Cellular Memory

On the last day of my Level III Orff training, we sing four songs that demonstrate moving from minor to major or major to minor. The songs—from the Ukraine, Bulgaria, Estonia and Finland/ Sweden—are hauntingly beautiful and by the end, not a single person cares that I artfully slipped them into the melodic/harmonic sequence so that they affirmed key theoretical concepts. As it should be. Revealing the details of theory in a neat sequence that moves from one known to the next unknown is part of artful teaching. But at the end of the day, it’s the particular strings in the heart that the tones pluck that make all the difference in the world—or not. 

Vem Kan Segla, the song from a Finnish island where the inhabitants speak Swedish, is about how maddeningly difficult it is to say goodbye to friends without crying. The exquisite arrangement by Daniel Hellden tugs at those major/ minor strings so that the notes themselves evoke longing. But when the group, now in their last day of six intense weeks together spread out over three summers, reads the translation, well, then the waterworks start. And now we need another song that tells how maddeningly difficult it is to sing a song while weeping. Try it. Doesn’t sound good.

So this led me to telling them the story of how I was in Canada teaching a course when I got the news—on this day 12 years ago—that my Dad had passed away after six months of trying to come back to life from open-heart surgery at 89 years old. I had said my goodbyes over and over during those six months, but still, when the final news hits, it hurts. I taught my Toronto class without sharing the news until the end of the day. And then we tried to sing Vem Kam Seglato collectively bid farewell to my Dad. Never did that song sound so bad! The notes were simply drowned out by sobbing.

Of course, as I told my Level III that story, the sobs came back again, embedded in the cellular memory of that moment now so long ago. That’s the indelible truth of neuroscience which we don’t always wholly understand. Deep emotion, be it ecstatic joy, deep sorrow or horrendous trauma, buries itself in our neurons and sleeps there—well, forever. To be awakened by various “triggers” and boom! there we are again, right back in that moment. 

And so I call this story up yet again in honor of my dear father. The timetable of loss keeps moving forward and it seems amazing that it is twelve years since I kissed his check or felt the vibration of his voice with my hand on his back or shared the news of the day. But cellular memory defies the ticking clock of time and I can still feel my father in all his various incarnations, by my side. Here’s to you, Dad!