By PEGGY WALLACE

My brother was 13 years my senior. I didn’t really grow up with him around. He was off to college before I could even make sense of his existence.

But for him, I was like his first child. He had memories of our early years together, he as a teenager and me as a toddler, that simply don’t exist for me in any real way. He loved me fiercely, always.

When I was myself a teenager, we developed a bond so strong, other members of our family couldn’t fathom it. He was present in my life in a way that no other adult was. He mattered to me in a way that simply didn't apply to other people. When he suddenly died in 2009, it left a gaping hole in my world. The pain of losing him is something that remains with me, just under the surface.

One of the many things we bonded over was music. He was a musician in his spare time, playing guitar and piano, writing and recording songs, playing on the street corners in his downtown Boston neighborhood just for fun. I loved music, and because I adored him, this was our bonding place.

We could spend hours listening to music, each taking a turn at picking out songs from his vast music library. Back when music was made on vinyl and there were stores that sold things called "records", we could spend an entire afternoon combing through the options, making our selections, and then going home to have a listening party. He taught me about rhythm, tone, pitch, harmony, and cadence. I learned to identify the different musical instruments simply by sound. There literally are not many songs (particularly the classics) that aren’t tied to my memory of him in some way.

And so, in 2009, music stopped for me, or rather, I stopped the music. It was painful, especially in the early days following his death, to listen to songs we enjoyed together.

And so, very soon after his passing, I started telling myself stories about music: You can’t enjoy music anymore. If you listen to that, it will bring back painful memories. Music isn’t special anymore. It’s not going to sound as good, now that he’s gone. And on and on, the stories went. Until I decided that music would no longer be a part of my life. I tuned into talk radio and called it a day. I had decided that I was no longer a music fan. Too painful. Too hard. 

Fast forward 15 years and I’m at the FCM Widsom Retreat. It’s a few days into the retreat when, close to the end of the evening, Fred instructs us all to lay down in the Meditation Hall. Get comfortable, he says, because we’re going to listen to music.

Panic. Stories. I don’t listen to music, and certainly not in public, because I’m likely to cry. I was stiff, and tense, and worried. And I heard the stories start to play in my head.

And then Fred said, seemingly directly to me, “Just relax”.  So this time, I decided to try something different. This time I thought, What might happen if I don’t tell those stories and just listen? Could I let music just be music?  Could it be joyful again? Could I enjoy the beauty of it again? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that was possible?

Because I had long ago made the decision to invent and tell myself my stories about music, I also had to make the decision to put the stories down, if only for a moment, just to see what would happen.

As I lay there in the Meditation Hall, staring out the window at the dark night, heat lightning lit up the sky, and the music began to play. Oh, God, acoustic guitar. My brother's first, most loved instrument. For a moment, my heart ached and I started to entertain an old story, but I was able to let it go, telling myself, “I don’t have to tell a story about this, I can just listen”.

And then, the magic happened. The music was stunning, clear, melodic. As I let go of my stories, gorgeous tempos and melodies flowed over me like old friends coming home again. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I was stuck by the serene peace the music brought to me. It was one of the more powerful moments of my life.

I did a lot of thinking in the wake of that experience. I realized very acutely that the stories I had invented, perpetuated, and told over and over again had walled me off. I was missing out on the joy of music and it was all my own doing. What else was I holding myself back from? In what other ways was I limiting my life experience because of these stories? And why did I invent them in the first place? Well, that’s another discussion entirely but if I had to sum it up, I could: Fear.

And so I began examining my own mind, and looking for the stories in my everyday life (they are not hard to find). I began deconstructing these stories that I once thought kept me safe. Each time one began to play, I stopped and examined it. Was it true? Did I need to keep telling it? Was it really helping me, or was it depriving me from being fully open and engaged with my life? What is this story keeping me from?

And that process continues today. And slowly, in the untelling of my once-cherished stories, I am reclaiming my life and giving it back to myself, uncovering joy along the way. 

Peggy Wallace of Tampa has been a member of FCM since 2021. She is a member of the Board of Directors, leader of Community Care on the Leadership Council and a member of the Order of Interbeing.