83. Just Plain Oatmeal

Two things recently intersected on vacation in Ocean City, New Jersey, The first thing was that I finished the book, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind by William Kamkwamba and Bryon Mealer. In it I had read of the near starvation of many people in the African country of Malawi. The second thing was that as my friend Pat visited me in Ocean City, I fixed oatmeal for breakfast and then discovered that there was no milk to have with it.

We ate the oatmeal, complete with some crushed pecans and some dried fruit from a trail mix package. I told her about Malawi and the people starving, and together we recognized that on any morning of that famine, they would have been delighted with our breakfast.

I’m in the process of publishing a book titled Graces to Sing to Tunes You Know, and throughout that book there is a theme of remembering the people who don’t have as much as I do.

Later in that day in Ocean City, I bought more milk. And I did it with gratitude and an awareness that it is evidence of abundance in my life. And somehow I think I will remember that morning of having just plain oatmeal.

82. Coma and Other Conditions—Keep Talking

In my years as a music therapist, I worked a number of times with persons in coma; or persons with brain conditions where they had little response; or with persons who appeared to be dying. Those experiences have convinced me that it’s important to keep talking, to keep singing, to keep touching, to keep relating. I don’t have the medical training to be able to write about different levels of coma, or various brain diseases, or to know what exactly is happening; but I have accumulated stories and convictions of my heart.

One of the things I believe is that frequently the person has lost the ability to communicate. She can’t nod her head to let you know that she hears you. She can’t even smile to encourage you. She can’t respond with her voice to ask you questions or to tell you what she thinks. But I believe she is absolutely there and inside of herself she may in fact be nodding her head, smiling at you, and delighted that you are still present, communicating with her.

I think we depend on feedback. I want to know that you hear me. I want the nod that tells me you’re following what I’m saying. And when I look at you and see no expression, it scares me. And that’s the hurdle that I encourage people to jump over and simply to believe that that person is there.

I have stood beside a bed with family members who are distraught that Mom is no longer communicating with them. We have talked together. I have sung one of Mom’s favorites and she raises her hand, and the family is relieved.

I entered a room once where a man was in the bed and staring at a corner of the room. His eyes did not move when I spoke. I talked to him of our journey together there in that nursing home, of the songs that we had sung together. I sang several of them. His eyes never moved from the corner that he watched. Finally I called him by name and told him that I wanted to sing one of our favorites. I said, “You know, we have sung this song together for a couple of years now. I remember when you sang the harmony and I sang the melody. I want to sing it again,” and I sang it. His eyes still did not connect with mine and they did not waver from the corner. I knew I might not see him alive again so I said, “Hey—thanks for being a friend. I have been so glad to know you,” and I bent over and kissed his cheek. As I stood up, preparing to leave the room, his head moved, his eyes looked at me, and his lips pursed into a silent kiss. I said, “I’ll take one of those.” I bent over him again and he kissed my cheek. His eyes went back to the corner.

It convinced me—that experience—that no matter whether a person can pull together that parting kiss or not, they are absolutely there, and I will keep talking and caring.

81. Control

I wrote a song in 1976 that was supposed to be a reminder to me about control and it has been just that kind of reminder. It tells me that oftentimes control is an illusion anyway. It tells me that I can be more relaxed, more peaceful, if I can let go and not try to manage absolutely everything and everyone around me. Here are the words:

It’s so hard to let go, It’s so hard to lose control,

To let someone else do it. To let someone else plan it.

To let someone else mess it up and say a proper “damn it.”

It’s alright if you don’t have your finger in every pie there is,

You don’t have to earn the plaque that says you’re a super-duper whiz,

It’s so hard to let go, But when you do, then you know

that you don’t have to have control.

—

It’s so hard to let go, It’s so hard to lose control.

You don’t have to manage each step of the dance,

Instead you can stand back—let others take a chance.

If you have to control everything that there is,

then the people around you are torn.

Take a breath, let it go, and you slowly can know

that the people around you are born.

You don’t want to control, for you smother the soul

of each person that you love.

—

It’s so hard to let go, It’s so hard to lose control.

The burdens you carry are bad news for you.

They keep you from being. They split you in two.

So release, shed them off and discover the freedom there is

when you finally can see,

When you stop the controlling you then can be present

and you—at last—can be.

It’s not hard to let go—If in you, you can know

that you don’t gain by control

© Copyright 1976 Ann Freeman Price

80. Exploration of Normal

Normal is a setting on a dryer. I heard that somewhere. And I need to write it again: Normal is a setting on a dryer.

Sometimes I get to questioning myself and wondering about what I do. I get to thinking: Is this normal? Is this right? Is this the usual? Is this the accepted? Do most people think this way? Should I think this way?

And in those wondering times, I need to remember that normal is a setting on a dryer. I think Jesus didn’t call us to be normal. He called us to be extraordinary!!!

79. How My Brain Works

I have written now for many years and I’ve discovered something that I think is true about how brains work, or at least how my brain works. When I have a deadline, especially one with a given theme, I look it up several weeks before the deadline and read it over. That is my process for putting it into my brain.

