Children who grow too fast often miss out on vital experiences of mastery essential for healthy development (Oaklander, 2005). This can happen when parents do too much for the child or disallow opportunities for exploring and expanding their Lifespace (Lewin, 1957). It can also happen when there is trauma and developmental delay, as was the case in this vignette of an eight-year-old boy whom I shall refer to as Jardie.
Jardie presented with a history of early trauma, attachment difficulties and sensory deficits. He experienced many foster placements and when his biological mother died he became adopted at age five. Jardie presented as a bright child who seemed insecure, craving attention yet unsure as to how to manage closeness. He seriously underachieved at school and struggled with focussing on tasks and with building relationships with peers and his teachers.
In our early encounters it was hard to build a trusting place where he might settle. Like a camera lens searching for clear focus, Jardie rushed around the room picking up objects and putting them down again. Eventually the sand tray attracted him where he withdrew into repetitive play, driving miniature cars around in slurry made by soaking the sand into which they sank. I watched with fascination as he constructed islands using pipe cleaners to make bridges on the shifting sands – a metaphor perhaps for his life experience hitherto. He resisted all attempts to engage him, however either through joining his play or through verbal interaction. This left me curious as to the meaning of what was happening between us. Sometimes I struggled with bracketing my frustration when Jardie seemed to revel.
In treating me as his slave: “You – get me the dumper truck – and more cars – NOW!”
One time Jardie surprised me by requesting more participation in his play; he still wanted me to serve as his subordinate. He issued commands in a matter of fact voice:
“Make weather sounds now!” I started to accompany his sandplay tilting the rain stick, which elicited his displeasure: “No more rain!” he intoned, grabbing the stick from me. “STOP! Do Big thunder now!” Jardie grinned as I rattled the bellicose-sounding spring drum. “Jon – that’s enough,” he interjected as I increased the volume. “OK, Jardie,” I acknowledged. “How about something gentler?”
I reached for my guitar and began softly strumming. Many children I see enjoy the sounds of an acoustic guitar, which can be played in a manner that is soothing or enlivening.
Jardie stood up looking pained and reached across to silence the strings. “Stop it Jon – no more!”
“OK Jardie,” I responded gently. “Did the music remind you of anything in your life?”
He replied sharply: “No talking now, Shut up, SHUT UPPP!” I took this as a sign that he had reached his limit and needed to regroup his energy. So I respectfully heeded his wish. We continued the last few moments in silence. “See you next week, Jardie,” I said, returning him to his adoptive father in the waiting room.
Jardie continued to be fascinated by the sandtray though did not ask me for musical accompaniment again for a long time after. His play continued to involve cars driving into hazards in the sand, being buried and exhumed from graves. He told me proudly that the cars were ‘dead now’ though wouldn’t elaborate or allow further discussion of what this meant. However he began to allow me to offer a commentary:
“… In goes the blue car now – and you’re burying that near the dumper truck. You smile and seem pleased with yourself…”
Invariably he reached a point when he no longer wanted to hear me, covering his ears or shouting “Silence!” He continued to play in the sand, head down, repeating the movement patterns with the cars, occasionally pouring cups of water over them (which sometimes strayed onto the carpet) until the sandtray and contents resembled a strange, swampy porridge. He did not want me to sit near the sand tray so I sat at a distance, observing his play making minimal comment.
Several sessions later, wondering if his rather repetitive play might be enhanced a little, I decided to risk making sound again but in a more participatory fashion. Could he tolerate my joining him in this way? I picked up my guitar and improvised the following ditty:
“This is a song about Jardie
He likes to use the sand tray
He puts the cars in carefully
And then, he….”
“BURIES THEM – LOOK!!!” shrieked Jardie with glee.
Let us briefly consider the rendition of this song in terms of musical intervals. In the first line ‘This is a song’ is sung on one note, ‘about ‘ is pitched three notes above and ‘Jardie ‘ is a fifth above the starting note. Next ‘He’ returns to the original note, ‘Likes to ’ is sung a fourth above, rising to a sixth note ‘use’ with each word of ‘the sand tray’ descending in a scale that ends on the third, close to the starting note.
I’m keeping the musical range small, to retain a sense of a ‘secure base’, though I include the ‘rising sixth’ – the striving musical interval often associated with preparing to stretch further (think for example of the opening melody of My Way: “And now…”) There is a deliberate slowing down at ‘then’ enabling Jardie to add his contribution to the dialogue. I’m wanting to offer him an experience that is within his ‘range’ – allowing for both some exploration and return; at this stage I need to offer most of the framework and the linking – until Jardie feels more confident to widen his parameters and participate more in the dialogue. As a famous Chinese proverb notes: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
At this point let us return to Jardie’s play.
