When I say that music has power in my life, I'm not sure how to express the depth of that statement. Music can change my mood, like magic, no matter what the circumstance. Let me expound upon that and say that music will always have a positive impact on my life, minus one event: Breaking up. Again, the power of music is evident even in this dismal time. The music begins and at first I am lulled by it, as a visit from an old friend but then the lyrics kick in and drown me in rivets of lost love, hope and all those notions that went out the window with the man I lost. This is where I am right now. Life has kicked me temporarily and I am musically down. That said, my love for the Rhythms of life has not diminished, merely on a sabbatical while my heart heals.
Now this is not a blog about my broken heart, it is one desperately trying to explain the necessity I see music should be in everyone's life. I'd like to open a window allowing someone to see inside my heart and mind where music floats. I wonder if mentioning that musicals are Kryptonite to me explains a little more. I cannot pass one down, even if it were a Western (I tend to hate Westerns). Currently, the show Glee is something I look forward to every week. It brings absolute joy to my life as I sit down and allow my ears to drink in the songs, pitches, altos and tenors.
I'm going to take this one final step further. Music is absolute therapy. As a medical professional I am speaking on a very visceral level as well.I wish I could convince the world of its importance. I have many plans that I will pursue via my career in order to accomplish this goal. One such example is fully researching and proving via the dreaded M (math) word and statistics to prove that music can heal emotionally and thereby the human body. I intend to submit this to the hospital that I work for persuading them that music should be wafting from every possible corridor, bathroom or clinic.
Can you imagine how much brighter the world would be if we all danced to our own soundtrack? What if as we walked, we heard theme music, uplifting and encouraging the very best in us? When I feel lonely in public, like I am an ant, amongst the animals, I put in my headset and turn the music on. Immediately, my spirits are not only lifted but in that pure happiness I am reminded that I am not alone. I begin smiling at strangers, wanting them to feel my joy. Sometimes the music transports me to a place in time that brings back a special person in my life. In that moment, I am out of my head and lost in the rhythms of life, as I see it.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Royal Escape
I'm taking a break from deep thought to address this recent phenomenon: The Royal Wedding! Our society...the American one, has become obsessed with it. It's not even our people! Did you know that 80% of "Brits" do not care about this event, even more to the point they oppose it. Because they have to pay for it. Yep, let me repeat, their taxes pay for a certain percentage of this grand wedding. Amongst war, a dying economy, and the general depressive attitude of the common man we are going to stop everything to watch just two people get married in the most posh of circumstance? I believe one might call that escapism. Personally, it feels akin to worship and I am never party to that.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Silence
Have you ever sat still enough to hear the crickets through a house window? Have you ever been in a crowd of people or with your friends, seemingly wanting to talk to you but never noticing you aren't saying a single word back? Can you imagine not speaking to anyone for every second of a twelve hour period? I have and I can tell you it is almost beyond words to describe to you the ... clarity I receive. The most obvious and generalized concept you learn from this speech fasting(yep it's a word) is that people aren't actually listening most of the time anyway. The second most result I found was that the cues given away to understand what someone really feels are derived from non-verbal language the best.
We enjoy talking, especially about ourselves. That doesn't have to translate into being a bad listener every time. It can signify that our lives really are more hectic and busy than ever before. Some of the results I found are as follows: The other person(s) is assuaged with a mere nod of your head when asking one of those rhetorical questions, rather than insisting on real feedback which is an indicator of a good conversation or communication between two people. They might ask, as is the social etiquette, how you are doing and again, a small noise, smile or head nod, convinces them sufficiently they have done their duty in being a good and caring human being. Yes, these are my findings from this little social experiment but under no circumstances do I consider them negative or disheartening, merely another fascinating study of the human psyche.
Now let me speak on the significant value that this project has on me personally. Well, I am not exempt from the behaviors of a person described above so doing this forces me to be a good listener. It reminds me that there is so much to be found in what we don't say, in as much as we do. I am not only listening to what the people say around me, without my own verbal cues interfering but I am noticing body language, voice changes, etc. I don't think any of us, including myself ,are aware of the extent we give away in our facial movements, our body placements, the tone of our conversations. Perhaps we are all so used to not really listening to others that we rely on that fact in hiding our own emotions. Therefore we can convince people of whatever we want to about ourselves and keeping the scary, inside, squishy parts safe and alone. Personally, I don't want to be alone. I want to live among my fellow human beings. I was happy to do this so that I can get out of my own head and realize that we are all suffering because we can't see that we are all the same. The same people with our own set of fears, prejudices and habits.
We enjoy talking, especially about ourselves. That doesn't have to translate into being a bad listener every time. It can signify that our lives really are more hectic and busy than ever before. Some of the results I found are as follows: The other person(s) is assuaged with a mere nod of your head when asking one of those rhetorical questions, rather than insisting on real feedback which is an indicator of a good conversation or communication between two people. They might ask, as is the social etiquette, how you are doing and again, a small noise, smile or head nod, convinces them sufficiently they have done their duty in being a good and caring human being. Yes, these are my findings from this little social experiment but under no circumstances do I consider them negative or disheartening, merely another fascinating study of the human psyche.