Then I go on about my life doing other things. This is my mulling over time. I strongly believe that in this time, my brain is working. Sometimes I’ll start to work on the poem or the prose and it’s not there. There’s nothing that clicks. So I let it go again.

And then before the deadline (often not very long before the deadline), I try again and it is there. I write, I revise, I come back to it the next day, I revise again and I send it off.

I depend on that brain working while I am engaged elsewhere—and I think my brain comes through for me, just about every time.

78. A Poem On Pronouns

I have a college friend from Butler University in the 1950’s and her name is Myra Britton. Through the years we have stayed in touch, she and I and her husband, Don. The three of us saw each other in July of 2009 and to my surprise in early August, I received a letter that Don had died quite suddenly just weeks after I saw them.

I had another friend, Cathie, just an hour away who had lost her husband in May of 2009. I visited that friend fairly often and stayed in touch with Myra through phone calls and after a year or so I received a poem from Myra which struck me as being true to both of these women and to many others. With Myra’s permission I share it here:

—

Suddenly

my grammar changes

because us

becomes me

Ours becomes mine

we to I and our to my—

a love lost

—–

—–Myra Britton (2010)

© Copyright 2010 by Myra Britton

—

It has helped me to know from Myra this reality of a “love lost.”

77. Story of “My Words”

A number of years ago, I worked with a pastor where mid-way through the week I would ask him what he was preaching about. He would give me a scripture and a general direction on where he was going. And I would create a song to go with the sermon.

We didn’t do it every week, but one week when I had some time, I tried to reach him and couldn’t. I checked with the church secretary and got the scripture and the sermon title and mulled it over. I wrote the song “My Words” and on Saturday called him and told him what I had done. I said, “Let me read these to you, and if they don’t fit, it’s o.k. because I have the song anyway and it will come in handy some time and some place.” I read the words over the phone to him and it was quiet. He didn’t respond for a few minutes and then finally said, “It’s uncanny. It fits.”

—

My Words

—

When the words come from my mouth,

They are let loose upon the air,

And they proclaim where I am standing,

They are my words. They are my words.

—

And my voice is full of power,

My language moves from me to you,

These words can hurt or be the healing,

They are my words. They are my words.

—

As I live, so shall I speak,

And as I speak, I am revealed,

The words are clear and pierce the shadows,

They are my words. They are my words.

—

© Copyright 1981 by Ann Freeman Price

—–

Two learnings from this. One is that often I can rely on intuition. I can trust and at least part of the time it works out. The other is that I can pay attention to the poem itself for it speaks a wisdom that I forget sometimes when I let my words run amuck.

76. Lighten Up

There is an Irish proverb which says “A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor’s book.” I believe that—plus the admonition to lighten up, but I have a hard time implementing both. I remember once driving back from Boston and listening to a cassette tape of the book, Anatomy of An Illness—As Perceived by the Patient by Norman Cousins. When Norman Cousins was faced with an incurable disease, he found a physician that worked with him in using humor, courage and tenacity to beat the odds. As I listened to the tape which had many humorous anecdotes, I found myself driving along and laughing uproariously. I still remember that event as being one of the times that I totally enjoyed the laughter.

A lot of the time, I get bogged down in seriousness, and forget that healing potion and how much fun it is.

75. Read the Psalms and Write

I did a workshop once with Kathleen Norris, and have subsequently read a number of her books—Dakota: A Spiritual Geography; The Cloister Walk—and others, and in these books and in person she talked about taking retreats in a Benedictine abbey and finding there the practice of singing the psalms.

She inspired me to read through the psalms—one at a time—day after day, not three times a day as they did in the abbey, but at least one a day (or in the case of Psalm 119 reading over several days).

And finally a couple of years ago I decided to write a shadorma for each psalm. A shadorma is a Spanish poetry form of six lines—the first line has three syllables; the second line has five syllables; the third line has three syllables; the fourth line has three syllables; the fifth line has seven syllables; and the sixth line has five syllables. Some of the long psalms I would divide up and write a few shadormas for them. For instance Psalm 119 is divided into six parts and consequently has six shadormas.

What I discovered is that it helped me focus on that particular psalm and see what spoke to me that day from that reading. I think it’s possible (I haven’t done it) but it’s possible that if I wrote a shadorma on Psalm 53 four different times during the year that I would end up with four different shadormas—because my focus might be different. Now I have a complete set of shadormas to read with the psalm each day of the year.

Here’s my shadorma for Psalm 4:

answer me

and hear my prayer

you have filled

up my heart

and made me sleep in safety

God hears when I call

74. I Love Your Necklace

I can’t remember who taught me this simple concept—when you get a compliment, accept it graciously. You know the times when someone says, “Oh, I love your necklace,” and you’re a little embarrassed at the compliment so you say, “Oh it’s nothing.” In that moment you have discounted the compliment and the person who made it and let that person know that you’re not sure they have good judgment.

What I’ve learned is to say, “Oh thank you. My daughter made this for me, and I’ve been wearing it non-stop because I like it so much. It’s a little angel you see made out of a glass bead that when you hang it in the window makes rainbows. Isn’t it great?”