Looking Back as a Navigational Must
Just a few riffs on glory days, my friends, and then I'll sit back down in the here and now with my eyes on the future. I have about three posts in my head right now, and none of them seem to want to materialize on their own, so I shall mash them together freestyle. Cross your fingers my brain is up to the exercise today.
Last weekend I learned that some experiences leave deep marks on us, they carry enough weight to leave indelible traces. Often, people speak of trauma in this way, but you don't regularly hear about it with the hopeful, joyful things in life. This story is about resolutions and realizations of hope. Twenty years ago I found myself on an incredible journey, with a group of amazing people--our small town choirs in Eastern Europe, the Soviet Union (pre and post Coup) and the Baltic States. It was the type of group (and trips) that seems to alter the world itself. Hope is a powerful message, my friends, and it is contagious. So when the chance came to organize a reunion, I knew I would step up and get that done, despite the fact that just the word "reunion" makes me want to itch.
Reunion. It conjures images of aging, rounded has-beens crying into their beer at some dive bar. (If one of you smart asses from Duffy's speaks up, so help me...I'll...hug you again). Sure, we did some of that, but we also remembered the experience together, and how the bond of it carried through the years--linking us together despite such small barriers like time and distance and separate lives. The deep affection I have for each person involved isn't something I know how to express. I'm even at a loss trying to write about it. Thinking of these people turns the word reunion from sandpaper to velvet.
Still, there were so many things I had wanted to say to each of them and could not, because my heart was full. My heart never knows how to speak out loud. I guess that is a good place to start. Music, in my youth, gave me language where I had none. Through song, I was given words to communicate emotions I could never hope to express on my own. As a choir, we learned to sing as one voice through our conductor. Sharon is probably the most influential person in my life aside from a handful of blood relatives. Her vision, her direction, gave a pathway to those things I had inside and didn't understand.
I still remember her being so patient with my Theory of Mind issues (theory of mind boils down to being able to understand that others have their own thoughts, motivations and impressions which are different from your own). I always had difficulty explaining things in words while the ideas were still fresh. I needed to brood on them until they could hatch. So, if I worked on something for the choirs, researched and came up with a solution, I had difficulty understanding that others didn't know what I knew. I still have this problem today, and it takes a lot of effort to remember to fill people in, to remember to communicate it fully and completely. Sharon was the first to help teach me that. I used to react with such frustration 'filling her in', that the smartest woman I know, who I respect and honor more than any other person in my life, used to have to preface her queries to me with: "I'm stupid...please explain to me..." I feel awful about that, but I understand why I put us both in that state now. She was only the first to work with me to have the distinct displeasure of dealing with my irrational frustrations with spoken words and theory of mind.
I told some of my friends that I'm learning about my Asperger's Syndrome. They didn't believe it, of course, but they knew me at the height of my performance days. I walked around in a mask, a true smile that I carefully taught myself after studying body language out of books in High School. I learned that a fake smile, a Duchenne smile (one that doesn't reach the eyes), was clinically proven to invoke mistrust. So I perched on the bathroom counter and taught myself to smile with my eyes. I learned how to act, and it got me through the days of my youth.
Music taught me how to be social in short bursts. Many have a hard time focusing when it's time to stop socializing and get back to the task of rehearsing. Me, I breathed sighs of relief when we returned to task, but those short bursts of social time filled a need and a void for companionship. I didn't get out much, because I needed recovery from the performances of my daily life. So, while others in my social circle have wonderful stories of the time they did X or Y or Z, my stories all come from rehearsals or official events. What I'm trying to say here is that these people were my world at one time, and the bonds I have to them run very deep. Yet, most of them probably have no idea, because I can seem distant. Ask me directly, and I tell you anything--probably more than you want to know--ask me nothing and we'll sit in contented silence together. Or at least, I'll be content, you might be uncomfortable. :D
I am a very lucky person to have known these folks, luckier still that we were such a rare group. I have never had such kind, caring people in my life in such numbers. Now that I have the benefit of years, I realize the rarity in that confluence. Can you blame me if I spent some time drinking in the memories like fine wine? (Shhh...Eddie, not now, I just made a heady statement that wasn't actually supposed to be about beer OR tequila).
