Joy & Sorrow – from the Same Well

On Joy and Sorrow
 The Prophet
 by Khalil Gibran

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
 And he answered:
 Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
 And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
 And how else can it be?
 The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
 Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
 And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
 When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
 When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
 Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
 But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
 Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
 Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
 When the reassure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

In early September, for the first time I played someone out while playing harp for hospice. It was a profound time and it has taken me awhile to process and feel ready to write about it.

It was God’s doing for sure, as I’d called the daughter of the dying woman a day earlier and suggested I could come that day and she’d suggested it might be too busy with the nurse also coming. I suggested 10 a.m. the next morning and she readily agreed. I was a bit surprised since I knew this was an “actively dying” woman. I’d had the impression she might not make it through the night; still, this is what the daughter wanted.

Next day, I went at 10 a.m. to find the dying woman’s room filled with family members. It became obvious as I greeted the husband that the woman wasn’t terribly old; I would later learn she was only 62. I played for 45 minutes, attempting to improvise appropriate music that timed with her breathing and that matched the feeling in the room. However, this was difficult as there could be up to two measures of music between each raspy breath. Indeed, I sensed she was trying to make the decision to depart this world for the next. One of her three children, a daughter possibly in her later 20s, was curled up on the bed beside her mother, stroking her head, kissing her cheek, holding her hand.

At one point, the husband went outside to a covered patio area behind where the woman lay. He picked up a sculpture of praying hands and tipped it so that it was pointing at his wife’s head on the other side of the window. This was almost too much for me, but I held my composure and also took this as a sign I could allude to a couple of traditional hymns in my playing.

In thought, I “told” the dying woman it was okay if she went on. I tried to convey this through the music. I “told” her of the beauty that lies beyond this world. I felt her concern about leaving her family behind yet I knew in my heart by the very sense of the feeling in the room that she’d created a very loving family and they would be okay. They would miss her terribly – this was quite obvious. Yet there was so much love binding them all that I knew they’d ultimately make it past their grief.

At some point, there was no more raspy breathing; I asked a family friend if she’d passed and she responded, “She’s close.” Next, a bit of a rush of movement in the room as a son took the place of the daughter on the bed. Then someone led everyone in a hushed “Lord’s Prayer” and I took that as a moment to stop playing. I asked if I should keep on playing. “Yes please, a little bit longer.” Another favorite prayer of the mother’s was quietly repeated. Then more movement, tears welling, and I knew she’d left while I played more music. Lots of grief, many pulling in closely to the now-deceased woman. What a profound sense of a spirit departed to the next world.

Soon it was time for me to leave. I was quietly pleased I hadn’t shed any tears and had held my composure. I walked outside and thanked Diamond, my dog for whom I’d recently played while he passed on. I was grateful he’d prepared me to handle this with grace and ease. I know, who’d have thought a dog could prepare one for this, yet he had indeed been the conduit for my preparation. I reached my car, and I was shaking inside! I was awestruck at the privilege I’d just had to participate through music in this transition of life into life. Gratitude, honor, connection…. all of these I felt on a level indescribable in a mere blog.