contribute to the potlucks but was short on resources. 

Black beans.

Nutritious, delicious, affordable.

But I'm also a foodie, and sometimes I want variety.

Out of that situation was born, Barbecue Black Beans.

In all honesty, it was a bit of a desperation move. I didn't want to be the guy that just brought regular, plain black beans all the time, so one day, the last hour of the cooking process (in a slow cooker), I added some barbecue sauce to the black beans.

A potluck or two later, people started asking me if I'd brought the barbecue black beans...and I began receiving compliments.

My improvisation had produced a hit!

I was thinking of that experience on the drive home after picking up my youngest from preschool.

We're packing up the house for a cross-country move, and so our routines have become slightly less than routine.

We realize this morning that we had forgotten to pack a lunch for him last night like we usually do (our amazing preschool does not provide vegetarian options for our vegetarian preschooler).

Our little one has recently discovered that he enjoys Ramen noodles on occasion. 

In a flash this morning, I cooked some Ramen noodles (vegetarian of course), I added some frozen mixed vegetables and some textured vegetable protein. So this crunchy Daddy came up with lunch that included protein, veggies, and was quick.

On the drive home, when we asked him what he thought about his noodles today, he said, "I ate it all. Could I have that for dinner please?"

Another hit!

Of course, all of my improv ideas don’t turn out so successfully, but I’ve discovered that these experiments in the kitchen deeply feed my need for creativity, and when there’s a win…

Like Hannibal from The A Team says, “I love it when a plan comes together!”

I guess improvisation is in my blood, whether I'm using duct tape and a Swiss Army knife, or a slow cooker and barbecue sauce.

Speaking of which, my timer's up.

Dinner is served!

Birthday Reflections

Today's my birthday.

For a long time, my birthdays have been a volatile mix of emotions.

I'm an only child, so I remember the Batman cake, and I remember inviting my whole class to a party in the park, and I remember Showbiz Pizza (before the Chuck E. Cheese rebranding) with my best friend in 4th grade...which was a big deal, because the nearest Showbiz Pizza was an hour away.

I remember that year in college when all of my friends graduated on my birthday.

My parents wished me a Happy Birthday, no one else did. I mean, I have a birthday every year...they were only graduating once. Still...

I remember the year my partner (not my current partner) surprised me by taking me to dinner...at her favorite restaurant. At least my best friend and her husband were there to celebrate with me. My best friend gave me a CD of Buddhist chants. Very cool gift...we were music majors together in college.

I remember the year that my oldest daughter was almost born on my birthday. Got back home in the middle of the night after the hospital told us we weren't achieving parenthood that night. Had a small corner bite of birthday cake.

You see, I think birthdays are important. From a spiritual perspective, it's a celebration of the day that our soul became incarnate in this life. That is a pretty big deal.

We all want to be special, right? Well, we ARE all special. No one born into this world has ever had the gifts that we have, in just the right combination, and just the right dose to be able to do what we do. It's like the Collective Consciousness said, "Okay kid! Here's what we got for you! Now go out there and see what you can do with it!"

Birthdays are a reminder that each of us (and for that voice of self-doubt, let me say again EACH of us) have gifts to share with the world, those gifts make a difference, and if we don't share them, the whole of human history will miss out.

A couple of the gifts I bring are the gifts of humor, and community building. Not long after I started working at a small hospital as a music therapist, I started playing the ukulele. Staff members began asking me to sing Happy Birthday to fellow co-workers. As happens in many restaurants, we'd gather a group of people together around the birthday boy or girl, sing, and I'd accompany on ukulele.

I was inspired to create a culture of celebration amongst the staff. I thought that we could get party decoration leis (to go with the ukulele vibe) for birthday honorees to wear and the rest of staff would know when it was someone's birthday.

Here's the (slightly off-color) humor part: I would quietly say to trusted colleagues, "Because everyone should get lei-ed on their birthday!"

Ultimately, Human Resources decided that not everyone would want their birthday so publically recognized, and the idea was declined.

To my knowledge, no one in HR heard the "get lei-ed" joke, so I don't believe that influenced the decision.

To sum up my point, here's a poem by Walt Whitman (popularized by Dead Poets Society):

O Me! O Life!

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                      Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

For me, that last line of the poem, the one Robin Williams's character emphasizes express what birthdays are to me now.

A time to remember that the powerful play goes on, and to celebrate that I may contribute a verse.

How's your verse shaping up?

When The Waking World Destroys Creative Space

Creativity is sometimes a very fragile thing. I experienced that fragility mere moments ago.

 I rarely remember dreams, but I remember what just happened to me in the dream space.

I was in a busy train station, sitting. I was singing into my phone, using the Music Memos app, and the app was not only recording my voice, and guessing the chord structure of the melody I was singing, but it was also transcribing the words I was singing (Apple developers, can you work on that for me please?). 

A family that I knew growing up, a younger version of the children, walked by me on their way to their platform, and took great notice of me singing into my phone. 

When I was done dictating into the app, I realized that I was not only dictating a new song idea, but that a verse from a song that originated years ago had also come through. 

I was thrilled! 

This song first came though (in the waking world) a few years ago, and often times my efforts to finish the song yield no results.

Yet here, in the dream, the final piece of this lyrical and melodic puzzle had been revealed! 

Then, I hear, faintly my wife and preschooler in sleepy conversation. I begin to rouse slightly and realize the lyrics for the unfinished song are slipping, and the new song is all but lost to conscious memory. 

Then, the coup de grâce... 

My wife’s alarms go off. 

My wife has an ingenious series of alarms set on her phone. Each one is a different song, designed to give her a series on sonic cues about how much time she has to get ready and get out the door with the children to be on time for school. 

Unfortunately for me, on this day each additional melody, juxtaposed against my fleeting dream world recall, quickly eroded the last vestiges of the songs I brought through from the Collective Consciousness. 

As I began to rouse further, I mourned not the loss of the tune, and the words, but instead my attention deficit challenged brain immediately implemented preservation strategies, honed over years of struggle to capture inspirations. 

