it’s ok to feel good about yourself.

These days, it seems extra difficult to allow myself to feel good about myself. Something seems to kick in, as if my body sees feeling good as something dangerous and scary, and uses some mechanism to prevent me from going down that road.

Example 1:

Parent of a child I work with says something nice to me. I feel validated and encouraged, but also wonder if she is going to be disappointed the next time I make a mistake or fall short of expectations.

Example 2:

Colleague asks for my help at work to observe a challenging child in session and suggest what can be done. I feel honoured to be seen as a resource, but also wonder if they might think I don’t really know what I’m saying or suggesting and that they shouldn’t have asked me for help in the first place.

Example 3:

Friend and I are co-hosting a professional workgroup meeting and I help to summarise a journal article for the discussion. I show her the summary and she says it looks “great” and “wonderful”. It feels good to have my efforts appreciated, but I wonder if she is just refraining from hurting my feelings and thinks I won’t be able to accept constructive comments.

Example 4:

I get an opportunity to run a series of online group sessions for an organization. I am excited and passionate about running the groups to the best of my ability and truly believe I can do it. But I also wonder if the organisers agreed to go with me because only my quotation is the lowest and hence they are obligated to use my services.

And the list goes on.

I know it will take time. To allow my body and mind to learn that it is ok to feel good, it is ok to take pride in what you can do, it is ok to celebrate your achievements and abilities. You’re not going to be seen as arrogant and prideful and over-confident for acknowledging your strengths. It’s ok.

All part of the work in progress, right?

Still Alive, Still Thinking Too Much

I was preparing my bullet journal for August and it suddenly hit me that we are officially in the second half of 2020…

And things are not getting better.

They do not look like they’re going to get better any time soon.

They might even get worse.

And it sounds like a cliched, pathetic attempt to say this, but I guess all we can do is to find what beauty and joy we can in the moment.

 

Something that has been tugging my inner guilt strings – the fact that I am not working full-time at the moment. A recent email exchange with one of the places where I provide services informed me that they still have a “no visitor” policy, which I understand as totally valid and needed.

What surprised me was the sense of relief I felt upon hearing that.

And following that, guilt.

I feel guilty that I feel relieved that I have a legit reason not to be working full time right now.

If that makes sense.

In relation to that, I’ve been thinking a lot (probably too much) about our society and expectations and the social constructs of “full time” vs “part time” work, at least in this part of the world.

For example, why do we feel that someone needs a good, valid reason to be working “part time” (kids, caregiving duties, disability, etc)? I can only imagine the “oh ok…..”s should I tell people that I choose to work “part time” because I enjoy having time for myself, because I feel the stimulation of working “full time” to be too much, because “part time” allows me the balance of being meaningfully engaged without being drained, with enough time to recharge and sustain (ie: Reasons that potentially sound selfish and … *gasp*… lazy) …

Having said all that, I understand that being able to choose this “part time” option without too much stress and worry about finances is a luxury, and that many would probably choose this option if only their commitments and responsibilities allow them to do so.

Which then spirals me into another cycle of guilt for seemingly having it easier than others…

 

 

 

Response Art

AL is a lady with advanced dementia. At the time of writing we have had about 4 sessions together. In this particular one, she had come in with her body tightly contorted. Her hands were clasped to her chest, and her knee was almost reaching her stomach. It did not look comfortable.
Having had several sessions with her, I knew that she liked to listen to softer, soothing music, but did not want to sing. She also did not have particular songs she liked, and seemed ok with improvised melodies over structured chords. We started. I used a motif from a well known song and improvised around that, humming, using vowels, extending and playing around with phrases. A minute or two in, I asked if this was ok. She nodded. She showed she was listening by moving her head and lips to the music, though without verbalising any sound. After about 10 minutes, her leg started to lower itself. Her body looked more relaxed. We continued.

And then –

I heard her!

She was beginning to sing the lines from the song we were improvising around. Her words were clear – it was the exact lyrics. I was stunned, and continued playing the accompaniment while she sang the same lines several times.

And just as suddenly as she had started, she stopped. And went back to closing her eyes, listening.

We continued – and I was happy to note that her overall body posture had become more relaxed by the end. She was no longer tensing her muscles and tightly holding her hands to her chest.

That few seconds of her singing, actively engaging in the music, kept rippling in my mind for days after that. I felt that I had to express it in some form, and hence did an art representation of it.

Sometimes I feel that I just live for moments of connection like these.

 

Her Singing Voice

We were singing the Goodbye Song when we heard it. Her singing voice.

She was going “baaaaaaii~~~!” at every “bye” in the Goodbye Song, while looking straight at me. It took me about 2 rounds of that to realise she was singing.

Before that session, I had only ever heard her vocalise and babble using her baby sounds. It was the first time I heard her use what seemed to be her singing voice – softer, more airy, not in tune but definitely higher than her usual vocal range, as if she was trying to hit a higher note. She seemed to know it was a long note at the end of the phrase, too. As her breath was sustained, the notes would spiral into a descending glissando. In the space in the music after each note, her contribution was mirrored musically, as a validation. To let her know: I can hear you, I can see you, and I am taking your lead in this music we are in together.

