Tag: writing

If music be the food of love…

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Is Orsino in love or just in love with the idea?

“If music be the food of love, play on,” says Duke Orsino at the very start of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Today, we often use that line to encourage more music to be played, in order to fuel more romance. Duke Orsino viewed things a little differently, seeing an excess of music as a type of aversion therapy; a way of helping cure him of his obsession with Olivia. He still attributes to music a mystical power, though.

Famously, the biblical David was called upon by King Saul to play the harp for him, in order to soothe Saul’s mental anguish: “And whenever the evil spirit from God came upon Saul, David took the lyre and played it with his hand, and Saul would be relieved and feel better…” (1Samuel 16.23). Here, music is shown to have healing powers.

We all have our favourite genres, bands, composers, singers, and we could all testify to the dramatic effects music can have on our mood. A particular piece of music can transport us onto a different plane, lighten our spirit. Music has the capacity to lift us out of despair (even if only temporarily), to relax and to energise. 

Never more did I witness the magical power of music, than when working as a Chaplain in social care, in Leeds and Ilkley. As I have written before, it was an enormous privilege to work with such lovely elderly people, most of whom were living with some degree of dementia. Of course, the various forms of dementia bring many challenges and difficulties, both for the person living with the condition and those who love, care and support them. There was, however, one thing guaranteed to bring relief and a smile to everyone: MUSIC.

Whether it be a Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby CD played during morning coffee, or a good, old fashioned ‘Songs of Praise’ sing along to classic hymns, in the afternoon, there wasn’t a single resident who wouldn’t join in, and many of them were word perfect. It was nothing short of miraculous. People whose memories had faded to such an extent that they often couldn’t recognise family members, would spring into life (sometimes quite literally – jumping up to dance). It was wonderful and amazing and almost unbelievable. The real magician was the music therapist, who visited the homes on a weekly basis. She masterfully waltzed around the room with her accordion, playing the popular music hall tunes, encouraging the residents with smiles and gestures, and bringing such an infectious vitality, that no-one, resident, staff or visitor, could resist singing along. 

If you follow the Thread Of Gold accounts on social media, you may recall me writing about my friend Gordon. Gordon was diagnosed a couple of years ago, with both vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s. He is now, largely, non-verbal, but does enjoy being outside. His wonderful wife, Joana, takes him on adventures when she is able, and a few months ago, they visited York. Having taken in the Minster, Joana was suddenly aware that Gordon had wandered off. She looked around anxiously, worried that he may have walked into the road. That wasn’t the case. Gordon was stood next to a couple of buskers, joining in with their version of ‘My Girl’. Enjoying Gordon’s company, the singer shared her microphone with him, and they performed a touching duet (see video below). The magic of music was evident once again.

I talk about the ‘magic’ of music, but, of course, there are strong scientific reasons why those with memory issues, can benefit so much from music. Imaging shows that regions of the brain associated with musical memory, are among the last areas to degenerate in Alzheimer’s disease. Furthermore, music engages multiple brain regions at once, strengthening neural connections and providing intense cognitive stimulation, unlocking memories, emotions, and even physical movements that were otherwise lost. All of this helps reduce agitation and anxiety in those with various forms of dementia. Miraculous, but not actual magic.

One of the aims of Thread of Gold is to promote inclusion. Groups such as dementia friendly choirs and music groups certainly do this, bringing together those living with dementia and their friends and carers, in a relaxed environment which benefits everyone concerned. If you have an hour or two to spare each week, do look out to see if there is a local group near you. Helpers are almost always very welcome, and my experience is that there is usually a cuppa and a great slice of cake to round off the afternoon. To mangle the bard’s great opening line: If music be the food of inclusion and joy, play on!

Try telling these guys that music isn’t magical.

I wanna hold your hand… really

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In a world crowded with digital communication and virtual connections, one simple and timeless gesture continues to offer comfort and connection: hand-holding. This unassuming yet profound act transcends words, weaving threads of intimacy and reassurance into the fabric of our relationships. It serves as a symbol of support and security that is deeply rooted in our humanity.

In the middle of November, I had a health scare, collapsing whilst watching a local rugby game. My memories of the time between being taken unwell and arriving at hospital are very hazy, but I do recall a few things: hearing the voice of the defibrillator telling people to “stand clear”; an awareness of people trying to rouse me, but me being unable to respond to them; and most vividly, of someone holding my hand. As the medical staff of the two rugby clubs did their brilliant best to support me medically, a big, burly rugby fan had taken my hand and was gently rubbing his thumb on the back of it. Drifting in and out of consciousness, and unaware how unwell I was, the fact that someone had hold of my hand somehow imbued me with a sense of calm. Like Mitch Albom wrote in The Five People You Meet in Heaven: “Sometimes, just holding hands is enough to chase away the fear”.

A week or two later, as I reflected on events, it struck me as significant that one of the few things I could recall was someone holding my hand. But perhaps that shouldn’t really be such a surprise. Touch is a powerful therapeutic tool. Children hold hands with parents for reassurance and comfort. Lovers hold hands to show affection, but also to offer security. I’m sure we could all think of examples of how holding a hand has made a difference to our lives.

Reading up on the science of hand holding reveals some intriguing insights. Hand-holding triggers a cascade of neurochemical responses that can significantly enhance feelings of well-being. Holding hands with someone can cause our brain to release oxytocin. This natural hormone may help to alleviate stress and anxiety, and can have a profound effect on emotional resilience. Moreover, holding hands can lower blood pressure and heart rate, demonstrating that physical touch can, quite literally, soothe our biological systems.

A few years ago, I had the enormous privilege of working for as year as a chaplain in social care. The two residential homes in which I was employed, looked after elderly people, many of whom needed nursing care or were living with dementia. I sat with some of the residents as they reached the end of their lives, and holding their hand was something I could do to comfort them as their life’s journey was completed. And here’s something I experienced on a number of occasions: as Joan or Phylis or Richard or whoever lay quietly in bed, they would often respond to hand holding with the tiniest squeeze. Even close to death, holding a hand was so important.

One elderly lady of whom I was particularly fond once said to me: “I like it when you come in, you’re someone to hold on to.” What she was thinking of was that she liked to hold my hand as we talked, which gave us a connection and offered her reassurance at an uncertain and sometimes frightening stage of life. A very small act with a huge impact.

In the weeks and months immediately after Clem died, an elderly friend of ours (Ruth, who coined the Thread Of Gold motif), would visit at least once a week. She took to bringing essential oils with her, which she would gently massage into my hands. I was unsure at first if this was something I would like: I’m a man, naturally suspicious of ‘this sort of thing’, and it seemed a bit too intimate for me. However, I was persuaded it might be helpful, so as I sat on the settee with my hands on a pillow and listened to some relaxing music, Ruth did some reflexology on my hands. To my surprise, I would often end up with tears rolling down my cheeks; the massage felt comforting and helped to release some of the myriad of emotions brought on by deep grief. Never were Paulo Coelho’s words, “Holding hands is like keeping the soul together, a quiet and powerful gesture”, quite so true.

Studies affirm its benefits, literature romanticises its significance, and cultural practices enrich its meaning. A rugby fan holding the hand of a poorly fellow supporter; a chaplain letting an elderly person at the end of their life, know that there is someone with them; a lovely friend massaging the hands of a grieving parent: touch, especially holding someone’s hand, is a powerful instrument.