I began repeating the recently realized lyrics, over and over again. Repeating them until I could capture them. 

No use. 

They were escaping before I could even say them (still half asleep).  

Working on pure groggy instinct, I realized that my only chance of salvage was the story itself. This story that I’m writing now.  Maybe, if I could anchor the images, and the melodies, and the lyrics to the story of how I lost them, there may be some hope that they will return to me. 

I begin writing the story, still not fully awake. The title for this blog post. The opening words. I start planning how to remember the story and begin capturing it when I fully awaken. 

The blog app on my phone! 

Where is my phone? Can I reach it and at least begin to get this story down before anyone notices? 

I realize at this point that even the story is in a tenuous place that could slip away forever with even hearing a simple “good morning” or “I love you” before I’ve started to write it. 

I am awake enough now to hear my wife is in the bathroom. I reach for my phone. Wrist splints still on, I fumble with the phone. The abrasive sound of velcro will certainly draw my wife’s attention, and I will lose the last vestiges of what I’ve retained from the dream space. 

The title begins to flow, and the first paragraph. 

”Good morning my love!” I hear my wife say. 

”Good mor...” I mumble, half articulated. It is only then that I realize sleep has not fully released me. 

But I’ve done it. 

I carried back a small piece of the dream space into the waking world. 

I have a chance to remember those songs, those lyrics that it was time for me to bring through. 

And just like that, this story has been told. 

And I think I need a nap. 

Carry On

So a couple of nights ago, I was cooking dinner for my live-in family like I often do. I love being in the kitchen, and I love listening to music while I cook. “Rock Me Amadeus” came on, and I began to reminisce a bit. I told my wife that I had searched for 30 years for this particular version of the song. Today, it's known as the “Salieri Mix”, but in 1985, on that cassette tape I had in upper elementary, it was just “Rock me Amadeus."

When I bought a CD of the Falco 3 album several years ago, I was disappointed. The version of Rock Me Amadeus was not the version I loved so well. This began an exhaustive search for my beloved version of the song. Year after year I was unsuccessful.

I recently discovered that in 2016, a 30th anniversary album of Rock Me Amadeus was produced. At last! There it was! Track 2: Rock Me Amadeus (Salieri Mix)!

As I was relating the story of this journey to my wife, it hit me… I've had similar relationships with several songs over the years.

Songs that for one reason or another connected with me on a soul level. Songs like Kylä Vuotti Uutta Kuuta by Värttinä, and The Thing by Phil Harris.

The stories of how those songs came to me are for another time.

I learned about the concept of carrying songs by participating in song circles for the past few years. I realized I had been carrying these songs for years.

It was at that moment, standing there in our tiny kitchen, cooking an amazing cabbage dish, I was overcome with chills. I've heard some people called them "truth tingles." The idea is that in those rare times when we stumble across a concept that resonates so completely with universal truth, our bodies and minds are overwhelmed with physical sensation. Usually for me, this type of sensation send chills down the back of my neck, and maybe makes the hairs on my arm stand up.

This time, my entire body was overcome by the tingling sensation.

I realized, I am a carrier!

While at Music Medicine training with Christine Stevens, I learned the concept of carrying drums.

A friend at that training brought a powerful, and unique drum with her. The voice of this drum inspires community, and togetherness. We discussed the fact that my friend does not own this drum, but rather carries it. She has been entrusted with the responsibility of caring for and sharing the beauty of this drum. Eventually, she will pass on this responsibility to another.

In that one moment, while cooking cabbage, I realized that I have been carrying many things for many years.

I am a song carrier, I am a drum carrier, and I am a story carrier.

While working as a music therapist in long-term care, and hospitals, I learned about the responsibility of carrying stories. People would often share their stories, or part of their story with me. With honor, I was able to bear witness, and when appropriate, share their stories with others.

Of course, with this new realization, comes a greater sense of responsibility.

I have known for years my life was to be a life of service. I realized quickly that the songs, drums, stories, and medicine I carry are not for myself. I carry them to serve others.

Maybe that is why I often end prayers with something I've read is a favorite of the Dalai Lama: guide me, and heal me, so that I may be of greater service to others.

What do you carry?

What gifts are you meant to share with this world?

To quote Manifesto by Nahko and Medicine for the People, find your medicine and use it.

Carry on my friends.

Me and Yvon; We're 80 Percenters

“I’ve always thought of myself as an 80 percenter. I like to throw myself passionately into a sport or activity until I reach about an 80 percent proficiency level. To go beyond that requires an obsession and degree of specialization that doesn’t appeal to me. Once I reach that 80 percent level I like to go off and do something totally different...”

— Yvon Chouinard, Founder of Patagonia, Inc.

It’s happened to most of us: we read, or hear something that resonates so deeply with us, that every cell in our body begins to tingle. That this ultimate truth before us can barely be contained.

That’s what happened to me when I read the above quote. “That’s it! That’s me!”, I thought. Reading Yvon Chouinard’s words in “let my people go surfing,’ (part of the Patagonia Business Library) normalized for me something that has plagued me for years: a seeming lack of discipline and stick-to-it-tiveness. 

You see, for a long time, I thought I just had trouble staying with things. I just chalked it up to the Attention Deficit Disorder diagnosis I received as an adult. 

“Ah, that must be it! That’s why I move from thing to thing! Too many shiny objects!” 

It actually took me years to see the pattern in myself. The first time someone referred to me as a “jack of all trades; master of none” I was taken aback.

“Wait! I’m good at this thing, and that thing…” I thought.

But the concept of mastery is a whole different level, isn’t it? What have I really mastered in my life?

I’ve played guitar for over half my life. Classical guitar was my primary instrument in college. Will I ever play like Jimi Hendrix or Ana Vidović ?  Or play ukulele like Jake Shimabukuro?

Probably not. 

Speaking of classical guitar, I remember something Christopher Parkening said during a master class I audited. He was recounting stories of being in master classes with Andrés Segovia. After one of those master classes, Segovia gave Parkening some simply, yet profound advice: “Christopher, work very hard.”

