Soundtrack

My life has a soundtrack. 

This used to concern me; I worried the roots were pathological – a type of musical schizophrenia.  But while schizophrenics hear voices in their heads, I hear melodies, harmonies, bits and pieces of sonatas and symphonies.  I cannot choose the music – it travels in and out of my head as dreams and nightmares do; connected to my state of mind, but not sensitive to my wishes.

I cannot remember a time when I didn’t live and breathe to musical accompaniment. I would love to say that I was simply born with music in my soul, but my mother is a pianist and piano teacher, and I imagine I spent my time in the womb sucking my thumb as I listened to Chopin, as close to the piano keys as an unborn child can be.  Throughout my childhood, our house was home to a never-ending performance: my mother’s piano, my father’s recorder, my piano and cello, my brother’s violin.  When no one was practicing or teaching, recorded music was piped through speakers throughout the first floor.  To this day I enter the kitchen, or walk into my classroom, and reach for my iPod, searching for just the right accompaniment to my mood.  In moments of relative quiet, with no live music, iPod or radio nearby, my head takes over, providing me with its own internal soundtrack.  I wake up each morning with a melody in my head, and go about my day wondering which phrase or bit will next accompany me on my travels. 

As a child, I remember framing my personal soundtrack in the supremely egocentric and dramatic format of an autobiographical movie.  I watched myself live on the large screen, and narrated my actions and thoughts silently, in the third person. 

Scene: Girl’s bedroom, circa 1972.  Cue soft strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence:”  

Narrator:  “She emerges from under the covers after hours of reading in the dark, turns off her flashlight, and spends hours lying awake, staring at the floor and trying to convince herself that the soft patch of light from the street lamp outside is not hot, and will not burst into flames.”

I may no longer imagine my life on the big screen, (though one could safely argue that writing this blog is just as self-absorbed as narrating my relatively uneventful childhood in the third person).  But my soundtrack is still with me, reflecting my moods and shaping my thoughts, day in and day out. 

This morning I woke up to the Gavotte from Bach’s Sixth Cello suite in my head.  It is a spritely and playful piece, but today it felt and sounded fractious and intrusive, as if played by a small child on a shrill violin.  My mood was cranky and irritable: I had a headache, needed caffeine, and was hung-over from a long rehearsal and a rather large celebratory glass of port after the Health Care Bill passed.  The strident Gavotte fit my fractured mood, and nourished it well past the restorative coffee and Advil.  The bits and pieces on my soundtrack have shifted throughout the day: part of Saint-Saens’ Third Symphony crept in while I scrubbed potatoes; Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter kept time as I folded laundry; I craved and found Andrew Bird’s “Oh No” on my iPod to soothe me as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes.   As eclectic and varied as these pieces are, they all reflected facets of my mood, their presence as comforting and nurturing as an empathetic friend.

The soundtrack library of my brain is my personal history: each piece has been culled from forty-six years of listening and playing.  When a song first speaks to me, I explore it, looking for its moments of wonder and grace. I play it over and over, unraveling the layers and committing them to memory.  (This habit of playing of favorite songs over and over caused my poor parents much anguish, particularly when I expanded my repertoire to include music written after 1940.  They still cringe when they hear the sounds of “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.”)    Playing in an orchestra, I am regularly forced to dissect musical creatures that are not of my choosing, de-feathering and deboning until they are laid bare.  Sometimes I am surprised by what lies underneath: there are pieces of music that I come to love only after deconstructing them to their simplest elements (Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the left hand).  Other times I am disappointed: though I love Tchaikovsky, it only took me one rehearsal to conclude he probably should have thrown out his first symphony with the proverbial first pancake.  Unfortunately, once I have practiced and played a piece, it becomes part of my permanent soundtrack repertoire whether I like it or not, ready to be burped up into my brain without a moment’s notice.

One of the nice things about being married to a musician is that you can ask, “So what voices do you have going through your head right now?” and know that you will not be driven to the nearest mental health facility in search of treatment.  Larry says he does not have the continual soundtrack I do (I allow that the extent to which my brain sings is somewhat extreme), but he can relate, and often trade tunes with me.  During the week before an orchestra concert, we spend hours in dress rehearsals, going over and over our music.  Usually for several days after the performance, we cannot get various tunes and phrases out of our heads.  “Guess which piece I’m stuck with right now!” is a typical conversation starter, and we joke by singing certain intrusive passages in each other’s ears like insistent mosquitoes until one of us cries, “Stop!”

