BY JOELLEN COLLINS
There are touching lyrics in “The Music Man,” by Meredith Willson, where Harold Hill, the protagonist, feels the true value of romance when he sings to the lovely librarian the song “Till I Met You.” A few days ago I heard it performed by a dynamic entertainer. Hill sings of “bells ringing” and “birds winging,” acknowledging that this love has given him an increased sense of the sweet details of nature and things around us we often ignore. He now fully notices these blessings he had missed “until there was you.” I have always been moved by this tender expression of love, but in a novel way my sense of pleasure was heightened by recent events.
My fellow residents and I listened to a favorite vocalist with a richly tender and yet full voice. We gathered late in the afternoon of Good Friday. Although I was missing my family and some of the Easter and Passover rituals I have known, I forgot that temporary loneliness in the stirring I felt when remembering that I had indeed been with someone who could feel that way from loving me. I might have suffered sadness at the loss of that love, but instead I felt a little smile at the memory of that relationship.
We all know that music opens intense emotions to remembrances sometimes bittersweet but certainly healthy. Oliver Sachs, my most admired medical hero, worked to see that music could be provided for often lonely and dependent victims of brain illnesses, in order to facilitate some pleasure from the sound and rhythms of music they had heard sung or simply loved before the disruption of brain challenges like dementia or Alzheimer’s. A documentary I just rewatched featured mostly speechless patients now moving to the beat in surprising ways and singing some of the lyrics. Some responded with a smile or a display of simple pleasure. After the lovely hour of music I enjoyed here, I turned around and saw a woman who had left us a few weeks ago. I was able to take her hand in mine and, with a true sense of joy, let her know how happy I was to have her back. Music helps community.
At least three times a week we are given these melodic treats of varying styles: some foot-tapping good country music, some old and beloved show tunes and even classical pieces, often with varied instruments. After one gig I caught myself on a walk with my doggie, singing to the woods, “It Had to be You.” I am fortunate that my fellow residents understand how important it is to sit together, sing along, grin or perhaps weep, but be able to feel and express our valid emotions. A fine gentleman near me said he wasn’t embarrassed to shed some tears.
I always hoped that when I grew old I could recall a life filled with positive events, good people, lots of love, and a sense of having lived fully, whatever events—good or bad—had occurred. From lullaby to lament, music takes me there.