That sagely, Yoda-esque advice is some deep once it sets in.

And Segovia lived that advice. I read that he was practicing five hours a day up until the end of his 94 years on this planet.

Work. Very. Hard.

I used to joke that I didn’t want to work that hard. But what I figured out, is that it’s not that I don’t want to work hard. Most of us musicians (except for a rare few) have to put in countless hours of work to do what we do, if we want to do it well. 

That’s exactly what I’ve done, time, and time again. I get completely consumed by something, and it’s all I talk about or think about. It happens with music constantly. For me it’s like the old saying, “a kid in a candy store.” There are SO many interesting things in this world! I want to try them all!

In the past few years, I have thrown my intense focus into learning to play Native flute, folk flute, ocarina, doumbek, riq, pandeiro, bones, kalimba, ukulele…the list goes on. Ah…can’t forget learning how to overtone sing in the bathtub…good acoustics there…

This brief, yet intense focus happens in the kitchen too. One of my wife’s favorite comfort foods are grilled cheese sandwiches. She was reminiscing one day about one of her favorite hang out spots in grad school where she always ordered the grilled cheese with pickles on it. When she asked me to make her a grilled cheese, as she did frequently for a while, I delighted in experimenting. I would present her with different combinations of cheese, heating up the pickles before putting them on the sandwich so they weren’t so drippy, did she prefer the sandwich sliced pickles, the hamburger dills, or did she like it better when I minced the pickles so they would incorporate into the melted cheese more? Butter and grill one side of the bread, or both? Caramelized cheese on the outside of the sandwich? One side, or both sides?

I get obsessive…down to the most minute of details…for a while.

Then I get bored. At least I think I do.

Yvon’s 80 percenter concept makes perfect sense to me.

I reach a certain level of proficiency, and then I’m ready to move on to something else. New challenges, new things to learn.

Now that I think about, I have to laugh at something a college girlfriend said when she was breaking up with me. She said, “We’re just too different…you always have to be learning something, and I…don’t.”

Yet that thought, even as a joke, persisted: “I don’t want to work that hard.”

It’s not that. It’s also not about attention deficit. It’s about learning, and growing, and the desire to never be complacent.

All these things I mentioned? I don’t forget about them. After my grilled cheese phase, I still make grilled cheese. I still experiment, but the level of intensity has shifted. I just learned how to make arepas, and my mind is abuzz with what I could do with them. My mind is also abuzz with kalimba, pandeiro, and ocarina. My interest waxes and wanes, and Yvon Chouinard helped me realize why this is okay for me. 

Here in the United States, we are culturally imprinted with the drive to succeed.

#1 or none!

Climb, strive, achieve!

Of course, our poor millennials grew up with conflicting messages. The cultural imperative to be the best, but everybody gets a trophy just for showing up. That’s a whole can of worms I’m going to leave on the shelf for now.

So am I settling at an 80% level?

Nope.

To me, it is far more important to live with an ever renewing zeal, and passion than it is to achieve 100% mastery. Don’t get me wrong…we need the Jimis, and the Anas, and the Christophers in this world. We need those people to define the very highest level of human achievement.

For myself, there are so many wonders in this world, that I would rather spending my time learning about (and doing) a lot of them rather than reach 100% mastery at one, or a few of them.

I’m an 80 percenter, and that’s just great for me.

Conversations About Pie

Stories.

We all tell them. Some of them have more truth to them than others. Sometimes the most horrible stories are the ones we tell ourselves.

But there is no doubt that stories are an integral part of human civilization.

I learned long ago, for whatever reason, people tell me their stories. I’ve written before about stories, and if you like, you can also read Everyone Has a Story and The Stories We Tell and the Stories We Don’t.

Yesterday, I met a man who shared part of his story with me. It was a polite, casual conversation, but the significance of it was not lost on me. Stories are life. Stories are recollections of where we have been, and guidance for where we are going.

So, I met this man at the grocery store. He is an older gentleman, and he skillfully, and mindfully places my groceries into my reusable Chico bags. Then he surprises me when the transaction is complete. He takes the cart that he’s placed my bags in, and heads for the door.

He’s going to take my groceries to the car for me!

I should mention that I am currently in Florida, and this man works for a chain of grocery stores called Publix.

If you have not had the pleasure of shopping at Publix, I highly recommend it.

I said to the man, “I haven’t had someone take my groceries to the car since I lived in the Midwest!”

He replied that it was one thing that sets them (Publix) apart from other stores.

At that, I chuckled as I said, “Well, that and the best Key Lime Pie I’ve ever had!”

The conversation then progressed to how lemon meringue was his favorite and Publix’s version is not quite as good as a chain restaurant he frequents.

He then told me about his time as a cook in the Royal Navy, and how very fresh ingredients make all the different in cooking, as well as in pie,

This man shared part of himself with me, and spoke of how proud he was to have spent 16 years (so far) working for this company because of what they give back to people.

I got so much more than just groceries delivered to my car. I got a reminder of the goodness of humanity. I received, just a glimpse into the heart of a man who loves lemon meringue, and being of service to others with grace, respect, and kindness.

I think I would have enjoyed a much longer conversation with this man. I have a feeling he has an abundance of interesting stories. Yet I am truly grateful for the experience, and for the small reminder that goodness abounds in this world, simple pleasures, like a favorite pie, can brighten any day, and that when we are brave enough to share just a little bit of ourselves, authentically, we are often rewarded beyond measure.

And, I should have picked up one of those key lime pies while I was there…

The Ridiculousness of Some Minimalists

I’ve been fascinated with the idea of minimalism for years...ironic, because as my wife reminded me today, I have a tendency to be anally expulsive in every environment I inhabit.

The fact is, I’m a musician who plays a lot of different instruments (and I firmly believe you can NEVER have too many drums) and I like gadgets, and books, and kitchen gear...you get the point.