Can you imagine what it feels like to hear a child discover her voice for the first time?

It was beautiful.

Rest

So for the first time in my life, I am actually not doing something fully.

For a month or so, at least, I am working… *gasp* part-time.

To be honest this was something that would never have come to me as a feasible idea.

Work part-time? And have… all that free time?! Apart from weekends?! And take home less pay than I already am making?!

But once I made the decision, it felt so right, so why-didn’t-I-do-this-earlier.

“Finally!” I could hear my body saying. “I’ve been trying to tell you for so long!”

OK, buddy. I’m listening to you now.

 

On the first weekday I did not have to go to work, I found the time and motivation to finish an online course I had been putting off. I enjoyed a slow leisurely lunch with the brother. I went cycling and soaked in some Vitamin D and produced some endorphins. The exercise was so beneficial that I felt motivated for the first time in 2 months to compose new musical ideas for sessions! Then I cried and used it as a wonderful opportunity to practice self-compassion.

 

I have no idea what will happen from here.

But let’s see where this journey is going 🙂

Flow

This quote reminded of the term “flow”, described by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (How do we even pronounce that) as:

“A state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience is so enjoyable that people will continue to do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it.”

And these are the 8 characteristics of flow:

1. Complete concentration on the task
2. Clarity of goals and reward in mind and immediate feedback
3. Transformation of time (speeding up/slowing down of time)
4. The experience is intrinsically rewarding
5. Effortlessness and ease
6. There is a balance between challenge and skills
7. Actions and awareness are merged, losing self-conscious rumination
8. There is a feeling of control over the task

Source

 

This prompted me to reflect and examine the frequency with which I currently experience this state of flow in my job (because that’s important to me!).

Yes, when I conduct sessions, I can see how being “in the zone”, having my skills and the challenge at hand being equally matched, seeing the natural and connected engagement with the children, creates the circumstances for flow to take place, which contributes to my perception of meaning and joy.

I suppose it is when we are unable to experience this state of flow in what we do, that the tasks and job may become more tedious and arduous. How do you feel flow in a session with the little boy who is screaming his head off, or with the one who is scratching his peers and everyone is just trying to stop him but making things worse, or with the little girl who is crying because she wants her favourite snack and the teacher is refusing to give in to her?

I think that’s when being able to be in the moment and taking the stance of an observer can really help a lot. Thinking “Wow, this is a difficult situation” instead of “I AM in a difficult situation” can really make a lot of difference in how we react and/or respond to the challenges. It certainly takes practice, and I’m still working on it 🙂

Control and Stuff…

Variables like…

The weather.

The colour of different leaves.

Frequency of waves.

Perspectives of others.

Whether colleagues understand your work (or think that music therapy is about teaching kids how to play instruments *roll eyes*).

Whether a kid will suddenly decide to hit you in the face because he was prevented from licking lotion (haha yes happened yesterday).

 

We probably could take measures to address or pre-empt some things, but still, it would be a lot less painful if we truly accepted that there is an infinity of variables we could not control or address even if we wanted to.

And in a way, living life with that kind of surrender can be quite liberating.

It means I can still do my best, without worrying about what the outcomes say about my abilities or skills, because we cannot control all the variables.
It means I can still strive to improve myself, but be gentle with my own pace and progress, because we cannot control all the variables.
It means I can meet whatever problems I may face head on, without necessarily blaming myself (or others) for their occurrence, because we cannot control all the variables.

 

“The secret of life is… Everything is out of control.”

-Ajahn Brahm

 

Ok.

 

Selection

Meet up with 3 other ex-colleagues on the eve of a public holiday, preparing a cake to celebrate one of their birthdays, and chatting in the living room till 9.30PM – Perfectly fine and enjoyable.

Staying back for an hour to have lunch in the office to welcome new staff, watch them do initiation forfeits, and make small talk – Escapes immediately after workshop session ends.

Meeting up with a friend I have not seen in 2 years, in a foreign country, and spending an entire day together catching up along the beautiful coastline of her country – I can’t wait.

Going on a company-sponsored trip to an offshore island to spend 3 days 2 nights with a planned itinerary, large group outings and games and activities – all in the name of “bonding” – I’d take unpaid leave if I could or had to.

I’m not anti-social.

Just …. selectively social.

A Little Thing

It’s a usual music therapy practice to greet each person in the group individually at the start of the session, and to say goodbye to each individual. It is a way to invite each individual into the group setting, and at the end, to thank them for their contribution to the group.

Well yesterday, I forgot to say bye to each individual kid after a session.

After the group goodbye song, the boys were transited to go toileting, then to go for their outdoor activity.

But one of the little boys decided otherwise – he apparently pulled his teacher back to the classroom, where I was still packing and clearing the area after their session.

I had turned around and there he stood, looking at me, somewhat bashfully.

Unaware of his agenda, I asked “A, what is it?” Not that he could verbalise a reply, but I knew he was capable of communicating through gestures and vocalisations.

When a few more moments had passed without him initiating anything, I looked at the teacher standing at the entrance of the classroom.

