The Language of the Soul
- Pathways of Possibility
- 19 minutes ago
- 9 min read
Within the story of each of our lives are many chapters, and many tales that could be told. Some are known, while others may never see the light of day. Here is a glimpse into one such story, as told by Allen Tacke.
Prologue: What Are You Really?
When you look into the mirror, what is it that you see?
A person might reply “Well, that’s easy, I see me!” But do you?
The mirror reflects the image of your body. You might see your face, your hair, your neck and shoulders and so on, but do you really see you? When the body grows old, or even when it dies, are you still seeing you in that mirror? I don’t think so.
What are you for real? If you believe, as I do, that my life will continue after the body dies, then what are we talking about when we say, “me” or “you” or “we”? The world in which we live has trained us to think that the body being reflected in the mirror is ourself, and it is very difficult to step away from the crowd and strive to see, to search, to understand the more of us that lives in the body for a brief time and then moves on.
Perhaps one of the reasons I enjoy working as a counselor in nursing homes is that it becomes easier, and almost necessary, to see others as something much more than their body. For many who live there, the body has grown old, is weak, sometimes grossly disfigured through paralysis or disease. When a person is in this kind of condition physically, it causes me to look differently at them—to look into them with different kinds of eyes in order to get closer to the perception of who they truly are.
Ray
One day, years ago, I was assigned a new client. His name was Ray. All I knew about him was that he was an African American male in his mid-70s who had been admitted to the nursing home seven years before, following a massive stroke that had paralyzed one side of his body. When the time came to meet Ray and introduce myself to him, I went to his room and found it bare and empty. There was a bed and a beat-up nightstand with an even more beat-up chest of drawers in his dingy room, and that was it. I talked to the nurse, who informed me that every morning after breakfast they would wheel Ray into the dining room and turn on the radio to the jazz station, and he would spend the whole morning in there, usually by himself.
I made my way to the dining room, looked inside, and saw this thin man sitting in a dirty old wheelchair. He was tilted off to one side and his eyes were closed as if he was sleeping. His right hand was curled up and the arm was contracted into a tight position against his chest. I carefully approached him and called out his name. No response. I moved in closer and called out again, this time a little louder. Still, no response. Finally, I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke loudly into his ear. His eyes opened and focused on me. They were very intense eyes that had a power behind them. His face showed surprise, then a little anger and irritation as he asked me, “Who are you?” I told him my name and said I was a mental health counselor. At this, he looked confused and demanded, “What is your business here with me?” I explained to him who I was and why I was talking to him. In a stentorian voice he exclaimed, “By what jurisdiction and upon whose authority have you come?”
At this point I was feeling very uneasy. I tried to explain to him that I was a mental health counselor and that the nursing home where he lived hired my agency to provide mental health treatment to some of its residents. His face remained angry as he asked, “You mean to tell me that I’m in a nursing home?” I informed him that yes, he was, that he had suffered a stroke seven years ago and had been living in this facility ever since. Now his face changed to a look of utter disappointment and disdain. “You’re telling me that I’ve been living here for seven years?!” “Yes, Ray,” I responded. With that he turned his head away from me and refused to engage any longer. And that is how my first encounter with Ray proceeded.
Even though I had hoped for a different outcome on the second and third attempts, they followed the same pattern and pretty much the same script. I had become a little desperate by then, thinking I was not going to be able to provide mental health services to my client. This was my first nursing home in the first year of my career and I didn’t want to fail.
The Man and His Music
It didn’t take me long to learn that Ray had been a highly esteemed and well-known saxophone player from the 1950s to the 1980s. He had played with many of the great names of jazz during that time, until he eventually formed his own quartet. It was in those years that he eventually moved to Europe. As jazz was falling out of favor in the United States in the 1960s and 1970s, it was growing in popularity in Europe and around the world.
It first began in Europe during World War I. It was during that time that a group of black musicians from the United States formed a military unit and convinced the Army to send them to fight in Europe. They were known as the Harlem Hellcats. When they arrived there, however, General Pershing, commanding officer from the United States, directed that they not serve on the front lines and they were forced instead to do menial jobs that involved no fighting.
Eventually, towards the end of the War, France agreed to use them in military action, as they were in a desperate need for troops. The black soldiers stayed in the same barracks as the French, and it did not take long for them to prove their worth and bravery in the battlefield. It was also there that Frenchmen were first introduced to jazz…and they loved it. For the black soldiers, it was the first time they were treated and valued as equals, and it just simply grew from there.
