First Year Lessons
At the last staff meeting, my first work anniversary was announced. My boss asked me how it felt and all I could think to say was, “That was fast!”. It is a little surreal to think that I’ve been a working music therapist for a year now. Before I’m through my second year, I want to crystallize three lessons I’ve learned thus far.
1. Nothing gets done without people.
Yes, we all knew this, right? We’re not robots. What I really mean is that people contribute a lot more time, energy, and thought to keep things functioning than I appreciated. As much as I hate the word “networking”, building relationships has put me in touch with mentors and peers across other disciplines that I otherwise wouldn’t have met. In the past year, these liasons have generously shared opportunities in researching, speaking at a TEDx event, and growing my knowledge.
As I step into new roles, I realize that contributing my own time is a professional responsibility. Instead of only taking the generosity of others’ efforts, I want to be active in contributing my thoughts and resources to supporting music therapy as we move forward.
2. Time moves quickly.
I’ve never wanted to be someone who lives for the weekend. However, my first year of work has shown me that there is a rhythm to the weeks and months that cannot be escaped. This past year seemed to pass quicker without exams or summer breaks or as many milestones to break up the calendar. I try to be mindful and after this first year I learned just how routine everything can become if I’m not vigilant about making the most of my time.
Watching a video from a speech given by David Foster Wallace entitled “This is Water” was a needed reminder to not become lost in the pattern of the work week. You can find the video below if you’re interested.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QiyY4t7WbnU
3. People are uniquely individual.
Working as a music therapist means coming into contact with all sorts of personalities. In the past year, I’ve met dozens of clients with memory loss and/or dementia. When I tell others that I work with this population, a common response is “Oh, but how can you work with those people?” Our society makes it easy to label such groups as marginalized, but in the past year I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for people.
Though others may lump together those with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia, I’ve found that no two people are similar. Not even close. Despite these terrible diseases, each and every person I work with maintains his or her sense of humor and gestures and personality that can be appreciated if time and attention are paid. I’ve learned to slow down, consider others’ situations, and acknowledge people. After all, we are human.