Now let me speak on the significant value that this project has on me personally. Well, I am not exempt from the behaviors of a person described above so doing this forces me to be a good listener. It reminds me that there is so much to be found in what we don't say, in as much as we do. I am not only listening to what the people say around me, without my own verbal cues interfering but I am noticing body language, voice changes, etc. I don't think any of us, including myself ,are aware of the extent we give away in our facial movements, our body placements, the tone of our conversations. Perhaps we are all so used to not really listening to others that we rely on that fact in hiding our own emotions. Therefore we can convince people of whatever we want to about ourselves and keeping the scary, inside, squishy parts safe and alone. Personally, I don't want to be alone. I want to live among my fellow human beings. I was happy to do this so that I can get out of my own head and realize that we are all suffering because we can't see that we are all the same. The same people with our own set of fears, prejudices and habits.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I'm Back
Ahhh to feel my fingers stroke the keys yet again...to lay waste to the monsters in my head by casting them into the light upon these pages...I won't allow that silly number, or lack of quantifiers listed under "followers" to control me any longer. Nor will I ache over the fact that my best friend will never read the words that come straight from my heart that only he knew first. I am not going to take the words of one person or even many and let it still my hand. Nothing will keep me from pouring my soul into this medium for this, is my God... this is my religion... my saving grace. Nearly twenty-five years ago it began and who am I to challenge the fates of my true calling?
I was twelve years old. For some reason this was the year that my life seemed to alter the most: I finished 6th grade with a best friend named Allen and during that summer I realized he was a boy--let the bad poetry begin. I met my best friend's cousin, which would be my husband 10 years later--cue the teenage angst plagued upon my college ruled bound paper. I became a woman, as my mother tried to explain without making eye contact in her Catholic way--now throw in some physical incentive when my emotions were screwy and Judy Blume, watch out. My 6th grade teacher, whom I adored, sat me down and said she cared, "what do you want to be when you grow up Catherine and has anyone asked you that?" A nurse was born in that moment--this is what created a large facility's recognized poem and there will be more.
See, every one of those moments stirred inside my heart and mind, sensations I didn't know how to control. I was unable to process them. I was never the girl to talk to my friends candidly. My family was so dysfunctional, I felt more normal than them so scratch that outlet. So there I was laying on my bed, racked with feelings that were threatening to overwhelm when words began appearing in my head. The words ran over my eyes and every fiber of my being as a rainbow does for a child who has seen it for the first time. I searched for help, meaning and I found paper and pen instead.
At first the process was more rudimentary such as random words, brainstorming. A diary was introduced. The words kept speeding through my mind. I wrote some more. Then one day eight lines of the worst poem I ever wrote was produced. Every line roughly detailing my fears of success, failure and just staying alive were represented on that tree that sacrificed itself for my prose. Yes, seldom will you find a "happy" cluttering of words from my fingers because happiness needs no help; it can stand on its own, in its own glory. Give me tears. Give me pain. Sound the trumpets at all the undue stress that remains...that is what you'll find in my words. You will see the manifestation of my soul bearing witness to the atrocities and the fears of my life and everyone or thing that touches it in some way. You will understand that these words are wrenched from my very being in order to make sense of this life, to experience joy again, to ease the burdens that a life worth living finds. If, for some reason you don't understand that then I suggest you put a pen in your hands, or lay your fingers upon the cold keys and tell me what you write about. You just might find something as interesting and shocking as you found my words.
I was twelve years old. For some reason this was the year that my life seemed to alter the most: I finished 6th grade with a best friend named Allen and during that summer I realized he was a boy--let the bad poetry begin. I met my best friend's cousin, which would be my husband 10 years later--cue the teenage angst plagued upon my college ruled bound paper. I became a woman, as my mother tried to explain without making eye contact in her Catholic way--now throw in some physical incentive when my emotions were screwy and Judy Blume, watch out. My 6th grade teacher, whom I adored, sat me down and said she cared, "what do you want to be when you grow up Catherine and has anyone asked you that?" A nurse was born in that moment--this is what created a large facility's recognized poem and there will be more.
See, every one of those moments stirred inside my heart and mind, sensations I didn't know how to control. I was unable to process them. I was never the girl to talk to my friends candidly. My family was so dysfunctional, I felt more normal than them so scratch that outlet. So there I was laying on my bed, racked with feelings that were threatening to overwhelm when words began appearing in my head. The words ran over my eyes and every fiber of my being as a rainbow does for a child who has seen it for the first time. I searched for help, meaning and I found paper and pen instead.
At first the process was more rudimentary such as random words, brainstorming. A diary was introduced. The words kept speeding through my mind. I wrote some more. Then one day eight lines of the worst poem I ever wrote was produced. Every line roughly detailing my fears of success, failure and just staying alive were represented on that tree that sacrificed itself for my prose. Yes, seldom will you find a "happy" cluttering of words from my fingers because happiness needs no help; it can stand on its own, in its own glory. Give me tears. Give me pain. Sound the trumpets at all the undue stress that remains...that is what you'll find in my words. You will see the manifestation of my soul bearing witness to the atrocities and the fears of my life and everyone or thing that touches it in some way. You will understand that these words are wrenched from my very being in order to make sense of this life, to experience joy again, to ease the burdens that a life worth living finds. If, for some reason you don't understand that then I suggest you put a pen in your hands, or lay your fingers upon the cold keys and tell me what you write about. You just might find something as interesting and shocking as you found my words.
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