Part of this fascination with minimalism stems from the experience I had preparing my parents’ house for an estate auction. In 33 years of marriage (before my Mom passed) they accumulated a lot of stuff. As I learned, eventually someone has to deal with all that stuff.

I’m fascinated too with what Thanh from asianefficiency.com calls “the luxury minimalist lifestyle.”

The premise is that you reduce the number of items you own, but the items that you do own are the best you can afford and bring you joy. This cuts out duplicate items of poor quality. Headphones is an example. A luxery minimalist might choose a pair of high quality noise cancelling headphones over multiple sets of cheap, almost disposable headphones.

So with this fascination for me, and me starting to scale down some of my lifestyle with minimalist philosophy in mind, I decided to join some Facebook groups focused on minimalism.

This is where my frustration began...

Yes, I found posts that I expected...soliciting advice about specific methods for scaling down, suggestions about personal challenges of only buying 20 new items (except household needs, food, toiletries, etc.) and getting rid of one item for each new item purchased.

Today I saw a couple of posts that may be the last straw for me. One person was asking opinions about whether or not they should buy a wall clock, or should that be on their “do not buy” list.

Personally, if you can’t decide on your own to buy a clock or not, I think you may have bigger issues than how good you are at minimalism.

The one that really got me was this post: 

“What’s more minimalist? Getting a Christmas tree from a lot, or going to a farm and cutting one down?”

Really?

Seems to me this question has less to do with minimalism, and more to do with the absolute absurdity that exists in the world today.

I guess my philosophy on things like this echo the words of a chef I once saw at the New Orleans School of Cooking. As he was cooking a meal for a large group of us, he added some piña colada syrup to the bread pudding he was making. He explained that the recipe called for one cup of the syrup, which he poured into the mix without measuring.

Someone in the group interrupted, asking, “How do you know that was one cup?” The chef started pouring the syrup and asked the questioner when to stop at what they thought a cup was. After the questioner said, “stop”, someone else said, “There’s no way that was one cup!”

The chef began to pour again, and the second questioner had the opportunity to decide what one cup was.

By the end of the exchange, with perfect timing, the chef said, “When it comes to cooking, the exact amounts don’t matter. If you like something, put more of it in” as he emptied the entire bottle of syrup into the bread pudding.

So when it comes to clocks or lot Christmas trees vs. farm Christmas trees, I think that wisdom holds true as well...if you want a wall clock, get a wall clock. If you don’t want a wall clock, don’t get one.

Same with the trees. If you want to cut down your own tree, do it. If that’s not an important part of the experience for you, get it from the lot.

When we rigidly adhere to a philosophy, for the sake of the philosophy, and don’t use our own critical thinking skills, we end up with clockless houses, indecisive tree shoppers, and boring bread pudding (not to mention religious extremists, angry vegans, and people walking around with their pants hanging down to their knees).

My advice to those who ridiculously adhere to a philosophy for the sake of the philosophy? Remember that philosophy is a product of the mind. We must balance the mind with the heart. If your philosophical adherence makes you miserable, it’s time to examine your motives.

Remember Polonius in Hamlet...this above all else: to thine own self be true.

Buy the clock, cut down the tree...as long as it is true to yourself and your values.

And put a whole bottle of syrup in your bread pudding if you feel like it.

The Signs Are All Around

I endeavor to live a spiritual life. Sometimes I do better at that than others. Actually, for quite a while now, I've been straying from my spiritual path. It's pretty easy to do. Straying from a spiritual path, I mean. Let's face it...it's a lot of hard work most of the time! Living from the heart instead of the head, remembering that there's more to life than just me, devotionals in various forms, prayer...

Much easier to run on autopilot, mindlessly coasting through this physical experience.

Speaking of which, how does that work anyway? As enlightened individuals (hopefully), we're supposed to stay mindful, yet we should also live heart centered lives, and stay out of our heads. 

Guess I'll have to sit with that one for a while.

I've been very much stuck in my head for quite a long time now. I'm quite good at it, really. I tend to stay in a very intellectual place most of the time. It can be a strength, but I also use it as a defense mechanism, because if I'm speaking from an intellectual place, then I can avoid engaging with actual emotions! I can even speak about emotions intellectually, and most of the time, people think I am talking about my emotions, emotionally. I've fooled some very emotionally attuned people with this technique.

Of course, for most of my life I didn't realize I was doing this. Sometimes, I'm so good at this intellectualizing emotions, that I can fool myself into thinking I am being open and honest about emotions, all the while keeping a safe distance.

Before I take this tangent too far afield, recently when I was stuck in my head, a memory from college peeked out and made me reflect on the course my life has taken.

I remembered a conversation I had with one of my roommates as we were driving around town one summer afternoon. He was a big country music fan...I was not. This roommate and I grew up just a few miles from each other in the rural Midwest and went to different schools. Country music, in general, was quite popular at both of our schools. That's probably why I actively rejected it for so long. I tend to avoid things that seem TOO popular.

Anyway, my roommate, who was driving us around in his car, was playing country music, when all of a sudden, he said, "Hey, I want to play this song for you. But you have to listen to the words" (that's what EVERYONE said where I grew up. "You may not like country music,  it you have to listen to the words!").

He played "Standing Outside The Fire" by Garth Brooks.

Life is not tried, it is merely survived

If you're standing outside the fire

"That song reminds me of you, because you're not afraid to go out there and try things, and I wish I was more like that" he told me.

I thought back to a time not long before that conversation when I went with all of my roommates to a country bar (hey, it was hanging out with the guys!).

We were at a table, talking amongst ourselves, when an attractive woman approached us.

"Alright guys," she began. "One of you is going to dance with me. Now, who's it going to be?"

All of my roommates were even more introverted than I am, so they unanimously volunteered me.

I warned this friendly woman that I did not know anything about this style of dancing, and she assured me she would teach me.

So we danced, and talked, and had a lovely time.

THAT was trying life, not merely surviving it.

Remembering those days, that conversation brought me to a disturbing realization: that song, that admiration my roommate had for me, no longer applied.

