Even as a kid, I knew that music had
power over me. When I was frustrated, I could play the piano and in a
matter of time my frustrations were diminished. As a volleyball coach, I
sometimes used music to fire my team up -- and learned during one unnecessary
loss that it was possible to get them too fired up! As a schoolteacher, I
occasionally incorporated my dulcimer into lessons; I'm sure the unusual nature
of the lesson helped it to be more memorable, but I'm equally sure that the
music itself created a positive atmosphere that lasted for days.
I have performed music in different
professional capacities since I was in my teens. However, until I began
doing gigs of a more intimate nature -- a nursing home, perhaps, or a bookstore
or an art fair -- I did not have much of a chance to observe the effect of my
music on others. One of my most cherished memories is that of a a nursing
home resident, a former dancer for Bob Hope's USO tours who was seemingly lost
in the grip of Alzheimer's, responding to a lively jig set with a little
wheelchair dance -- the nursing home added music to her therapy as a result.
It was the recognition of the
soothing power of music -- and the dulcimer in particular -- that was the
impetus behind the recording of Celtic Heart. For a couple of
years I'd be playing my heart out on one of the slow airs like "Crested
Hens" (from The Celtic Ray) or "Jock O' Hazeldean" (from A
Celtic Heritage) and a massage therapist or yoga instructor would comment,
"That music would be so perfect for my practice." But then I
would play another cut from the CD -- say a rousing reel like "Sound Of
Sleat" or "Whiskey 'Fore Breakfast" -- and the response would
be, "So pretty, but much too upbeat for my purposes. Why don't you
record a CD of all 'slow stuff' for people like me?" So with a
little research I prepared a body of music that mostly fit several
important guidelines: the basic pulse of the music must be slower than the
average adult's resting heart rate, the arrangements must not be too
"busy," the tunes should not be associated with familiar songs.
The first person to derive benefit
from Celtic Heart was, in fact, my own mother. Recording took
place in February (2006); in mid-April, my mother suffered a slight stroke that
had been triggered by a massive infection that, due to many complications,
would prove to be untreatable. When I went to see her that April, I took
my demo copy of Celtic Heart to share with her. She loved
"Danny Boy" (my only nod to commercial marketing) of course but said
she liked the sweet music overall. And I got a chance to see its calming
effect on her, as I was with her two months later on the day she died.
The hospice workers had been using Celtic Heart, along with Be Thou
My Vision, to soothe her beyond morphine's capacity to ease her constant
pain. Though she spent most of that last day in a coma, I know she was
aware of my presence and I know she was responding positively to the
music. When she heard the melody of a favorite hymn (from Be Thou My
Vision), her expression changed subtly. And when she heard the
slightly discordant passage that appears -- briefly -- on Celtic Heart,
she became slightly agitated. What a privilege to be with her on that
day! ... and what a privilege to feel that I had made some positive
contribution to her care.
I am commenting on this topic at
this particular time because it was brought to mind in two separate episodes
this past Saturday. In one, a young mother wheeled her eight-month old
baby into my booth and asked me to play. My choice was "Crested
Hens." The baby's expression visibly softened and she sighed in
relaxation several times. When I stopped playing and started to converse
with the mother, the baby began to wail -- and she immediately calmed when I
began playing ("Inis Oirr") again!
The second -- even more powerful --
incident actually began unfolding early in the day, as a couple came by to
listen a while and look at CDs. Some time later, they came by with an
older woman who was confined to a special wheelchair -- likely she had been the
victim of a stroke or other serious neurological trauma. She was convulsing
uncontrollably, so I focused my energies into playing as steadily and sweetly
as I possibly could. Amazingly, her tremors eased and finally ceased
altogether as she listened. It was a powerful and humbling experience.
And if I were not already a true
believer in "the healing power of music" -- I certainly would be now.
