Author: Mary Gable
Last winter, a distinct aha moment surprised me. I meant to write it down, but time got
away, the importance faded, and I moved on. But in true form, the life lesson circled back
around, and I need to record it now more than ever.
As a child, I frequented piano competitions. At least once a year, I played before a judge
and received written commentary. While most judges highlighted my musicianship skills, I
always felt the weight of my technical deficits. Thus, I never understood how much my sensitive nature enhanced my playing until I majored in music in college.
I can still play a favorite Brahms Rhapsodie that I once performed during a student
recital. The melodies pulled at every corner of my soul, allowing my speed and volume to ebb and flow throughout the entire piece. Pleased with my performance, I was shocked when another student played the same song with great restraint a few months later. Her interpretation was so solemn and staid, I assumed I’d played it incorrectly.
I couldn’t take back my performance. It lingered on that stage along with hers. But the
contrast helped me understand how much my feelings invade my music in comparison to others. In time I learned to tailor my performance; to hold back 20% of that emotion to allow
space for the audience to experience their own. But as the years passed, I also learned to pour my emotions into songs and words that express what others can’t.
It’s a constant dance. When to express. When to hold back. When to emote. When to
control. No one gets it right all the time, but being aware of the tension helps. Fast forward thirty years or so, and this past winter I found myself practicing a song I’d played a year earlier for a local church choir. Tasked as the accompanist, I would support the singers while the organist provided strings and orchestral sounds to broaden the overall experience.
In theory, the trio of sounds worked. But in practice, the distance between the instruments
and the choir meant I couldn’t lean on my instincts. The choral sound literally reached my ears a split second after the beat. This, if I didn’t follow the directors hands implicitly, and leaned on what I heard, we’d end up out of sync.
Perhaps the breakthrough occurred because I’d already performed the piece once and felt
more relaxed the second time around. I’m not sure. But as I practiced, envisioning the
complicated set up, I realized how important it was for me to set aside my musical inclinations and simply follow the director. If I didn’t, my musical side would lead me astray.
When I showed up for Sunday’s rehearsal, I was keenly aware of the need to set aside my
interpretation for his. And it worked. He even commented on how well I was following
him—even better than the choir. Which made me smile. Because it was counter intuitive.
The best I had to offer… the part of me that had been complimented all my life… had to
surrender to the direction of another.
I honestly think part of the reason I could grasp the concept was due to personal growth
in other areas. Life is a constant struggle between using our voice versus following another. Or being in charge versus letting someone else call the shots. None of us get it right all the time.
But I would bet that the more confident we feel, the more our voice has a home
somewhere, the more easily we can lean into a submissive stance in a group setting. And I think that’s what happened to me.
Due to recent personal growth, which included me finding my voice in the walls of my
neuro-diverse home, I suddenly recognized I could let go of my instincts and allow someone to direct me without me feeling I’d given up too much of myself.
Does that make any sense? It’s so crazy to type. Seriously. I accompanied music majors
in college and was often affirmed for how well I followed the solo performers. So, it’s not that I didn’t already play with an awareness of putting others first.
But the unconventional set up between organ, piano, and choir required something
different. My talent mattered a great deal. Even my musicianship. But only within the framework of the director’s hands. He kept us together. He allowed for a unified sound.
Resting in his direction felt freeing in a way that still surprises me. Embracing the
freedom that came from letting go of my need to instinctively “follow” and just watch the beat of his hands were liberating. And it still is.
I can be a complete musician—and wife and female—without always being in charge. In
fact, I can practice some of the best kind of power by letting go. But I have to know who I am
first. And that takes discipline in some neuro diverse marriages.
The last month has been quite challenging in the walls of my home. Big changes have led
to difficult conversations that have left gasping for air. I even spent one afternoon sitting by the
the ocean feeling completely numb and I love the ocean.
But through the disconnect, I’ve learned a few things:
1) When a conversation isn’t moving forward or leading to a resolution, I need space to
recover and feel like myself again. And that’s okay. I can go to the library. Visit a
friend. Take a walk. Whatever allows for quiet and a reboot.
2) There are times to give in and not get my way. The truth is, I’m only in charge of my
life. I can only control my actions. For example, if my spouse doesn’t want medical
input, then there’s no need to give it. Staying in my lane feels banal at times. Almost
silly. But like that organ, piano, and choir, my marriage is not situated in the best way
for tonal harmony. Surrendering my understanding at times is thus imperative for
consonance.
3) This one’s hard to write today because of the pain I’ve been assimilating. But my
spouse’s take on things, even the harsh words used to describe his discontent, does not
impact or reflect his love for me. He brought me flowers yesterday. Cooked us dinner
(although the meat was too raw for me to eat). Got on his knees to pray on my side of
the bed after dark. And listened as I once again tried to explain that emotional
Intelligence requires integrating both of our emotional needs. Humbled, he listened.
Still, there’s no way I’m going to be able to stay married without accepting my place on
the piano bench, feeling my feels under the direction of our Heavenly Father who knows best how to hold us together. Without some surrender, I’ll miss my cues and fall out of sync. But that surrender requires dignity and strength—not weakness and caving. Only a full-on awareness of self can allow for the type of giving-in that sets us free.
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