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.