Soundtrack companionship also has its humorous moments.  I remember well one romantic night in bed; candles, lingerie, background music from our local classical radio station.  Just as events picked up speed, the radio began playing Brahms’ Hungarian Dance #5.  The rhythm, intensity and somewhat clichéd drama of the music synced so perfectly with the action that it became suddenly wildly ridiculous to both of us, and we burst out laughing in unison, Larry collapsed on top of me, with tears running down our faces.

There are moments of pure joy in my daily soundtrack that I cannot capture in words.  I’ve tried to put them in a poem, but end up tossing cliché-riddled lines aside in frustration.  It’s a moment of musical synchronicity: when the shape of the melody and the blending of the harmonies and the rhythm merge into something magical.  I am able to find one such moment today, even in all my irritable crankiness, as I listen to Bach’s Chaconne for Violin from Partita #2.  The song in my head ruptures free, and bleeds into my soul.  It is a moment of joy and of grace and of wonder, and I cannot imagine my world without it. 

Mean Girls

I have a confession to make.  A couple of weeks ago, I acted like a Mean Girl. 

I had been discussing one friend with another, and we had agreed that a certain trait of hers bothered both of us.  Now in my mind, this in itself is not a Mean Girl act.  We weren’t calling the mutual friend names, we weren’t making fun of her, or saying we didn’t like her – we were simply agreeing that we both found this particular quirk of her personality hard to take.  The act of two people agreeing that a third person can be hard to take is not a Mean Girl act.  It is a conversation that happens all over the world, all the time, and throughout time.  It is a conversation between parents regarding a daughter, daughters regarding a parent, colleagues regarding a boss, students regarding a teacher, prostitutes regarding a senator…  it’s human, and it isn’t mean.

I became a Mean Girl when I made a snide, in-the-know reference to this mutual friend’s behavior on my friend’s Facebook page.  Once it became a joke at her expense, and behind her back, it became something else.  I was, at that moment, being unkind.

The next day at work, my friend, referring to my snide post, remarked, “I didn’t know you were a Mean Girl!”  I was slightly taken aback, but figured I deserved it.  What I said was meant to be funny, and to make her laugh, but was snarky, and it made me uncomfortable to think of it in that light.

The reality is that we are all capable of being nasty at someone’s expense, and I imagine there are very few of us in this world who don’t resort to it at one time or another.  Turning someone else’s irritating behavior into an excuse for shared humor with a friend not only helps relieve some of the frustration; it solidifies your relationship with the friend, which thrives on the shared experience.  

But the fact that we all do it doesn’t make it right.

I used to belong to an Internet forum for parents of twins.  Actually, the forum was open to a larger community: twins themselves, relatives of twins, those who had lost a twin, or were expecting twins.  I had never thought of myself as the type to join a group about anything – I am not, by nature, a “joiner,” and my tolerance for belonging to large groups of people is low.   But I was thirty weeks pregnant, had just topped 200 pounds, and had been relegated from my job as a teacher to lying supine on my living room sofa.  The Internet was a necessary diversion from too many Discovery Channel movies about traumatic births, and an overdose of novels.  Voila, here was a virtual “room” filled with people – most of them women - who were either lying on the sofa like me, or dragging themselves about exhausted, dealing with multiple infants and children.

So I happily read and responded to posts in the Expecting Forum, avidly drinking in all the birth stories and doctors visits. I frequented the “Corn,” a more restricted site where conversations turned away from parenting to more topical and even controversial issues, and the debate was vigorous, often interesting, and occasionally dramatic.  Debates raged over politics, current events, religion, science; arguments got occasionally heated, but were rarely dull.

I was intrigued by the diversity of opinions on the forum, which was made up of women (and a few men) from a variety of backgrounds, religious beliefs, and areas of the world.  How fascinating to see where the commonalities are, and where the differences lie! I developed respect and admiration for a number of people: those who could argue a point of view eloquently, those who weren’t afraid to be the one opposing voice on an issue, those who were willing to share their thoughts openly.  Those who, even when arguments got particularly volatile, could keep their anger to the issue at hand, and not degenerate into name-calling and other disrespectful verbal attacks.  I admired Cathy, a scientist by both nature and profession, who would fight an anti-evolution argument tooth and nail, but always keep her manners about her.  And Renée, who wrote beautifully, with such spirit and wisdom and knowledge, and could not be intimidated from defending her point of view.  Carolyn Ann – a twin himself, and one of the few men on the board, was often intimidating in his intelligence and the way he attached himself to an argument like a bulldog on an old sneaker, and exasperated me virtually to tears when I disagreed with him, but he became one of my favorite posters for his intellect, passion and perceptiveness.  Despite frequently contrasting views on issues, Cathy, Reneé and Carolyn Ann shared an essential humanity: they knew how to keep a discussion politic, and not personal.  No name-calling, no backstabbing, no excluding or attacking someone personally.  When the discussion ended, no matter how passionate (or even sanctimonious) the posts became, the respect and the shared humanity were still there.