Not only have I been standing outside the fire for longer than I can remember, I don't think I could even SEE the fire from where I've been living from.

What happened??

How did I go from one of "those who dance within the flames" to one of those that has distant memories of the fire, and has nearly forgotten it was ever there?

I knew I strayed from my spiritual path, but my life path too? (is there a difference?).

Both of my parents died when I was in my 20's, and since their loss, I have been haunted by the feeling that I have wasted so much time in life. Their deaths taught me that we never know how much time we are allotted in this life. Carpe diem! Momento mori! (Seize the day! You, too shall die!).

Part of my highly intellectual way of being, is mulling over things for a while. The shift to standing outside the fire, as a way of being, has been mulled for several weeks now.

Tonight, I read something that resonated so strongly with me, that it tied everything together in a brilliant little package.

These words are attributed to the late Layne Redmond:

I now know in every cell of my body that death is real, it is final, it is irrevocable and that I will die. Whatever time I have left must be used for manifesting the most profound purpose that brought me to life to begin with. I must be satisfied with every interaction I have with any person, as if it is my final action, my final thought.

If you're not familiar with Layne, she was a frame drummer, a teacher, an author, and a beautiful soul.

I did not have the opportunity to study with her, or even meet her in person, but we exchanged several messages through social media.

Do I want to be stuck in my head? Do I want to stay strayed from my spiritual path? Do I want to stand outside the fire?

No!

I want to live from my heart. I want to walk my path with courage. I want to dance within the flames.

I want to manifest my most profound purpose! 

As a spiritual person, I believe that we are being guided. We are being guided what to do with our lives, and how to do it. The signs are all around us, if we can only see them with an open heart.

Layne's words really spoke to me tonight. I must be satisfied with every interaction I have with any person, as if it is my final action, my final thought.

So, when that beautiful woman asks me to dance, I will smile, and lead her to the center of the flames, as if it is my final action.

How else am I going to manifest my most profound purpose otherwise?

The Spiritual Synchronicity of Song

We've all had it happen...the perfect song comes to you at the perfect moment. These days, that song could come from the radio, overhead speakers at the mall or your own playlist set to shuffle.

A powerful example of this for me came after the death of my best friend. On the way to a memorial service for her, I decided to drive to the place described to me where her car accident was. My thoughts were very much on my friend, and I had not been paying attention to the radio. When I found the place described to me, It's Alright by Huey Lewis and The News filled the car stereo speakers. A smile came across my face, and I laughed to myself. She was there, letting me know...

I realized tonight I was having a very different experience with the spiritual synchronicity of song. 

Yesterday, out of the blue, I decided to look "Wagon Wheel" (a song sketched by Bob Dylan) up on Apple Music. I listened to the Old Crow Medicine Show version, and I listened to the Darius Rucker version. I listened over and over...mostly to the OCMS version, because I think the harmonies are amazing!

One lyric kept sticking in my mind:

But I ain't going back to living that old life no more

These words of determination and hope found meaning with a lot of veterans I worked with. I'd pull that line out, most often for my vets struggling with addiction. For me, and hopefully for them, it was a promise of moving forward and leaving behind that old life that no longer served good purpose.

Over and over I listened. Over and over I sang "but I ain't going back to living that old life no more..."

So today, I happened upon an old journal. For the last couple of weeks, my therapist has been curious about recurring life themes and not-so-subtlely suggest I look back at writings from my past and highlight familiar thought patterns. Seeing the journal reminded me of her curiosity, so I picked it up and took it with me.

A few hours later, I decided to crack it open. Checking the dates, this journal began in 2002 and ended in 2011. I started to read, and was shocked. In a text message to my wife, who's traveling currently, I said:

I am living much the way I did ten years ago...the financial worries, depression, anxiety, irritation, negative self talk, lack of confidence...

My ever brilliant wife's response was, "Why are you living that life? You can let go..."

Letting go...sounds like something I've heard a lot recently from someone very dear to me.

I responded to my wife:

The irony is that the past couple of days have foreshadowed the much needed change that will come from this realization tonight. The foreshadowing came through my resonance with Wagon Wheel lyrics...but I ain't going back to living that old life no more.

For the first time in my life, the spiritual synchronicity of song foretold what was to come, instead of capturing my attention in the moment. 

I have to wonder how many times that happens to all of us, when we aren't truly listening. How many messages are we missing because we are not paying attention?

In a recent conversation, I made the point that so many times, we throw our hands up and look skyward while screaming "Give me a sign!"

In that conversation, I shared the joke about the man whose house was surrounded by flood water. A neighbor came by in a big truck and offered to take the man to safety. The man said, "God will take care of me!"

As the water reached the second story of the house, a boat came by and the people in the boat offered to evacuate the man, but he said, "God will take care of me!"

By the time the water was almost completely covering the roof, a rescue helicopter flew by. The crew offered to rescue the man, and once again, he said, "God will take care of me!"

The man drowned.

He goes up to talk to God. He says, "God! I trusted you! Why didn't you save me??

God said: "I sent a truck, a boat, and a helicopter for you. What more do you want?

The point I made during the conversation is that it is not adequate for us to ask for signs (guidance) but rather, we must ask for signs that we understand! 

If I had paid close attention to how that one line from a song was resonating with me, I would not have been so surprised to see big life issues that have waned, in the pages of my journal.

Pay heed to those niggling lyrics that get stuck in your head. You may be getting some hints as to your path forward.

For me, I'm trusting the spiritual synchronicity of song to bring me the hints, to bring me the clues just when I need them. Even if when I need them is sooner than I expect.

The One Thing Music Therapists Must Stop Doing IMMEDIATELY!

There I was, enjoying the lunch buffet at a great Mediterranean place, when I saw it...another article claiming a music therapy program, and a music therapist posting the article, asking if local MT's could verify if a music therapist was running the program. Part of a comment I could read on the post said something like "Maybe if enough of us contact..."

This. Must. Stop.

Let me first say that the title of this post annoys me.

It's a teaser, meant to draw you in...raise your curiosity...get you hooked.

