Tag: lifeiswhatyoumakeit

He was standing apart from the other children, swaying, looking down and away from the activity of the room. Amid the noise and clatter, it was the quality of his silent, absent presence that held my attention.     

I was at the Children’s Development Centre setting up my harp for a demonstration. Most of my gigs in those days were office parties, receptions, dinners, a lot of weddings, and occasional school music classes. This was different. 

The staff were having a hard time finding people who were comfortable bringing their instruments and making music for this group of children. All of the kids at the CDC had developmental issues, and many of them struggled painfully with bewildering rules of a world they couldn’t understand and their inability to communicate their frustration, anxiety, or simple curiosity.

You never knew when a child might be triggered and start screaming or throwing things. And some of the children were very physical in their unpredictable affection: too-sudden sticky fingers on the instruments and awkward harp-tumbling hugs!

I admit it: I was worn out with teaching and gigging and being a mom in a failing marriage. I didn’t want to say yes to such a difficult, draining gig. But these children deserved a chance to hear the healing harp. They also deserved a chance to touch the resonating wood, pluck the strings, and make their own peculiar music just like all the more privileged schoolchildren and wedding guests I taught and entertained.

So, I said yes.

After I explained the interactive nature of my work, the startled CDC staff said I should limit this gig to playing only. They warned it might not be safe to let this group near the harp. But, however reluctant I was (very), it felt like a thing I had to do. My own two boys did without so much in the chaotic atmosphere of life with a narcissistic father, and my thoughts were an endless train of regrets over the things missed, experiences I couldn’t give them. I didn’t want to abandon other kids whose need was even greater.

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I remembered so clearly (and still do) the first time I played an Irish harp, the delight of wood vibrating close to my heart, the wonder of strings singing in the wind, and the peace that instantly calmed my spirit. Very old Irish mythology has stories of harpers who evoked laughter, tears, or sleep with the magical geantraighe (happy music), goltraighe (sad music), and suantraighe (sleep music); they are stories, not history, but I’d seen and felt the extraordinary effect my harp music could have on those around me. It became a healing spiral spinning between my hands, my listeners, and my heart. I learned to let the music flow intuitively, to allow listeners to receive it and heal in whatever way they chose.

People came to talk after a performance, wanting to tell me how peaceful, calm, happy, and just beautifully better the harp music made them feel. At weddings, I often found myself playing the recessional with a parent and child crouched nearby, soaking it in. Wherever I played, I always invited the children (and adults, if they could overcome their inhibitions!) to run their fingers over the strings. They rarely needed reminders to be gentle, since the harp seemed to create gentleness in them. 

As I lugged the harp from gig to gig, doing the same things time after time, I tried not to notice that I’d lost something of meaning and purpose along the way. It was always great actually playing the tunes, and I still felt a flutter of satisfaction with the kids’ enthusiasm, but there was something missing.

That’s when Barbara arrived for her piano lesson, flustered, hurried, and direct. “I know you’re very busy…” (they always start like that I thought, irritated), “I know you’re busy, but tomorrow at the Children’s Development Centre we’ve had three musicians cancel. It’s a special day for the children…please, please, please could you come for half an hour?”

So here I was in this unfamiliar space, pulling the harp up close, uncomfortably aware of a swaying little boy across the room who seemed to be altogether unaware of anything at all. I admitted that, right or not, I didn’t want to be there. 

Barbara saw my glance and murmured, “Charlie’s not having a good day. He probably won’t even realize you’re here.” 

I tried to keep my focus on the harp strings and the music. “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” rose to my fingers and to the rescue. Stillness filled the room even amidst mumbles, whispers, and creaking braces. One little girl, placed close by in her wheelchair, reached out her finger and touched the bow of the harp, smiling delightedly at me the whole time. Somewhere deep inside I felt a tiny, nearly forgotten tingle and I smiled back at her as I played.

That was it. This show had to be like all the others. These children needed to touch the harp and feel the strings quiver under their fingers. I finished playing and asked Barbara to make it happen. The staff hovered nervously, but the children approached quietly one by one, reached out their little hands, and made music. Even the boy with the thick glasses and angry scowl, the one who slammed toys against the wall if they didn’t work right, who hit his therapist as she tried to guide his hand towards the harp; even he slowed to delicacy as his fingers touched the strings. 

The line came to an end, and suddenly there was Charlie standing in front of me, no longer swaying, and staring intently at the harp. There seemed a huge silence around us as his hand came out tentatively and sank back slowly.  I waited. Then he touched a string.

“Twinkle,” he said, very softly, but clearly. 

That’s all he said. “Twinkle,” again, a breath louder.

I looked at him and he looked at the harp, enormous patience in his eyes. So I put my hands on the strings and played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” as if it were a concerto and a love song and the only music in the world, my heart speeding and my breath quick in the boom of his intensity.  He stood absolutely still, and he listened. When it was over, there was a fleeting glance of his eyes directly into mine before he turned and shuffled slowly away, swaying again with each step. 

The huge silence pushed my lungs as Barbara and another therapist helped pack and carry gear, both of them with shining eyes and wet cheeks. Outside, as we put things in the car, Barbara turned quickly towards me and touched my arm.  “You have to know what happened in there with Charlie.” 

“Yes?” I said, so confused and hesitant.

She shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Charlie is autistic,” she said. “He’s five years old. He has never spoken a single word.”

That tiny tingle inside me fairly boomed. “Never?”

“Never. Twinkle is Charlie’s first word.”

That was years ago, and I am desperately glad that I decided to do that difficult gig. The mythological, magical geantrai, goltrai, and suantrai flow through my fingers, the magic is back where it belongs, and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” makes me cry every time I play it.