February 16, 2011
Contrary to some internet rumors, the current location of H-Pi Instruments headquarters, Muncie, IN, is not an indication that H-Pi products are crafted by the aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. [Editor's Note: Nor was that film actually shot in Muncie, though the story does begin there.]
I am quite comfortable being associated with gentle aliens with big brains and nimble fingers who are familiar with the Kodaly System and who announce their presence through music and dreams (their chosen melody consists of basic harmonics in Just Intonation, after all). But today I'd like to set the record straight, to explain why H-Pi Instruments is where it is, and to share a bit with you about someone who is very special to me, who I have always admired, to whom indeed I owe my own life: my mother, Marjorie Ellen Hunt, who came into this world on June 21, 1936, and departed from it on January 28, 2011.
I'd like to introduce you to my late mother by way of my own memories, to give a glimpse of what it has been like for me to be her son.
Peacefulness, kindness, and gentleness pervade my earliest memories. I recall how my mother would let me draw pictures and listen to music while she was sewing in the adjacent room. I remember us riding the bus together, going to the library, or shopping. I recall how in my youth, she gave me piano lessons, letting me play by ear, always encouraging my imagination and creativity. Later, when I was in my teens, when I practiced my drums in the basement, making a terrible racket, she would call down, "sounds good Aaron!"
My mother took me to music lessons and art lessons throughout my teenage years. She took me to my first concert, took an interest in the music I liked, carted me and my drums and marimbas to various venues for competitions and concerts, and always encouraged my love for music. When it was time for me to leave the nest, she traveled with me, for interviews, to the Chicago Art Institute, and to the Philidelphia School of the Arts. She and my father came to concerts throughout my college years, supported me when I chose to pursue music composition, attended my graduation, helped me move to Cincinnati for graduate school, and supported me through all my student years.
Whenever I would write a new piece of music, I would call my mother and play whatever I was working on to her over the phone. She wasn't a professional musician, but her response was always more helpful and meaningful to me than anyone else's. If she liked what I was working on, I knew something in it was good. She also had the kindest and funniest ways of telling me what could be better. For example, one time she said "I like it! I thought maybe it was going to be shorter." She always said such wonderful encouraging things to me, and the most beautiful part about that is that she was always sincere.
After I had earned advanced degrees in music, my mother asked me to give her piano lessons and to teach her music theory. What an honor that was for me! She had played piano all her life, but had never learned any music theory. She said it opened up a new world for her. What great fun that was for me.
When I was finally on my own as an adult, my mother treated me as an adult, but she still looked after me, occasionally sending me tins of cookies and fruit, short letters by paper mail, sometimes with newspaper articles with notes like "I read this and thought of you". These things were always gentle and nurturing, sincerely caring, never overbearing, never hovering or intrusive. She always respected my privacy, and I always appreciated that.
When I think of my mother, some words that come to mind are: kind, caring, patient, giving, sincere, humble, loving, encouraging, and joyful. As I try to express to you the kind of person she was, what I arrive at is something like the following. She was everything that a human being ought to be. A true human being. She was and will always be to me, a shining example of goodness and love in this world. I know that many people who knew her and were touched by her spirit, have similar things to say about her.
For such a person one could only wish that passing from this life would be free of unnecessary suffering. It wasn't so for my mother, but she showed grace and courage in the face of her suffering. A certain disease of the mind called Lewy Body Dementia afflicted my mother in the final years of her life. She was formally diagnosed in 2008. The disease is similar to Alzheimers' and Parkinsons', but differs in several significant, rather terrifying ways. The most upsetting symptom of Lewy Body is persistent hallucinations. For my mother, a life-long teacher of young children, these waking nightmares often took the form of children in distress, for whom she felt responsible, but powerless to help.
For the past several years, as my mother's illness progressed, I tried to stay in better touch and give her more of my attention. For much of 2009, I called her by phone on a daily basis. Some days, our conversations were light and cheery, and other days she would tell me through tears of her helplessness, sometimes cutting conversation short, for worry that she had somewhere to be or something pressing to attend to, phantoms of her suffering mind. 2008 to 2010 my family struggled tenuously with the distressing changes taking place, as my mother's waking life became more and more of a nightmare. My own connections took the form of dreams, often awakening me in the middle of the night, in tears, with visions of my mother's suffering.
