Heavenly Peace

As we age, there is more in the past and less in the future.  This simple realization is more present at Christmastime, when memories accumulate around the traditions and loved ones of Christmases gone by.  And there is music - there is always music.

Last Christmas my wife Wendy and I were still numb from my dreadful spinal cord injury, although hope had gained a lead on despair so we resolved to celebrate as fully as conditions would allow.   My daughter and I had bought a small tree and, when the Christmas spirit moved us, Wendy and I lugged it up the stairs from the garage and wrestled it into the stand.   

When the lights were strung and white doves perched on branches, we sat to admire and “officially” begin the season with our favorite Christmas music, a disc of old and new carols performed by the Cambridge Singers under the direction of John Rutter.  For several decades this has been the sound track for our most spiritual moments of reflection.  While we are not religious, Christmas has always been a time of deep meaning, allowing us space and peace to sense the presence of things within and without us that are usually obscured by life’s more immediate demands.  

In less than 30 seconds I began sobbing and choked out, “I can’t do this.”  I had denied any depression resulting from my injuries, but I sobbed nonetheless.  I am sufficiently aware that no person emerges from trauma without consequence.  Just as music can touch what may otherwise reside beyond conscious apprehension - can awaken one to receive beauty - John Rutter apparently accessed the loss I usually accept in good spirit.  I shut that door for the time being.  I should have known. 

My life is deeply embedded in music – or the other way around – and revisiting can be an intensely joyful - or draining - experience. 

I observed this with my mother too, perhaps related to her insidious dementia, but perhaps not.  During her late 70s and 80s, music and a cat were her daily companions.   They sat together every evening listening to music as my mother had her evening wine.  Then I sensed a gradual change.  

On a visit when she was 91 or 92, I was eager for her to hear a video performance of Chopin’s E-Minor Piano Concerto, played by my brilliant young (15 at the time) pianist friend, Tiffany Poon, who had just won a Young Artist competition in Moscow.   My mother was a wonderful pianist and had followed my young friend’s progress with wistful admiration.  She became highly agitated when she heard the opening orchestral measures.  “I don't want to hear that!!!!”  I sensed that the memories it prompted were too complex, too powerful and she could no longer bear to engage with them.  

In 2019 my brother-in-law died.   My sister shared a love of music with him for their more than 50 years together.   It was months later that she wrote to me that she had finally been able to listen to Beethoven Piano Sonatas again. 

My father-in-law loved recordings by John McDermott, especially the old classics, We’ll Meet Again and I’ll Be Seeing You (in all the old familiar places).   When he was in his last days in 2004, confined to a hospital bed, Wendy brought tape recordings to the hospital, thinking the songs would give him comfort.   He was unable – unwilling – to listen.  It was just too much.  

I will never forget Christmas Eve in 1970, when I was working as a mental health assistant in a psychiatric hospital. Mr. Henderson, a patient at that time, suffered from what was termed “chronic brain syndrome,” meaning that no one knew what was wrong with him. He had no language, and on his best days he could eat with a spoon. 

He never spoke or made eye contact. He was subject to fits of wild frustration with no observable cause, so we managed him with great caution. He was a large man. When he seemed calm, we would try to normalize his evenings, sitting him among others during social activities. He never engaged or seemed to notice people or things. On this night, he was quite calm and I decided to take a risk and bring him to the lobby, as local children were coming by to sing carols to the patients. I was his regular companion on such occasions, being among the few capable of restraining him if need be. 

The lobby was decorated with sparse white lights and a crooked little Christmas tree.

Light snow was falling as the children entered the lobby, red-cheeked and a bit nervous.  It was a psychiatric hospital after all. They began singing. “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way.”   

Then, “Silent Night, Holy Night . . . “  I glanced at Mr. Henderson. His eyes were wide, brimming with tears. Amidst the stubble and spittle his lips began to move.  Silently, certainly, he mouthed, “Holy infant, tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.” I squeezed his hand and he squeezed mine.  And then he disappeared into his fog, never to emerge again.

The music in our lives is inevitably tied to things we lose and some are unbearable, like Beethoven in the wake of a lost love,  I’ll Be Seeing You when you know you will never Meet Again, or Silent Night piercing the thick veil of psychosis. 

But tonight I’m ready for John Rutter and if a tear be shed it will be in deep gratitude. 

I wish you beautiful music and heavenly peace.