Once a school psychologist and I were talking. I know, most of my stories start this same way. This time she wove a pretty interesting yarn. Something enlightening happened at a conference that she had attended.
At this conference they showed a video of a little girl walking on a beautiful path through the dunes toward the ocean, beautiful classical music playing in the background, wind flowing through her hair. She looked content, the scene magical. Once the girl arrived at the shoreline to dip her toes in, the scene started to replay.Again, this same wind-blown girl walking on the same path through the dunes with the same ocean approaching. But this time it was foreboding. The music was dark and eerie. Something terrible obviously awaits this girl in the ocean. Suddenly, the same expression that seemed so content is terror stricken. The same scene that seemed magical is filled with dread.
The difference in the scenes was nothing other than the music playing in the background. The shark music. The shark music turned the scene from joy to doom. And this psychologist then said, "It was then that I realized it. The problem with your child is that they hear shark music. All we have to do is change the soundtrack in their head.”
This notion, so simple, so elegant and so for sure true, is not quite as simple to solve as you might think. I wonder secretly if it's even possible. We have tried medications, therapies, general cheeriness around the house, surrounding ourselves with beauty, international trips. We have tried work in homeless shelters and trips to pet shelters to subtly demonstrate "how lucky you are" and "how happy you should be". Still, the change in music hasn't happened. In all honesty, the CD hasn't even skipped. What has happened has been some measure of learning to fake it. A fake smile tossed in here and there. Some pretend platitudes. Some practiced joy. And it is sadder to see than the shark music. Because it isn't real.
As a person born with Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever march in their head, I sometimes wish I could be sadder for longer. Or madder. Or whatever. But that cursed march busts through and I just have to laugh and move on. In my mournful teens I tried to change my music to be sullen and dark like all of the cool kids. But to my disappointment, my efforts were in vain and my brief depressed phase lifted - it was inauthentic and flat. As much as I wanted to hear the shark music and I could imagine what it was like, it just was never me. It was never real.
So I guess I have to wonder - is my role as a parent to be like Geppetto and build my own child from a wooden pile of virtues? That didn't work out so well for Pinocchio or his Pops if I remember that story. Is it better to craft our kids into inauthentic versions of themselves in order to meet our own standards or hopes? Or might it be better to accept their natural rhythm and help them build a life around that?
Even faced with this big question and watching my shark-music child struggle their way through daily life, my own marching band soundtrack refuses to dim. Somehow, in its stubborn refusal to keep its happy beat quiet, I think that I may have found my answer. Now, to be satisfied with it...