I participated in the twin forum for about three years: from those initial weeks on bed rest through the spring before Rachael and Chloe’s third birthday.  I still look back on those early days fondly: for a non-joiner, it was a successful “joining.”  It got me writing again, and I ended up adding a blog to the forum, and challenged myself to share my thoughts and experiences.  As an atheist who really hadn’t examined her beliefs too closely in years, I explored the religions and philosophies of other members, and was able to define my own beliefs more clearly as I understood and appreciated theirs.

Over time, however, I found myself becoming increasingly disillusioned with the direction the forum was taking.  I was irritated at the number of topics that cycled over and over, and degenerated into the same vituperative arguments each time.  I became aware that there were cliques of members ganging up on those they didn’t like or agree with. Some moderators worked hard to keep things both respectful and interesting: others seemed to be fonder of slapping certain members on the wrist for strong opinions.  Name calling, exclusion, backbiting: it all began to smell like junior high school, and I no longer had the desire to be there.  I was reminded that Mean Girls grow up, and that we often hold on to patterns of social behavior that are not so pretty.

Carolyn Ann left after being called a murderer for his pro-choice stance.  Renée, who seemed to know how to take regular breaks from the forum to pace herself emotionally, was on another break, and I missed her wisdom.  Cathy, tired of arguing the existence of dinosaurs to anti-evolutionists, gave up on the Corn.  Others I respected continued to participate, but I found myself too frustrated to continue, and quietly bowed out.   I’m sure my conclusions at the time were irritatingly sanctimonious, but whatever the experience had become, it no longer worked for me.  “If you can’t join ‘em, leave ‘em,” I decided, and I worked to push the whole experience out of my mind.

Last month I received an email from a member of the twin forum – one I had not known well, but had respected.  Some former members had started a new forum: by invitation only.  By inviting participants they felt would contribute productively, they could build a forum that would allow members greater freedom to express themselves, with fewer rules and less control by the moderators.  In addition to the twin aspect, many of the members were atheists, and shared thoughts about religion and society that resonated for me.

It took me a few days to decide to join – I no longer missed the other forum, and truly didn’t have the time for something new.  But, flattered, I ultimately decided to participate, and looked eagerly through the boards and topics, surprised at how pleased I was to see various names I remembered and respected from the old days.  Slowly I began to work my way back in to the routine, re-learning the posting and formatting, the quoting and the linking.  I was so please to see Renée on board, and to reconnect with other members as well.  A provocative quote from the blog of another member I respected (Anne: “If the desire to write is not accompanied by actual writing, then the desire must be not to write.” Hugh Prather) got me thinking about writing again, and I once again began blogging as well.

As I searched through the boards to familiarize myself with the lay of the land, I began to fill in some of the blanks.  This new spinoff forum, I learned, came about as a result of dissatisfaction with the other twin forum.  Clearly, there was a lot of upset and anger over situations and arguments that had happened over there, and a lot of unhappiness with many members.  I attributed the proliferation of angry comments, snide remarks, and multiple put-downs directed at certain members of the “other” board, to a situation that I could not understand: I wasn’t there, and it wasn’t fair for me to judge either the level of anger or its method of release.

But over time, it has grown to bother me more and more.  Interesting and provocative topics are often ignored in favor of multiple pages of rants and complaints about people, and mocking paragraphs about their opinions and beliefs.  There are members who work hard to keep the forum interesting, and who post intriguing topics for discussion.  But I feel too much of the energy and spirit of the board is devoted to angry responses to posts and people on the “other” twin board.  I’m sure that each and every one of the members on the board would look in the mirror, and believe that they have every reason to complain and be angry.  But to this outsider, the tenor of this forum has become every bit as uncomfortable as the other one: just in a different way. 

We are all Mean Girls at times.  I have resorted to muttering unkind comments about a colleague, and then felt uncomfortable about it afterwards, knowing that I have crossed a line by possibly skewing someone else’s perception of the colleague in the process.  Larry and I leave orchestra rehearsals each week frustrated and disillusioned, and spend the drive home (and hours afterwards) criticizing our conductor: a process which quickly degenerates into gratuitous snarkiness, yet somehow, doesn’t feel like it crosses a line.  Is it because our anger remains with the two of us?  If we share it with one friend, or group of friends in the orchestra, does it become unfair?  Or is it only unfair if it is shared with those who might not agree with us?

