I wrote them for my thesis at New York University. They were based on the model of music therapy that I had set up for the nursing home where I worked.  The page is titled: Twelve Premises of the Model. They are written in spaces created out of a circle—a mandala—so none is more important than any other.

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See each person whole—also yourself—also the setting.

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Make contact with each person, musical if possible.

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Be alert for change within the person.

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Be aware of the long-term nature of the work.

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Use large groups to accomplish goals, gather information, do individual work within.

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Use small groups to target problems and populations.

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Work on your attitude about aging and death.

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Use individual work to end isolation and to work with persons who appear to be dying.

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Build a music history with each person.

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Maintain two balances—your time and energy; the kinds of work you do.

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Stay aware of the reality of deterioration.

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Find a song of connection.

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It’s a little bit interesting to read that list now, thinking not of working in a nursing home but of living my life at age 79. A lot of them still work.

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Agnes and I wrote a song together in the nursing home where I worked. The words were these:

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I’m never really alone, I’m never really alone.

There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.

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Sometimes I feel really lonely,

Sometimes I feel really left.

Sometimes I feel so very sad—

Then I remember, I remember that

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I’m never really alone, I’m never really alone.

There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.

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I jumped to a conclusion with this song. And my conclusion was that Agnes felt left because she had been left in the nursing home. She and I never talked about it. I just believed that that was the reason she felt so alone.

On a summer vacation to Cuddyhunk Island, the friend I was visiting and I accompanied a woman in her 90’s on a boat to the mainland. She was not feeling well and her family thought she needed to be in a hospital. As we passed time I told her some of my stories and told her about Agnes and sang the song for her.

When I came to the line “sometimes I feel really left,” this woman took my arm just as Agnes had done and said, “Oh yes—that’s so true.” I finished the song and asked her to tell me about the truth of it. She said, “I am constantly feeling left as my friends and family members die and leave me.” I told her about my assumption and she said, “Oh no—I feel sure that that woman—was her name Agnes?—yes, I feel sure that Agnes was tired of saying goodbye to those she knew and loved and sometimes she felt alone and left.”

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As I wandered the halls of the nursing home where I worked, one of the things I often did was to stop and create a song with a resident. One day I came upon a woman sitting in the hallway and crying out in distress. I knew she was often confused and sometimes disruptive. I walked toward her with my guitar, saying, “Agnes, what’s the matter?” She looked at me and said, “Oh I don’t know. I’m never really alone.”

I said, “That sounds like the first line of a song. Let’s write it together,” and I sang those words twice. “I’m never really alone. I’m never really alone.” And then I stopped and said, “But Agnes, why not? Why aren’t you ever really alone?” Agnes looked around and said, “There’s always somebody here.” I said, “Perfect—it’s even the right rhythm—listen,” and I sang the third line of the song. Then I said, “We’ll end with the line we started with,” and sang it.

Now we had the chorus and I invited her to sing with me the four lines: I’m never really alone; I’m never really alone. There’s always somebody here, and I’m never really alone.”

We wrote a verse together and I asked her to tell me if the line I wrote was true. I sang, “Sometimes I feel really lonely.” And then I paused for a second and then went on with, “Sometimes I feel really left.” At that point Agnes reached for my arm and said, “That’s it—that’s how I feel.” I smiled and nodded and continued singing, “Sometimes I feel so very sad—then I remember, I remember,” and we were back to the chorus again. Agnes and I sang that song together for a number of years. It became our song of connection.

(Part 2 of this story continues tomorrow. Agnes’ name has been changed.)

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When I was in the Masters program at New York University in music therapy, each semester I was required to be a part of a music therapy group. Peter Jampel was the music therapist for my group. The only homework was to keep a log and turn it in each week, and receive back the log you had turned in the week before with Peter’s comments.

One week in connection with something that had happened in group, I wrote out in my log the story of being taken to the Indianapolis Symphony when I was ten or eleven by my mother. Fabian Sevitsky was the conductor. I loved the concert and was enjoying the last piece, when a woman got up and started to quietly leave. Sevitsky rapped with his baton on his music stand and the orchestra stopped. So did the woman. Sevitsky turned to face her and said with his heavy accent, “You do not leave when Sevitsky is conducting.” She slid into a seat and sat down. He turned to face the orchestra again, and they resumed playing to the end of the piece.

I turned my log in with that story. The next week as I turned in another log, I received the one back with the Sevitsky story. I was always eager to read Peter’s written comments. I was walking along the street reading, and beside that story he had written, “If she had had more ego strength she would have just kept walking.” I almost shouted out loud. I did raise my fist and said “YES!”

It had never, ever occurred to me that she could have done that. Whether it’s polite to leave a concert early was not the point on that evening near the University. It just was somehow exciting to me that she could have kept walking!

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