I dislike resorting to such tactics, but I need your complete and undivided attention.

Let me be crystal clear about this: policing non music therapists claiming to provide music therapy must stop right now. Not later...NOW!

Unless AMTA is going to trademark the term "music therapy", set up a huge legal division to destroy anyone who uses the trademark without proper credentialing, (which will never happen for multiple reasons)  then we need to stop policing the world.

Listen up people...each of us gets 86,400 seconds in any one 24 hour period. How do you want to spend yours? Whining about everyone who improperly uses the term "music therapy?" How about ignoring all of that stuff, giving it your all everyday and educating as you go?

Think about it! "Therapy" is a buzz word right now. People play with the word ALL THE TIME.

Wine therapy, retail therapy, drum therapy...

When was the last time you heard of a vintner going off on someone for saying "wine therapy?"

Does not happen.

Now here's the tender and compassionate part of this post: it's not your fault.

When I was a student music therapist, it was drilled into us:

"Learn to document everything extremely well...it could be the difference between you keeping your job or losing it."

"You constantly have to justify what you do, because most people won't understand."

That along with the phrase "Music therapists are the happiest poor people in the world, because we love what we do, but we're not well paid."

Take a moment, and check in with yourself after reading those phrases.

How do you feel?

Insecure? Scared? Like there won't be enough pie for dessert?

OF COURSE YOU DO!

I mean, I remember wanting to curl up with my blankie and some hot chocolate after hearing these things!

We learned to be crusaders for our beloved profession, and let's be clear that no one stays long in music therapy unless they love it. We learned to fight for truth, justice and music therapy provided by qualified music therapists who have completed an approved course of study and six month internship at an approved...

Can we stop using that wordy explanation please? Eyes glaze over about three words into, and no one understands what we're talking about anyway. Keep it simple! "Yes, I had to go to school for this, no it's not new...established in 1950, yeah, it is a really cool job."

We see all of these people, well intentioned people, who I believe truly want to help others, kind of crowding our turf. Therapeutic musicians, healing musicians, volunteer musicians...they love music, and they want to help people, just like we do. We offer things they can't. It doesn't mean that there won't be pie for us.

If you feel like you have to fight for a position that ends up hiring one of these other music types, then it wasn't the position for you anyway. Trust the process. The general public is going to figure it out sooner or later, without us calling out every bozo saying they are doing music therapy. They're going to figure it!

So let me put it to you this way: all those sayings that we're familiar with, like, "what goes around, comes around" and "you get out of it what you put into it" and "your focus determines your reality"...

All of those phrases have something in common: the law of attraction.

Unless you've been off the grid since the 1980's, you've heard about the law of attraction. Abraham Hicks teaches about it all the time, the 2006 movie "The Secret" describes it...countless books, articles, blog posts, YouTube videos...

In simple terms, the law of attraction states that what we put out into the Universe, emotionally, and thus energetically, we draw to us. And in my experience, the Universe is like a small child...neither hears any form of the word "no." We've all seen a parent chasing a toddler saying "Don't run!"

What happens? The toddler runs FASTER!

Small children and the Universe can't comprehend "no."

When we are ever vigilant for those cretins who capitalize on our hard work and defile the name of our profession, what energy does that put out? When we live in fear that jobs might be taken away from us, we embrace an air of scarcity...like there's not going to be enough to go around.

What do we get from that? We have contracts renegotiated, undercutting anything resembling a livable wage, let alone something that allows us to thrive. What have hours cut, or we simply have positions cut.

How often do we say amongst ourselves and to others, "It seems like no one knows what music therapy is!"

What do we gain by that? More and more people seem to be surprised that such a thing exists!

MT is not THAT much younger than PT, OT and Speech, and everyone has at least a cursory knowledge of those professions. Okay, I still get a lot of questions about OT...

In "The Secret" someone mentions Mother Teresa's understanding of the law of attraction. She was quoted as saying, "I'm not interested in joining your anti-war protest, but if you ever have a peace rally, I'll be there."

This is a simple reframing of thoughts and emotions and yet quite powerful. Focusing on the "wanted" in life as opposed to the "unwanted."

Think about it: War on Poverty, War on Drugs, War on Terror...do we still have these things?

I'd say, in general, we're poorer, higher and more scared than ever!

Point being, we reap what we sow. If we keep sowing seeds of lack and scarcity and fear that I may not have my job next week if I don't justify my profession, then we will continue to draw those things we resist toward us.

Stop wasting time defending what we do. Instead, go do it!

Each and every one of you is responsible for this. Continue with confidence and courage. Let go of scarcity and fear. This profession has evolved beyond the days of music therapists being "happy poor people." Our profession is fluid and dynamic. Each of us is responsible for focusing on where we want our profession to go.

Look up Abraham Hicks, listen and learn. Stop policing...it's outside of our scope of practice anyway!

Let the charlatans do what they will. We remain, calm and confident in our chosen path, which is ever moving forward to greater things.

Do what you do, and do it extremely well.

That will be enough.

De-stigmatizing Mental Health

Sure, there's been a lot of talk about inadequate mental health care in this country. This happens most often when a tragic event, involving too easily obtained firearms, occurs. That's not what this post is about.

What about the every day, run of the mill, mental health issues that many of us deal with?

Let's face it...if I've learned one thing, working in mental health, it's that EVERYBODY is dealing with something.

I'm not here to talk about everyone else...I'm here to talk about me.

I've had a long history of mental health system interactions. When I was 16, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Hell, what teenager isn't?

Later on, along with regular counseling, I was introduced to mood altering medications...prescription ones that is. Let me tell you...I've done my share:

Zoloft

Prozac

Paxil

Buproprion

Wellbutrin

Risperdal

Remeron

Lamictal

Adderall

I'm sure there are some I've forgotten over the years, but that's a decent list to consider.

Today, I take none of them.

Over the years, I've have been diagnosed with clinical depression (as stated earlier), acute stress disorder, anxiety disorder, bipolar II and attention deficit disorder.