 I don’t have answers, but I’d like to believe that as adults, we try to draw the line so that our frustrations get shared and our anger gets vented without losing our respect for each other in the process.

Babies Having Babies

Scene: The dinner table.  

Characters: Rachael, Chloe, Mommy and Daddy.  Gretchen missed this one due to ballet class, unfortunately.

Chloe: “Mommy, I want a new baby, now.  When can I get a new baby?”

Rachael: “Yeah, when can we each get a new baby?”

Mommy:  “Not for a long time, not until you grow up.  Then you can have a baby of your own.”

Chloe: “But I want a new baby now.  Please can you get me one now?”

Mommy: “I can’t get you a baby, Chloe.  Mommy’s too old.  I can’t have babies any more.”

Daddy: “You guys are the end of the line.  No more babies.”

Rachael (frowning): “What is the end of the line?”

Daddy: “It means you are the last two.  No more of you.”

Chloe: “Well, I want a baby now.  Please get it for me.”

Mommy: “You’re going to have to wait until you grow up for one.  Then you can have a baby of your own.”

Chloe: “I don’t want to have one.  I want you to get it for me.”

Mommy: “Why don’t you want to have one of your own?”

Chloe: “Because I don’t want them to cut me open and take it out.  So you have to do it for me.”

Rachael: “I want one too.  Hey, I have an idea, Chloe!  Mommy can have a baby and give it to me, and Daddy can have a baby and give it to you!”

Chloe: “Yes, you can each give us a baby!  Mommy will give hers to me, and Daddy can give his to Rachael!”

Rachael: “No, I want Mommy to give hers to me, and Daddy to give his to you, Chloe.”

(Argument ensues about which parent will have which baby to give to which twin.  Mother distracts with question.)

Mommy: “Can Daddies have babies?”

Chloe: “Yes!”

Mommy:  “All by themselves?  Can they carry them in their tummies?

Chloe: “Yes! No, I mean.  I forgot.  I think… you have to help him.”

Rachael: (frowning) “How come you can’t each have one?”

Mommy: “You need a mommy and a daddy to make a baby.” 

(Note: This Mommy apologizes for the politically and socially incorrect explanation.  She will ultimately make it clear that babies can be made many ways, and that two mommies can have a baby, and two daddies can have a baby – Just like your friend Natalie, girls! – and daddies can even wear dresses and still make babies and be daddies.  Mommies can even become daddies, and still have babies.  And Mommies can use turkey basters – like the one we use when we roast chickens. This Mommy just needs to start with the concrete family-to-self-connection thing first.  Baby steps. ;-))

Rachael:  “How does that work again?  I forgot.  There’s an egg, and… and…”

Mommy: “A sperm.”

Rachael: “That’s it – a sperm.  (frowns)  How does the sperm get in the egg again?”

Mommy: “It comes out of the Daddy’s penis—“

Chloe (interrupting): “Oh no.  Not that word.  I don’t want to hear that word.  Don’t say that part.”

Mommy: “Why?”

Chloe: “Because I already know that.  I don’t want to hear that word.”

Mommy (ignoring Chloe and turning to Rachael): “The sperm goes from the Daddy’s penis into the Mommy’s vagina, and then finds an egg and goes in it.  Then it grows into a baby.  When you grow up, you can choose to have a baby.”

Rachael (still frowning): “But I don’t want to be cut open.”

Mommy: “Not everybody gets cut open when they have a baby.  I wasn’t cut open when Anna, Ian or Gretchen was born.  I had to be cut open when you were born because there were two of you, and you were really, really big.”

Rachael: “Oh. (relieved)  (then frowns again) “Where does the baby come out again if you aren’t cut open?”

Chloe: “Oh, I know!  Where you go pee.”

Mommy: “Well, actually, it’s just behind where you go pee, in your vagina-“

Chloe: (interrupting) ““Oh no.  Not that word.  I don’t want to hear that word.  Don’t say that part.  Don’t say that vagina word.  I already know that word.”

Rachael: (frowning – goodness, is she always frowning?) “Does it hurt?”

Mommy: “Yes, but then when it’s all done, it stops hurting.”

Rachael: “What does it feel like?”

Mommy: (thoughtful pause)  “It feels like having a really, really big poop.”

(Daddy chokes on his dinner.  Girls dissolve into shrieks of laughter.)  “Mommy said a bathroom word at the dinner table!  Mommy said “Poopy!  Poopy, poop, poop…”

(Time to do the dishes.)