Early in 2010, a day care center in Muncie where my father had been taking my mother closed its doors due to loss of government funding. My father needed help. Making the move was an easy decision for me, and one I will never regret.
Over the past 10 months, I've continued H-Pi Instruments here in Muncie while also teaching music theory and composition part time at Ball State University. The reason I am here and my business is here is because of my mother. At least two days each week, I would give my father much needed respite from the exhaustion of his care taking. My journey through this is only a fraction of his. I can only imagine the spiritual toll of witnessing the suffering and loss of such a life partner of 53 years.
I share all of this with you not to bring attention to myself and this particular personal drama or to garner your sympathies. In the days directly following my mother's death, I was never more conscious of the brokenness of this world we live in, where almost nothing seems to work the way it should and everything goes wrong all the time, where there is such unjust suffering and sometimes it seems nothing at all is right. We all have our stories of everything going wrong, of injustice and pain. We don't all suffer equally, but we all suffer. No one is immune to this. It is the human condition.
My mother suffered terribly at the end of her life, trapped in a mind that wouldn't work right, in a body that wouldn't work right. She couldn't speak coherently, was plagued by terrible visions, by anxieties out of her control, overwhelming concern for all the children, worry over whether there was enough food or money, the weight of everything in her life that she had ever felt responsible for, all that she had to prepare for and take care of. At times she was utterly inconsolable, when I would tell her everything was okay and sometimes she would insist through tears, "No, it's not". What do you do when you hear your mother cry through incoherent sobs and a barrage of invented nonsense syllables, "I want to get out of here," "please make this stop", and "nothing is real", and even "I feel useless." It was simply heartbreaking to witness her pain, and to be unable to do anything but be there with her, trying to reassure her in her desperation.
Many people who suffer from dementia exhibit uncharacteristically negative personality changes as their illness progresses; a person who was gentle and kind before the onset of dementia may become angry, hostile, obscene, violent, or worse. My mother did none of those kinds of things. She only wept mightily, sometimes with all her being, and lost all her ability to reason. There were times when I felt in her presence it was as if she was taking upon herself the suffering of humanity. I know that sounds like overstatement, but if you were there, you would understand. In retrospect, I see that through all her terrible suffering there was still the enduring expression of her caring, of persistent concern and of unconditional love. Though lost both to herself and everyone around her, she was still always there, still present.
Even when she had lost all command of language, when everything she tried to say came out all wrong, when she could not tell dream from reality, when she existed in a terrible state of imprisonment within a mind and body failing to work properly, when she could not walk, could not stand up, could not feed herself, and could not even open her eyes any more, my mother still found ways to express love. She was still grateful, and even joyful in her suffering. She still sang. This amazed me. Her singing was spontaneous, unstructured. It came in unexpected bursts of melody. Usually it only lasted only a moment, but sometimes she went on for more than a moment. I jotted down one of the longer melodies that she sang and repeated several times. I included that melody in the music which was played at her funeral.
My mother taught me so many things, not didactically, but by example, by her way of being. I learned from her that the most important things in life are intangible, and I am fortunate to have gained such understanding from her. There is relief in this type of passing from suffering, that the one who suffers is finally free of everything that tormented them. I was with my mother when her suffering came to an end, when she was set free. I was with her when she died. To the last moment, when she could no longer speak or even move her emaciated, contorted body, I heard her cries and reassured her that all the children were okay, that there was enough food, that there was enough money, that everyone was okay, that she did not need to worry. When my mother drew her final breath, there was music playing, Bach's keyboard partita in G, a very joyful piece. In my tears and distress, as I waited for her next breath that did not come, that joyousness concluded and the solemnity of the next partita began, in E Minor. If you know that music, you know the emotions that can be connected with it.
Bach called music a spiritual activity. I believe it is. Music is a very mysterious expression of a person's soul or spirit, of a person's feelings, understanding, desires, hopes, dreams, aspirations and inspirations. Music can help a person live a life filled with joy and compassion for those who suffer. We all need such mercy. In our suffering in life, we should never forget that the smallest of things could save our spirit, and the spirits of others, as my mother never forgot, even when her whole universe came crashing down. My mother taught me, we should never forget to sing.
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