After learning about Ray’s musical background, I decided to make one more attempt at seeing him. I was determined to break through this time, and I wanted to see if I could get him to talk about music and his life. As before, I approached him in the dining room as he was sitting in his chair, eyes closed. The jazz music was playing through the speakers. “Ray,” I said, loud enough to wake him. His eyes stayed closed and I thought about leaving him and perhaps trying again at another time, but I persisted. “Ray, it’s me, Allen.” I gently put my hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened, startled and confused. He looked at me and his face grew hard. “What?” he said. I told him who I was, once again, and we inevitably began to go down that familiar line of conversation as we had done before.
“What is your business in seeing me today?”
“Who sent you here?”
“By what authority do you come to me?”
I responded to his questions but it only seemed to cause him to become more hardened and agitated with me. Finally, in pure desperation, I began to tell him about my own love of music. I explained how I used to play the trumpet and how my family had formed our own Dixie Land jazz band when I was a teen. There was no response from him and his eyes closed.
Finally, I blurted out, “What I’m trying to say, Ray, is that I love music. I love it because of the way it makes me feel!” At this his eyes popped open and he looked at me intensely. “Do you think that you are capable of having any feelings at all for music?”
I was momentarily stunned. Few people in my life had ever asked me a question such as that before, in that manner and with that much depth behind it. I felt like the student in the presence of a master. I attempted to make a response, but before I could say much of anything he said, “Music is my life!” He looked at me hard, waiting for his words to find a home in me. Then, he said again, “Music is my life, and music is the language of the soul.”
My first lesson from Ray about music and life had begun.
I found out a couple of weeks later that Ray had had some visitors. At the time, the Wynton Marsalis Band was one of the most popular, respected and well-known jazz groups in the world. They were performing in a large venue downtown, and before their show some of the musicians came to visit Ray. They brought their instruments and met Ray in the dining room and there they played. It must have been marvelous to witness, these musicians playing out of their love and respect for Ray. Oddly, there were only two other people in the dining room to witness it, as nobody else in the nursing home, outside of those two people, knew who Ray was, or had heard of the Wynton Marsalis Band. I saw some photos of it on my next visit and oh, how I wished I had been there.
The Language of the Soul
It was not long after that I visited Ray while he was in his room. I saw one of his CDs on his dresser and decided to borrow the CD/Tape player from the Activities Department so we could listen to his music together. Ray was asleep, sitting in his wheelchair, so I roused him from sleep and told him who I was. Without explaining anything further, I put the music on and sat on his bed to listen.
What I heard was a revelation to me. It was beautiful, elegant, soulful and clean. Ray was playing tenor sax, and there were three other musicians in this classic jazz quartet: an upright bass player, a piano player and a drummer. What flowed out of Ray’s horn into the recording and now out into his room was so sweet, so pure. It was as if you could take pure, uninhibited human feelings, channel them through an instrument and express them in a way that gives exactly what is needed: not too much, not too little, but just right. It was so beautiful and so moving to me that I simply sat and listened for a while.
Eventually, I read the jacket cover of the CD out loud to Ray. When I mentioned the names of the musicians in his group he would comment on them, talk about their character and the qualities of their musical skill. I would read out the names of the songs as they flowed into the room, and he would nod his head. Mostly, we sat in silence and listened. As for me, it seemed that up until that point I had never really listened to music before. In reflecting back upon it, it was as if the life and love of music that lived within him, somehow arced over into me and allowed me, in his presence, to hear and to feel—to really feel—the music. His eyes were bright and strong and he was staring off into space, into a place where the life and the feelings of music lived within him. When the CD had finished, I turned to Ray and his eyes were brimming with tears. I thanked him for his time and for his music and we ended our session together for that day.
It was not long after that, that Ray passed on. There were no accolades or fanfare. His room was quickly occupied by another resident and the nursing home staff, for the most part, had nothing to say or to remember about him. As for me, it caused me to reflect that so often, by the time a person grows old, they are easily forgotten. But it also caused me to realize that you never know who you are sitting next to, and it is possible, with the right kind of care and devotion and faith, to touch the inner life of another, which can cause a melting. I believe when this is done it can all become magnified by love, by the glory of it all, and can express itself again with a freshness that never grows old.
I think of Ray now and then and contemplate the lessons in life he passed on to me.
“Music is my life! Music is the language of the soul.”
Thank you, Ray.
Interlude
Note: Names in this story may have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.
"The Language of the Soul" is an excerpt from Allen's upcoming book, What Passes Between Us.
If you appreciated this story, you may also want to read Allen's story "The Meadowlark".
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