Last weekend I learned that some experiences leave deep marks on us, they carry enough weight to leave indelible traces. Often, people speak of trauma in this way, but you don't regularly hear about it with the hopeful, joyful things in life. This story is about resolutions and realizations of hope. Twenty years ago I found myself on an incredible journey, with a group of amazing people--our small town choirs in Eastern Europe, the Soviet Union (pre and post Coup) and the Baltic States. It was the type of group (and trips) that seems to alter the world itself. Hope is a powerful message, my friends, and it is contagious. So when the chance came to organize a reunion, I knew I would step up and get that done, despite the fact that just the word "reunion" makes me want to itch.
Reunion. It conjures images of aging, rounded has-beens crying into their beer at some dive bar. (If one of you smart asses from Duffy's speaks up, so help me...I'll...hug you again). Sure, we did some of that, but we also remembered the experience together, and how the bond of it carried through the years--linking us together despite such small barriers like time and distance and separate lives. The deep affection I have for each person involved isn't something I know how to express. I'm even at a loss trying to write about it. Thinking of these people turns the word reunion from sandpaper to velvet.
Still, there were so many things I had wanted to say to each of them and could not, because my heart was full. My heart never knows how to speak out loud. I guess that is a good place to start. Music, in my youth, gave me language where I had none. Through song, I was given words to communicate emotions I could never hope to express on my own. As a choir, we learned to sing as one voice through our conductor. Sharon is probably the most influential person in my life aside from a handful of blood relatives. Her vision, her direction, gave a pathway to those things I had inside and didn't understand.
I still remember her being so patient with my Theory of Mind issues (theory of mind boils down to being able to understand that others have their own thoughts, motivations and impressions which are different from your own). I always had difficulty explaining things in words while the ideas were still fresh. I needed to brood on them until they could hatch. So, if I worked on something for the choirs, researched and came up with a solution, I had difficulty understanding that others didn't know what I knew. I still have this problem today, and it takes a lot of effort to remember to fill people in, to remember to communicate it fully and completely. Sharon was the first to help teach me that. I used to react with such frustration 'filling her in', that the smartest woman I know, who I respect and honor more than any other person in my life, used to have to preface her queries to me with: "I'm stupid...please explain to me..." I feel awful about that, but I understand why I put us both in that state now. She was only the first to work with me to have the distinct displeasure of dealing with my irrational frustrations with spoken words and theory of mind.
I told some of my friends that I'm learning about my Asperger's Syndrome. They didn't believe it, of course, but they knew me at the height of my performance days. I walked around in a mask, a true smile that I carefully taught myself after studying body language out of books in High School. I learned that a fake smile, a Duchenne smile (one that doesn't reach the eyes), was clinically proven to invoke mistrust. So I perched on the bathroom counter and taught myself to smile with my eyes. I learned how to act, and it got me through the days of my youth.
Music taught me how to be social in short bursts. Many have a hard time focusing when it's time to stop socializing and get back to the task of rehearsing. Me, I breathed sighs of relief when we returned to task, but those short bursts of social time filled a need and a void for companionship. I didn't get out much, because I needed recovery from the performances of my daily life. So, while others in my social circle have wonderful stories of the time they did X or Y or Z, my stories all come from rehearsals or official events. What I'm trying to say here is that these people were my world at one time, and the bonds I have to them run very deep. Yet, most of them probably have no idea, because I can seem distant. Ask me directly, and I tell you anything--probably more than you want to know--ask me nothing and we'll sit in contented silence together. Or at least, I'll be content, you might be uncomfortable. :D
I am a very lucky person to have known these folks, luckier still that we were such a rare group. I have never had such kind, caring people in my life in such numbers. Now that I have the benefit of years, I realize the rarity in that confluence. Can you blame me if I spent some time drinking in the memories like fine wine? (Shhh...Eddie, not now, I just made a heady statement that wasn't actually supposed to be about beer OR tequila).