“Let’s make some burying sounds,” I suggested. To my surprise Jordie reached for two miniature lions from a box on the desk and made a small roaring sound, which I copied, continuing our duet. He looked happy for a moment, and then turned away.
“Let’s do that again,” I suggested and he looked blank. “Is there someone you would like to roar at in your life?” I asked softly. Jardie shook his head and placed the lions in the dumper truck to one side. “Hurry up – we’ve got to save the lorries now!” he said, deflecting. And the moment was lost.
Another time he placed a car to signify each biological parent (assigning them by name) in the sandtray. “Jon – Go Get the Lions!” He ordered, glowering, then barked: “Lions – Eat Them Up – NOW!” And he made devouring noises. Lifting his head and sitting up, straight on his haunches, Jardie looked pleased. He said stiffly that he didn’t know why his parents had left him and that he wished he could still see his dead mother. For a moment he briefly allowed me into his inner world though when I empathised with his wish he closed off again saying tartly, “I don’t want to talk about it”. Adapting a popular contemporary song from the group Black Eyed Peas I sang to him: “Shut up! Just shut up, shut it up – don’t talk about it – too painful!” He nodded, then smiled briefly and returned to the sandtray.
Those familiar with the song will real how the command ‘Shut up!’ here is sung fast; the notes are all semi-quavers and switch from on the beat to the off beat, varying its accentuation – playing with meaning through playing with the beat. As the reader will have noticed, Jardie often deflects from staying with his emotions. Through my light-hearted musical parody I sought to encourage him to stay with and play with his angry feeling a little longer. In the event his nod and smile suggested he remained receptive to this idea, albeit briefly.
Soon after this Jardie ‘s sessions with me reduced to fortnightly, enabling him to attend complimentary sessions with an occupational therapist during alternate weeks. She designed a package of physical exercises to help increase his neurological integration of sensory experiences. Jardie’s need to keep pushing the toy cars against a resistance (the sand), to experiment with pouring water, to feel the textures of sand between fingers made increasing sense to me as a result of her observations – an example of how inter-disciplinary working can be beneficial to all concerned.
Months later Jardie asked to use the instruments, ignoring the sandtray. He rattled, shook and struck some of the ‘instant access’ percussion but didn’t appear to find anything that engaged him. Instead, to the tune of Frere Jacques, he began singing:
“I am Jardie, I am Jardie…”
“Yes you are!” I continued his refrain: “How are you?”
“I am very happy,” he began, and then broke off from his song to instruct me:
“Add some drum now, Jon – and I’ll do the bell! Quicker – no, louder – do it again! Bing, Bam, Bong! Bim, Bam Bong!!”
“What makes Jardie happy?’ I sang and he hesitated. Undeterred I continued:
“Is it…?” I began to engage him in a gently teasing musical ‘peek-a-boo’ song. (I imagined he might have missed out on such engagement during his interrupted early years). I listed in my song a litany of possibilities – potentially pleasurable or otherwise, including pepperoni pizza, having his own bedroom, homework, strawberries, wash night – all of which he responded to with an emphatic yell: “YES!” or “NO!”
Each time I posed the question he smiled – and with a look of triumph shouted out his response. I sensed that had I spoken the words they would have felt persecutory; singing them instead appeared to lighten their impact, to soften my touch. In confirming his likes and dislikes Jardie seemed to be making some elementary yet important self-statements.
When Jardie appeared to experience separation anxiety and sought to delay leaving my room I mirrored this in song, offering some comfort: ‘You don’t want to go – and it’s time to stop – so see you next week, have a good weekend!’* On hearing this he cheered up and eagerly returned to the waiting room.
Jardie’s difficulty around separating often reappeared when his session was about to finish; sometimes using a ‘count down’ helped him manage this transition.
Reflecting on my response to his singing I could have remained silent (speech, like music, consists of rests or pauses as well as sound). Instead I chose to join him in a duet. Many children and young persons feel uncomfortable, even overwhelmed by silences, more so perhaps than adults do. In extreme cases this can feel like falling into an abyss’ (Blend, 2008). At such times it helps if the therapist can act as a conduit, ‘carrying the conversation’ (Oaklander, personal discussion, 2014).
To be continued… © Jon Blend MA, 2017
* I am indebted to senior music therapist Donald Wetherick whose case illustration involving responses sung to a troubled youngster inspired me to sing to Jardie.