“Do you know what he wants?” I asked.

“He wants to say bye.”

BOOM.

It hit me then. Of course. I had forgotten to give each kid their individual goodbye after the session, perhaps unconsciously assuming that the goodbye song was good enough and that it wouldn’t make a difference to them anyway… Apparently it does!

Squatting to his eye level, I said “Bye bye A!” and held out my palm for a high-5. He returned the high-5 immediately, smiled and turned to walk back to his teacher.

Heart melts.

The little things do matter. A lot.

July 2018

So. It has been an eventful month, to say the least.

When I applied for this Friday off from work (about a week ago), I was feeling emotionally drained, fatigued and slightly jaded (even if I did not always show it). It made sense to take some time off, to regather my thoughts and feelings, and to perhaps reconfigure the WHY of what I’m doing.

It all started from 3 Sundays ago, when I received a call from a colleague tearfully telling me that one of our kids was in intensive care and not expected to make it through the next day. The social worker had asked if I would be able to have one more music therapy session with him?

Yes, I said. Of course. We made plans to go down first thing next morning.

I don’t think I had much time to prepare myself for it. I texted a trusted peer and shared my worries about doing the session. My worries about not being able to separate my personal emotions from my role as the therapist in the room. She reassured me that it was ok to show our emotions and that I could try taking deep breadths if it got too much to handle. I wrote about my emotions in my journal. Had some alone time in the morning before work, to ground and steady myself. That was about all the preparation I could do, I think.

The session itself started on an emotional high. Little D, not even 3 years of age, was in a comatose state, kidneys failed, his face swollen and puffed up, with machines and tubes all around him (But then this wasn’t something new, even when he was coming to school he was already surrounded by tubes and machines). It became quite apparent that the music was more for mum than for D. She started crying the moment the strings of the guitar filled the room.

Same chords. Just repeat. Hold the space, I told myself. C – G – F – G – C. Repeat. Mum took a call. Came back. Continued crying.

“We are here… Here with D…” A song to establish our being there. Our presence. Our being together. Humming. A space for comfort. And also because I didn’t trust myself to sing words continuously without breaking down or cracking with emotion.

“Is there anything you’d like to say to him?” I chocked out to mum, after some time of just playing instrumentally. A floodgate of emotions opened as mum verbalised what she seemed to have been keeping in. “You can go and do all the things you couldn’t do here…”, “Mummy has already tried her best, sorry…”, “If you want to go you can go, it’s really ok”… It felt like she needed that space, and perhaps even the presence of people who allowed her to say those things.

Keep playing, keep playing. Don’t stop the music. Hold the space. She needs to let this out. Even though my tears were salty, my nose was dripping grossly, even though my shoulders and fingers were tensed and tired from the continuous plucking.

When she seemed to have finished all she wanted to say… or at least reached a suitable pause… I let the song take over again. To gather. To validate. To comfort.

“Mummy loves you… Loves D…”. “Thank you mummy… for taking care of me.”

A voice for D, perhaps, who has never uttered a word in his life.

Hesitantly, I ask. “Are there… any songs he liked in particular?”

“Not really…” A pause. “Maybe… Can you sing You are my Sunshine?”

And we did.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
when skies are grey
You’ll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

“D, I’m sorry I did not dare sing this song to you because I was afraid I would cry. You will always be my sunshine ok…”

Needless to say we were all emotional wrecks by this time. Yet, it felt like the right moment to wrap up the session.

“Can we sing a goodbye song?” – This, I had not expected.

“You mean the one we always sing in class?”

“Yes that’s fine”

It’s time to say goodbye
Goodbye to D, goodbye
Thank you for your music
And now we say goodbye

 

After we left, we heard that mum had brought D home. And D passed on at home the next morning.

How do I even begin to describe what the journey was like after that experience?

I moved through the world feeling numb, drained and fatigued for the next week or so.

I could not sleep, and woke up early.

I continued sessions but could feel that my heart was nowhere there with the kids in front of me.

I don’t know if it was grief, or emotional exhaustion. Or maybe a combination of both. I didn’t understand how everyone around me, my colleagues – could continue as normal when inside I felt so hollow and empty. I felt isolated – no one else could understand what that space felt like, what it felt like to be holding the space with music and connecting in those moments through song and music. I tell people “It was an emotional session” but that did so little justice to the experience that it became a chore to even try to explain.

Doubts also crossed my mind. Was I being unprofessional by investing too much of my emotions? I should not have allowed myself to get so deep emotionally? Is it a sign of my incompetence as a therapist that I’m unable to handle the emotions when it gets this tough? How do people working in palliative settings do it? Does this mean I’m not suitable to work in palliative settings?

But.

It’s getting better. Even though there were times when I thought it would not.

And I am glad I can honestly say: I’m very thankful for the privilege. For the experience. It has deepened my practice so much. To have been there, with the music, as the music therapist. When I started working in this job, I never imagined that I would get to do a session like that. And now I can look back and see how it has helped me grow, helped me know myself better, helped me truly appreciate what music can do.

The feelings may be difficult, but they can teach us so so much.

And the journey continues.