Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Music as Therapy

WIKIPEDIA, the online encylopedia, informs us that the history of music predates the written word. The development of music among humans occurred against the backdrop of natural sounds such as birdsong and the sounds other animals use to communicate.

Music has a profound effect on the listener in a variety of ways. It is a vehicle by which we can express many emotions ranging from sorrow to joy and happiness. It can be used as entertainment or for Spiritual worship and meditation.
Imagine standing in a huge Cathedral and being enthralled by the sound of a Symphony Orchestra. One cannot help but be moved by the experience.

Music Therapy is a growing health care profession, based on the belief that all people have the potential to respond to music and that music promotes emotional and mental health and well being. Music therapists use music creatively to bring about change and growth in people with the aim of empowering them to achieve their full potential.
The use of music in therapy has been found to benefit cancer patients, people with depression and children with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD).
Music is also a great stress management tool and can be used to help us become more calm and relaxed.

Perhaps the fact that music predates language is the reason that people like those with Alzheimer’s can relate to it. People with Alzheimer’s may regress in their cognitive processes, however, even when they are cut off and isolated mentally and emotionally from their families and loved ones and the world they once knew, music can be a vehicle to reduce their isolation by stimulating them through their senses.

People who are profoundly deaf can experience music by feeling the vibrations in their body. They may have never heard the spoken word, yet can appreciate music.

A BBC Report states, Researchers from Hong Kong found that children who were given musical training had better verbal memories than those who had not had music lessons. The researchers believe their findings could also help people recovering from a brain injury as well as benefiting healthy children.

Children relate well to music and movement. Babies become settled when they hear the sounds of their mothers’ voice singing lullabies. As they grow older music can help them connect and recognize the types of feelings they are experiencing.

Music is God’s gift to us, some people are blessed with musical talents, and others are blessed by listening and appreciating the sound of music.


Glenniah

Friday, August 24, 2007

finding my father

The new grey granite Headstone marking the grave of my Father’s parents in the Fremantle cemetery stands upright. Twelve months before my father died he paid to have his parent’s grave tidied up and the head stone refurbished. He didn’t realize how soon he would be ready to go to his last resting place. However, things didn’t work out exactly as he had planned. When my father succumbed to a stroke in 1999 my brother was in charge of all the funeral arrangements and his burial site. I trusted him. After all how difficult can it be to ensure a person’s ashes are placed where they are intended? For some time afterwards I imagined my father resting peacefully with his ancestors in the recently restored family grave.

I am not one for visiting cemeteries unless I have to attend a funeral or am doing some genealogy research. This however, happens infrequently. Although, in the last twelve months, I have been to more funerals than in the last ten years.
One day, my husband Jamie and I decided to go and visit father’s grave with my cousin. We found the gravesite with the name of my father’s parents and long gone brothers and sisters. Imagine our consternation when we saw no mention of my father. He was not where he should have been.

We decided the best option was to split up and search for him; well…. his resting place anyway. Fremantle cemetery was established in 1896, so there were many graves to peruse. Jamie and my cousin began searching all the headstones in the Baptist section. I walked across to the Methodist section where my mother’s ashes had been interred with her parents. No, there was no father there.
Slowly I continued my quest, enjoying the peace and quiet as I strolled through this last resting place of so many people. I wondered about those who had once lived and loved, worked, now gone, living on only in the memories of families and friends left behind.

Some graves had been left bare and desolate for years. Others were covered in plastic flowers, (dust collectors are what my mother called them). Some were tended often with tender loving care, as evidenced by the vases of fresh flowers and lack of weeds.
Yet others were worn with the passing of time, their named almost erased. No longer were there any loved ones left alive to tend their graves.
The inscriptions reminded me that death has no respect for age. The graves of little children and babies were identified by the statues of angels. Some born in the early days of settlement when the dry harsh land had been too hard and they had succumbed to illnesses that are unheard of these days.

I looked up at the sky washed in a multitude of hues; dusk was approaching. In the distance, a glimpse of the Indian Ocean reflecting the sun’s rays could be seen.
Suddenly I was brought back into the present when my mobile phone rang.
‘Come back,’ said Jamie. ‘We have found your father.’ Of course he meant the place where his ashes had been buried. I hurried back and as I ran I noticed some people looking at me as though running is out of place in a cemetery. Which I dare say might be. I hurried through the grounds, past the large trees, their leaves dappled by the fading sunlight. Branches spread out, protecting, covering those who lay beneath. Finally I reached the pair. They were quite close to the family gravesite but at a different grave.

Instead of being buried with his parents my father’s ashes had been placed with another part of our family, a part that we had long ago lost contact with. Standing and gazing at the spot we were very impressed.
Hi Dad’, I whispered, I thought of all the words we’d never said, now left unspoken.
‘Perhaps you can get to know these long lost relations,’ was all I could say.
‘This is a lovely spot’, murmured my cousin. ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here.’
‘Neither would I’ was my husband’s response.
The grave was under a huge tree with shade for protection during our hot summers. It was only a few metres away from my father’s family and my mother’s grave was close by. I could imagine him peacefully at rest during the long nights, close to his family. Perhaps even closer than in life.