After dating and marrying a psychologist, I now believe that I was never properly diagnosed and that cyclothymic disorder probably most accurately describes my baseline. More on that in a bit.

I've never shied away from talking about my challenges with mental health. I talked about taking medication for depression, or anxiety or bipolar, or whatever the current thing was, whether it was "the thing to do" or not. I remember early on, people often looked shocked when I very casually mentioned being on such medication.

It's a little less "out there" these days to have those conversations, but still there's a stigma around mental illness. I hear it everyday from the people I work with: "It took me a long time to ask for help, because my family and friends thought I should just be able to get over it."

But I think we need to start thinking of things in different terms. So many attitudes about mental health are black and white...you're either "sick" or you're "well."

I live in a very gray world when it comes to these matters.

We need to have a conversation normalizing things that are normal again!

As stated earlier, I'm not on any medications for mental health. I haven't been for years. For me, I would stall out. I'd max out on a dose or combination of things, and I would still have the extreme behaviors. I would still have suicidal ideation, rage issues or I would be so far up that I would pace incessantly, be hyper verbal, and get cramps in my hand from writing down the ideas that were flying through my mind at warp speed.

That didn't work for me.

I remember when I got the ADD diagnosis. My psychiatrist said, "I'm going to prescribe this medication. It's a stimulant. The way the ADD works is that if you take this, and you get wound up, it's not ADD...something else is going on. If however, it calms you and you can focus easier, then biochemically, it's ADD."

I had a 45 minute commute to work in those days, through farmland...not much traffic, wide open spaces...

I remember the first day I took the med. I don't know how I made that drive...it knocked me out. ADD confirmed.

For a while, I suppose it helped me focus, but quickly, that became ineffective too.

Eventually, I stopped taking everything. It wasn't really working for me anyway. And I did it my own stubborn way. I quit cold turkey.

There's a reason the psychs recommend a taper for meds like this. I'm not suggesting anyone else follow my example. I'm just being open about how I did things.

At first, I thought that I just wanted to learn how to deal with everything on my own. Again, I can't recommend this for anyone else...it's just what I did.

Then I started to think, "What if 'what's wrong with me' isn't really something that's wrong with me? What if my way of being was fit into some DSM classification, but it's just part of me?"

Changing directions for just a moment, I've been listening to the Audible book "Alan Turing: The Enigma." While I was disappointed that "The Imitation Game" took great liberties with how Alan's life played out during and after World War II, I have been fascinated by the look at someone who was considered inadequate for a long time in school. It got me to thinking about all the school dropouts, Einstein for example. All the people that didn't fit into the confines of "normal" by societal standards. I remembered the quote from the Apple ad:

“Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

What if, sometimes the "crazy ones" and the "misfits" just have a different way of being in the world? Look at all the transformers in the world that had "mental illnesses!"

Now don't send the hate mail saying that I'm downplaying mental illness. I know it exists. I've worked with some people who are truly ill and need serious help.

But what about the people like me?

I didn't quite fit into many of the categories that my providers suggested. And yes, I still struggle with depression on a regular basis...and I have hypomanic episodes. To be honest, I relish those times. I get so many ideas, my thoughts flow so quickly, I have less tolerance for...a lot of things.

I actually told my therapist tonight, as I was leaving her office, "I think I'm more effective when I'm hypomanic."

She said, "I hear that from a lot of people."

I've learned, for the most part, to ride the waves. Whether I could truly be diagnosed with cyclothymic disorder, or something else, I may never know.

For me, the meds didn't work. I've developed my own ways to cope. I keep my iPhone, or pen and paper close by, to capture those flying thoughts...Bach cranked up on my headphones helps me focus through rapid thinking, when I need to focus. Aromatherapy, exercise and music help when my give a damn's busted (thank you JoDee Messina).

I'll be straight with people too...mostly about the hypomania. I'll call it what it is, and sometimes people are startled at the openness, or my awareness of what's going on, or something.

I'll be straight with you...I'm coming down from a hypomanic episode as I write this. Apologies if things don't make sense. I don't have much tolerance for proofreading right now. You'll have to deal with it. I do.

For now, I'm going to embrace my inner misfit. I'm going to deal with the sideways looks when I'm really up...I won't notice when I'm really down anyway. Maybe I can use my square peg in a round hole personality to make a difference in this world.

Stigma or no stigma...I am just crazy enough to believe I can change the world.

The Road Will Teach You How To Love and Let Go

I've seen stories from music therapists recently about losing people they have worked with, for many years in some cases.

For those music therapists among you who have never lost a client/ patient, it will happen. It happens to all of us...and there is absolutely nothing that can fully prepare you for when it happens to you.

Yes, you can gain intellectual knowledge about the grieving process and loss...you may have helped countless people work through their own grieving process.

It's different when it happens to you.

I was explaining to a patient recently what it's like from a provider standpoint. He was wondering, since he's had several inpatient stays for addiction, if people dread the sight of him being admitted for treatment again. 

I told him for some of us, we do hate to see people that we know are struggling, have such a hard time. Sometimes the path of addiction ends in an early grave, and that hurts, as a provider, because we want the best for our clients/ patients. Otherwise, we would be doing something else.

What I didn't share with him, was a bit of solace I found in the lyrics for "Wash it Away" by Nahko and Medicine for the People:

The road will teach you how to love and let go, it can be lonely, but it's the only thing that we've ever known.

All providers, especially music therapists must find the wisdom in these words. We do what we do because we care. Yes, we have to maintain professional boundaries, but music itself fosters intimacy with those we serve. It's an art for expressing emotions...we get attached to our clients/ patients.

Our professional and our life journey, the road, will teach us how to be invested in the highest good for our clients/ patients, and when our paths part ways due to death, we experience our grief process, and gently, with love and light, we let them go.

We let them go and we move on to the next client/ patient who also needs our unique skills to help them along the road of their life.

When a client/ patient leaves you in this manner, draw from your support community and from the experience of others who've walked the path before.

