A wise friend recommended that I create a musical portrayal of my life story – my life opus. I started it a couple weeks ago and I’m sure I’ll be blogging more of my experiences with this type of music therapy. This entry has to do with something I processed about my mother.

“Look at things from a different angle and you will be amazed at the insight you gain. Honesty is your greatest strength now: about how you feel, and how your feelings have changed over time. And about who you once were, who you are now; and who you are becoming. Be honest with yourself. Get something heavy off your chest – and accept that others may be trying to do the same.” (CreativeNumberology.com – Week of July 9, 2019 for my 9 personal year)

As I’ve been creating the Opus of my Life with music, I have been going through the different people who impacted my life as a young child. My father, my brother, and two older sisters. I put off doing my mom because I don’t have a lot of memories of her.

We weren’t close until I broke my arm in a car wreck at 17. I didn’t want to work on her music because first, I felt there wouldn’t be much to it. Secondly, I felt that whatever did come through probably wouldn’t be pleasant or flattering to her. I didn’t want to betray my mother or the memory of who she finally became by dwelling on the person she once was. She was a very authoritative mother and most of my memories are of her making me wash dishes, clean, work, etc.

Today, I finally decided it was time to process my childhood memories of my mother with music. It began with single notes, sporadic, in various octaves – representing the sparse nature of my memories of her. Then it went into a very structured, boxy, repetitive set of scales. I saw her in my mind pointing her finger in a rhythmic cadence, her expression stern, and saying, “I mean to tell you that you had better get in there and clean your room.” Or fill in the blank with some other task for “clean your room.” It could have been wash the dishes, practice the piano, pick up your mess, whatever.

Then the music became this repetitive scale of, “do it again… again… again…” because whatever task it was, it seemed to me, very little of what I did around the house was good enough. “Practice makes perfect” on the piano. If a single fork comes out dirty, then you rewash the entire load (by hand). If you don’t vacuum the carpet to her standards, you either do it again, or stand beside her and watch as she does your task.

I hated watching her do a job that had been assigned to me, but which I didn’t do well enough. You didn’t dare walk away. You had to stand and watch her do the work. Then she’d give you the vacuum to do it again yourself while she monitored to make sure you did it correctly.

Eventually, this redundant, “personal trainer” approach morphed into a memory of me lying with my head on her lap during church while her fingers trailed lightly over my head, hair and arms. It was a light, sweet melody. After lingering there for a spell, it eventually morphed into a strong melody with greater richness of tones and chords that still felt structured, yet kinder. This was the period of my life at 17 when she took care of me after I broke my arm in a car wreck. It was during this period that we became close and we grew closer as the years passed.

As I do this music therapy, I first sit down, think of the person and events and play whatever comes. I record this and then listen to it afterward. As I was listening, I had some insights come through. First, I realized that it is not in my nature to do everything perfect. I like getting things done, but perfection is not really as much me as it is her. My brother used to call me, “Good enough Marnie.” Like my mother, my brother is a meticulous perfectionist and he often felt I did a half-slap job of things.

My mother taught me that if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. To this day, if I see something amiss in my work, I feel the need to set it straight, fix it, make it as perfect as I can. I don’t obsess over perfection, but if something isn’t right… I’ve got to fix it.

I’m sure this is from her. She probably got it from her father, who was very fastidious. Through the music, I realized this all felt very “personal trainer-ish.” I never have liked working with a personal trainer. I don’t mind working out but let me push myself. I don’t want someone else pushing me onward.

Like a personal trainer might insist, “One more lap, one more push-up, one more rep of the weights…” She coached me through one more repetition of whatever task. She pushed me outside my comfort zone and in many ways her voice is still there in my head, even though as she grew older, she was no longer that voice.

In her older years, my mother became a compassionate, caring, sympathetic and concerned voice. She frequently worried that I was working myself too hard, carrying too great a load, and that I was unduly burdened.

As the song morphed into a sweet, light melody that sounded like a tickle, my eyes welled with tears. I felt that my mother really did love me as a child. I mean, sure, intellectually I know she did love me, but I don’t believe I felt it much when I was little.

It wasn’t common for her to hug or touch me. Being a physical touch love language person, this left me feeling disconnected from her. Obviously, she loved me. She bought me things, took care of me, served me in many ways. But because those are not my love languages, this memory of church (which happened on more than one occasion) is what stands out to me — proving to me that she loved me.

Perhaps that is why I love church … because it is associated with one of the few locations in which my mother spoke my love language. Obviously, as we both got older, this changed and morphed. By our later years, we were extremely close and she spoke my second love language very well (words of affirmation). In many ways I feel as if I had two mothers. I realize now that while I celebrated my later mother, I had boxed up and locked away the mother of my childhood.

By going through this musical therapy and engaging with the few childhood memories I have of my mother, I came to see the gift my mother was to me in her strict, authoritative perfectionism. While I have not felt animosity toward her all these years, I have felt disconnected from who she once was. Now I see that she loved me enough to teach me discipline, to teach me to excel, to teach me to never settle for less than I am capable of.

That is a priceless gift. It’s served me well throughout my life. And it’s not a gift that comes easily. It doesn’t come by coddling. It didn’t come without great consistency and disciple on her part as a mother.  My mother loved me enough to challenge me. It’s easy to coddle and cave, it’s much more difficult to teach and train with consistency and to hold someone to a higher standard.

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