We decided not to have his ashes moved. We would leave my father where he was.
I don’t suppose the current occupant is really bothered, although I do wonder what the owners of the grave think when they visit and see a person with the same name as theirs, yet a stranger, buried in their family plot.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Meeting my life partner

It was a warm balmy English Summer's day. I stood at Victoria Railway Station in London looking rather perplexedly for a sign to point me in the right direction. Suddenly a young (not unattracive man) spoke to me. Now I had seen him pass me and then come back again. Oh he likes me I thought, I know his kind, I will give him short shrift. However he did point out that I was meant to be at Victoria Bus station and not the railway station. This was helpful to me as I was awaiting the arrival of friends from the bus station. I felt I owed him, so when he asked me to have a coffee with him while I waited, I deigned to accept.We whiled away a pleasant hour or two until my friends finally found us.The conversation then turned to where we were going to go next. I chose the movies and my new friend said, Oh I have always wanted to see that film ( nod nod wink wink thought I). The others chose to go elsewhere and I felt that as it was early afternoon I would probably be safe enough to go with this gentleman to the movies.At the end of the film we went out to dinner and then he took me home. Outside the house he asked me, 'May I kiss you goodnight or should we shake hands." Wow! I was won over but didnt want to appear to be too anxious so I held out my hand for him to shake.

I was staying at the time with my girl friend's parents and when they discoved I had a male friend they were most concerned that this little Australian girl had met a man in big bad London. Immeadiately they invited him home so they could check him out, lol.They loved him because he cried at sad movies and knew all the really old hymns. LOL He could have been an axe murderer but he won the Mother's heart so he was IN.Well that was 25 years ago and we are still dancing to the same tune,a little bit slower now tho.

glenni

Monday, August 6, 2007

Mistake or Mis text

Cell phones are a great invention, I love sending and receiving text messages. Sometimes however, things can go slightly awry. I have two Helens in my address book, Helen F. and Helen M. I thought Helen F had been deleted so I rushed off a text message to Helen M while I was on holidays. Here is how the conversation went.

Me. Hi Helen, having a grt hol. in Melbourne.
H. Hi I dont no u. But glad u r having a good time.
Me But arent you Helen M
H No sorry m8
Me I have u in my address book. R u from Perth
H No Sorry
Undeterred I determined to soldier on, (message) on.

Me This is Glen here. Who r u?
H Oh Glen, u dag (lol)

It was then I realized I was messaging Helen F and not Helen M. So although it was the wrong Helen it was kinda the right Helen and it all turned out well.

There is a message to be learned here, I'm sure of it
Glenni

Friday, August 3, 2007

I love this old lady.

A SENIOR MOMENT A 98 year old woman wrote this to her bank. The bank manager thought it amusing enough to have it published in the New York Times. Dear Sir: I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three 'nanoseconds' must have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Social Security check, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you ust nominate. Be aware that it is an offense under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope. Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof. In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows: 1-- To make an appointment to see me. 2-- To query a missing payment. 3-- To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there. 4-- To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping. 5-- To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature. 6-- To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home. 7-- To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.) 8-- To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7. 9-- To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call. Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement. May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year. Your Humble Client

A heroic act

We had been strolling along the famous Fremantle cappucino strip when Jamie and I decided to walk into Target. As we were turning into the store an attractive young woman turned in front of us. She walked inside and a man who had been strolling along the pavement suddenly veered into the store behind her and followed her up the elevator. Now I admit to having a sense of the dramatic, so I turned to Jamie and said I think this young woman is being followed by someone. We rode up on the elevator and followed the man following the young woman. "Yes" he agreed, she is being followed. We watched her making several stops with the man close behind. Finally I went up to her and asked, 'did you come into this store with anybody? After all, he could have been her father I was just giving him the benefit of the doubt. 'No' she replied firmly. 'I don't want to alarm you.' I said. "But that gentleman over there' (I pointed to the guy peering over the shelves at us) has been following you ever since you came in. She glanced at the man and then back again at me. Then she took to her heels and ran like mad out of the store. In retrospect she didn't know me either, so I guess she took the safest way out and dumped the lot of us. Even so, Jamie called me a hero and I did feel as if I had saved somebody as well as thwarting a prowler, so all in all it was a successful outcome. I like to think so anyway.
Glenni

Mistaken Identity

Going to buy the weekly groceries is always an outstanding event for Jamie and I. As we traverse the aisles at the supermarket we always stop and chat to friends, new and old. This Saturday was no exception, I had a lovely long chat with some friends while Jamie walked up and down the aisles and filled our shopping trolley. The checkout was no different, Jamie discussed the price of eggs and bananas, (currently in Australia if you can afford to buy bananas you are counted as being amongst the rich and elite). Finally I had to rescue him as the lady next to him in the queue began telling him her experiences with her three teenagers. The girl at the check out was very happy to spend time chatting with us as well and I was relieved to finally be leaving the store.On the way out we stopped at a newsagent and left the shopping trolley close by. At last it was time to leave the Centre so taking our trolley with us we loaded up the car and drove home. Once there we unloaded the car and started packing away our groceries. Half way through this task Jamie said 'did you buy orange juice and ice cream?' 'No' I replied. I went to the bag and found that it contained nothing I had brought at the store. We decided that the checkout girl had put the wrong bag with our groceries. However when we searched the rest of our bags we found that they were all filled with someone else's groceries. It was very disconcerting, I couldn't imagine what on earth had happened to ours. Then we realized the mistake, somehow we had taken away another person's trolley and left ours behind. So we reloaded the car again and hastened to the shopping centre. Leaving the car parked in a five minute parking space we unloaded the shopping bags. I raced to the supermarket and Jamie raced to the newsagent. I was half way through pouring out my tale of woe to the girl behind the checkout when she interrupted me and finished my story for me. 'Go to the newsagents, they are waiting for you.' Back I flew to the newsagent and there was Jamie with our trolley. The woman behind the counter at the newsagent had taken out all our meat and perishables and kept them in the refrigerator for us. She realized we must have taken the wrong trolley and had taken down the other person's name and phone number so they could be contacted.Again, we pushed the shopping trolley out of the shopping centre to the cheers of quite a few onlookers, loaded the car and drove home.I don't know why strange adventures happen to us, I'm sure we don't look for them, but then again, who knows?