This is how the road teaches us to love and let go.

Regrets on a Thursday Afternoon

Just now, I was sitting in my car, after work, texting my beloved wife. As my car was warming up on this winter day, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, someone approach and get into the car next to me. This was especially noticeable, because I had pulled into my spot front first and this person had backed in, so the person was right by my door as they unlocked their car.

A few minutes later, as I was ready to leave, I noticed the car next to me was still there. I glanced over, and saw a man, wearing sunglasses, with his head leaning on the head rest. I also noticed a single tear trailing down below the sunglasses.

I paused for a moment, put my car in reverse, and backed out.

Immediately, the thoughts started pouring into my consciousness:

I don't know this guy.

I just spent the whole day helping others put their broken pieces back together!

He'll be alright.

I've got things to do...I can't save everyone.

But then another voice came through. The voice of my spirit guides:

What's the matter with you?

You could see he was in pain...help him!

You are a healer! You don't get to punch out at the end of the day!

That voice of truth reminded me...Always on call. Always ready to bring peace. That is the life that chose me. It's the life I have chosen.

I turned around and headed back for the parking lot, but the car, the man, and his pain were gone.

I said a prayer for him. I pray that his pain passes quickly and that whatever caused the single tear I saw resolves harmoniously.

We are creatures of habit when it comes to parking, so maybe I'll see that man again. Maybe I'll have the chance to ask, "Is there anything I can do?"

Asking if everything is okay is stupid...clearly when tears fall, things are not okay.

I know that I've been the one crying in my car at the end of the day. Maybe there's nothing I could do for that man directly. It doesn't matter what causes the pain. Sometimes it's enough to say, "Hey, I get it! Life can be scary and frustrating and confusing and sometimes things just suck. I get it. You're going to be okay. You'll get through this."

If I don't get the chance to say these things to that man, I can at least be grateful for the lesson he unknowingly taught me:

It doesn't take some grand therapeutic or healing gesture to say "I see your pain, and I get it."

It just takes choosing to roll down the window, instead of backing out of the parking space.

Music Therapists as Emotional Shamans

Fresh in my mind is a quote from Ethan Hawke that I shared in a recent blog post:

It doesn't come for free

To me, that means those of us who work in the creative arts, give of ourselves for the benefit of others. Sometimes we give so much that we forget to save anything for ourselves and our loved ones.

Now let me speak to part of the title of this post: shaman.

A word that is sometimes overused, much confused and a word that stirs passion in some about who is a shaman, who is not and the right to be called one. 

The term means different things to different people, but in simple terms, a shaman is one who has one foot in ordinary reality and one foot in non-ordinary reality. Spirit world, Afterlife, "The Other Side"...

The life of a shaman is one of service. Service to community. The shaman takes on the responsibility of going where most cannot in order to guide and serve the community...often at great personal cost.

Now consider the role of the music therapist. At times, we may offer our clients a compassionate ear, a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board for buried emotions. We laugh, and cry with those we serve. We co-create an emotional legacy for friends and families of our patients facing death. We help the combat veteran process anger, grief and survivor's guilt. We bear witness to the joy a parent feels as their autistic child emerges from their shell.

It seems to me that in the Information Age, we have access to an overwhelming amount of images and data from anywhere on this planet and beyond. People are losing their ability to effectively deal with their own emotions. So many turn to drugs, alcohol, gambling, sex, food...anything to try to deal with the overload. People stuff their emotions, afraid to see what is really there. And why not? 

Things are scary as hell out there. Let me keep my tunnel vision on my Facebook status and my Candy Crush level and my Instagram followers and please, please don't make me look! 

We, as music therapists can act as emotional shamans for our patients/clients/communities. 

We can ride our sacred drums into that mysterious and scary world of emotions, with courage, and bring back the wisdom that lies there for those we serve. Music opens the door to some potentially uncomfortable things for our clients. But it opens the door gently. It offers a warm hand and says, "It's okay. You're not alone anymore."

I can't count the number of times I played one song for someone, and then the person started to talk. They would tell me their stories. They would tell me about their fears around their current health challenges. They would share their concern for their grandsons and granddaughters in the military. They would speak fondly of their recently passed life partner and how they used to go to all the dances. They began to process their emotions because music opened the door for them.

We are the facilitators of those experiences. You'd better be damn sure you are bringing your "A" game every day. That means taking care of your mind/body/spirit. Yes, the responsibility is THAT important.

We walk where others have forgotten how to. We offer a non-threatening way to peek around the corner at the emotions that lay unattended to. In a sense, the non-ordinary reality we walk in is simply the landscape of emotions. Fear has taken over the thinking of so many these days and the skills to deal with emotions are being replaced by mind numbing entertainment and poor quality food, that we gorge ourselves on in hopes of receiving adequate nutrition and medicating those emotions we've forgotten how to process.

The landscape of music therapy is changing my friends. This is not the profession E. Thayer Gaston wrote about. We need to become more. The world needs us to become more. We need to be healers, and peacemakers and revealers of core truths and...emotional shamans.

I wonder if the Holy Grail of masters level entry will even be sufficient as the landscape continues to change?

Work very hard. Your clients/patients/communities deserve no less.

But remember that it doesn't come for free. 

Take care of yourself, or you won't be taking care of anyone else.

It Didn't Come for Free

I just watched this video of Ethan Hawke talking about depression in the creative arts. He speaks about the work of Robin Williams, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and River Phoenix. The phrase that Ethan says that really caught my attention is

It didn't come for free.

This phrase reminds me that as music therapists, we need to take care of ourselves. Another phrase I learned early in my career reminds us

If you don't take care of yourself, you can't take care of anyone else.

This rings true for anyone in a service profession. We choose this work because we want to help people. We can't do that if we're a mess on the inside. Eckhart Tolle says we need to take care of our inner space. We must pay attention to what is going on inside of us so things don't get out of control.

What we do as music therapists, it doesn't come for free. As I read once, "there is a price for greatness."

It doesn't come for free.

Take care of yourself, on every level.