On Understanding Grief
I feel as though I should apologize for my grief. Grief almost seems too extreme a word because I am not talking about the loss of another human being or even an animal. I am, for the most part, a very positive person. And yet, grief is still the best description for the feelings that I sometimes feel.
I have trouble reconciling my profound feelings of grief with the fact that I am a very lucky individual. I am someone who is lucky to be alive. I am lucky to be a functioning part of society. I am lucky to get to see my children grow up. I have a really amazing, fantastic life, one that I came so close to losing and therefore do not take for granted. For all of these things, I am incredibly grateful. And so, I feel somewhat guilty for grieving my losses, on any level.
And yet, I still feel it. Perhaps my losses are not so great, at least not in comparison to what they could have been or to others' losses. But, there are times when a deep sense of grief overwhelms me.
Something I mourn quite profoundly is music - I have lost my ability to make music. The damage to my hand will not allow me to play the piano or the violin that I used to play, or even to play the simple cords and songs Simon is learning on the guitar. Damage to my vocal cords does not allow me to sing or even to talk for long periods of time. Oh how I loved to sing lullabies to my children before they went to sleep and how I long for the ability to do so again.
Also, I have lost my ability to hear music fully and without aid. One ear hears well, the other hears nothing at all. It is not until you lose the ability to hear such beauty do you understand what a gift it was to have heard it at all.
I love all kinds of music: pop, country, rock and roll, jazz, blues, and classical. I love the feeling it creates, the nostalgia it can bring, the love, hope and joy a song can create in your heart and mind.
I love making music. I never intended to be someone who made music for a living, but as a child and into adulthood, I enjoyed making music whenever I could. It always brought me great happiness.
Playing in orchestras and singing in the chorus are where I first learned about teamwork - that working hard for the good of the whole can be even more important and beautiful than working hard for self-benefit alone. Team sports may have helped solidify this learning, but the lesson was first learned sitting in the first violin section of an orchestra.
Music has always brought me a sense of belonging and a sense of hope. If I could work with other people to create something that sounded beautiful and brought joy to many, then I could make a difference in the world. Music felt (and feels) almost magical that way.
My music teachers taught me not only to have faith in what beauty I could personally produce, but they taught me to have faith in others. They taught me that the common bond of music could bring anyone together, no matter their background. They taught me that music is a binding force, one that is worth working hard to maintain. It is worth teaching and learning because it allows one to focus on others, both those you are creating music with and those you are creating music for.
And so, I mourn my loss. I mourn that I stopped making music as frequently as I used to and now I no longer have the ability to do so. I grieve because I took for granted that I would always be able to go back to it. And now, I can't.
In the depths of my grief, I also feel fortunate (and again guilty for my grief at all). Because, had I not experienced music in this way, I would have nothing to grieve, and surely my life would not be as complete as it is now.
Music is a tie that binds. It is filled with emotion. It has taught me many lessons. I would not be where I am without having had the joy of creating music. So, despite my grief, there is no regret. Because music has brought me a joy without measure, my grief for its loss also cannot be measured.
I wouldn't trade the joy to avoid the grief, no matter how painful it is. The loss is worth having had such a gift in the first place. Perhaps all grief should be looked upon in this way. Would your life be as meaningful if there were no losses for which were worth grieving? How shallow my life would be without the lessons I have learned from creating and loving music. I'll take the experience and the grief. The experience is worth it.
I have trouble reconciling my profound feelings of grief with the fact that I am a very lucky individual. I am someone who is lucky to be alive. I am lucky to be a functioning part of society. I am lucky to get to see my children grow up. I have a really amazing, fantastic life, one that I came so close to losing and therefore do not take for granted. For all of these things, I am incredibly grateful. And so, I feel somewhat guilty for grieving my losses, on any level.
And yet, I still feel it. Perhaps my losses are not so great, at least not in comparison to what they could have been or to others' losses. But, there are times when a deep sense of grief overwhelms me.
Something I mourn quite profoundly is music - I have lost my ability to make music. The damage to my hand will not allow me to play the piano or the violin that I used to play, or even to play the simple cords and songs Simon is learning on the guitar. Damage to my vocal cords does not allow me to sing or even to talk for long periods of time. Oh how I loved to sing lullabies to my children before they went to sleep and how I long for the ability to do so again.
Also, I have lost my ability to hear music fully and without aid. One ear hears well, the other hears nothing at all. It is not until you lose the ability to hear such beauty do you understand what a gift it was to have heard it at all.
I love all kinds of music: pop, country, rock and roll, jazz, blues, and classical. I love the feeling it creates, the nostalgia it can bring, the love, hope and joy a song can create in your heart and mind.
I love making music. I never intended to be someone who made music for a living, but as a child and into adulthood, I enjoyed making music whenever I could. It always brought me great happiness.
Playing in orchestras and singing in the chorus are where I first learned about teamwork - that working hard for the good of the whole can be even more important and beautiful than working hard for self-benefit alone. Team sports may have helped solidify this learning, but the lesson was first learned sitting in the first violin section of an orchestra.
Music has always brought me a sense of belonging and a sense of hope. If I could work with other people to create something that sounded beautiful and brought joy to many, then I could make a difference in the world. Music felt (and feels) almost magical that way.
My music teachers taught me not only to have faith in what beauty I could personally produce, but they taught me to have faith in others. They taught me that the common bond of music could bring anyone together, no matter their background. They taught me that music is a binding force, one that is worth working hard to maintain. It is worth teaching and learning because it allows one to focus on others, both those you are creating music with and those you are creating music for.
And so, I mourn my loss. I mourn that I stopped making music as frequently as I used to and now I no longer have the ability to do so. I grieve because I took for granted that I would always be able to go back to it. And now, I can't.
In the depths of my grief, I also feel fortunate (and again guilty for my grief at all). Because, had I not experienced music in this way, I would have nothing to grieve, and surely my life would not be as complete as it is now.
Music is a tie that binds. It is filled with emotion. It has taught me many lessons. I would not be where I am without having had the joy of creating music. So, despite my grief, there is no regret. Because music has brought me a joy without measure, my grief for its loss also cannot be measured.
I wouldn't trade the joy to avoid the grief, no matter how painful it is. The loss is worth having had such a gift in the first place. Perhaps all grief should be looked upon in this way. Would your life be as meaningful if there were no losses for which were worth grieving? How shallow my life would be without the lessons I have learned from creating and loving music. I'll take the experience and the grief. The experience is worth it.
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