It’s been very emotional for me to reemerge from the darkness of lockdown to return to building community through music-making. In my conversations with folks, it becomes clear that a younger generation of families don’t know about some of the ways we connected before, and don’t necessarily remember many of the ways things were different then.
In going through my instrument collection to decide what to bring to my family music classes, I brought out the box that contained the EBCMP banner. For those who don’t know, EBCMP was the East Bay Community Music Project, the organization I founded in 2012 to cultivate community music-making opportunities for people of all ages, ethnicities, faiths, economic access, neurotypes, and abilities, and any other way one might sort people into categories. I now continue that work as imeetswe, for reasons I won’t cover here. But I believe at this point in history, part of my job as a facilitator and advocate is to remind people of what once was, and what is possible again, and this banner is a powerful reminder for me.
We used to meet on second and fourth Sundays, and at this particular time we were meeting in the multi-purpose room at Malcom X Elementary in Berkeley. My mother would often drive over from the Peninsula where she lives, and join us. She was usually the oldest person in attendance, just because not so many older folks would join us often, but she did. Our second gathering in August of 2014 coincided with my mother’s 70th birthday, so we planned a ceremony to honor her entry into the crone realm (which, whatever your association with the word might be, is an honor and a privilege, and an important place in the community).
We got together in the morning, and ate potluck breakfast. We had asked folks to bring pieces of colored fabric that could be torn or cut into strips, and some of us had taken some time in the morning to cut the many colors and textures of fabrics into strips. We sang some songs together as usual. Then, we had my mother sit in a chair in the middle of the space. As my mother sat in the middle, on her chair, each family in attendance, in turn, approached her (her name is Susan, or Grandma Sue), and gave her a kind reflection, and handed her a piece of the torn fabric. She had been instructed to tie the strips together as she was handed them. I don’t remember exactly how many families were in attendance, but there were enough that when each family had shared their kind reflections, she had a long, long rope of tied together fabric strips.
Then, as she held one end of the fabric, all the rest of us sang Que Sera Sera, a song that my mother loved (it was originally sung by Doris Day, and my mother was about 12 when it was on the radio, in a time when we were all connected by the songs that came over the radio).
My mother stood. We all sang, and wound the fabric around my mother, until she was all wrapped up in the kind reflections that folks had given her. And then, we unwound her, still singing, and then she walked around the families gathered and wound the fabric around the community, and it was long enough to encircle us a couple of times.
I wonder how many people remember that crone ceremony for my mom, or any crone ceremony for anyone’s mom, for that matter. She still remembers it, I’m sure, and I do too. For some, becoming a crone, or welcoming one into the community, is an important rite of passage–a recognition of having lived life fully, and of having a certain kind of wisdom that only comes from living a long time, and the importance of that wisdom to the community.
And what, then, was done with the fabric? Was it discarded? If you know my mom, you are fairly certain it wasn’t discarded. No, my mom proceeded, over the course of several months, (when she was also consumed with the many sewing and knitting and crocheting projects that she’s always consumed with) she turned the fabric strips into a quilted banner to represent the community. We used to carry it in front of us in our annual Spring Parade (you participate in an annual Spring Parade, don’t you? Doesn’t everybody?), and it was draped over the donation/announcement/signup table at our Sunday gatherings.
So as I uncovered the box that contained this emblem of a certain moment in a certain community of people who had chosen to gather because they loved to sing and move in community and recognize the cycles of the seasons and the ways people change, I admit, I cried. I had a moment. And because of how my particular brain is wired, it just made sense to share this moment with the community of people I find myself within now, who may or may not understand what I’m sharing, or what I think is important about a moment like this. I think about all of the moms in my community, and of all of the moms who might have moms that are moving toward the crone realm of their lives, and I wonder if they would appreciate being recognized in ways like I’ve described.
A crone represents a certain type of neurodiversity, and this community is organized to recognize the value of all of the different ways our brains are organized or disorganized, or differently organized. It used to be that to be old was a certain type of neurodivergence, because it was rare for people to live past a certain age. To be older is not so rare any more, but still worthy of being recognized for the value of simply having lived through many cycles of seasons, and styles of communication, and changes in hormone balance, and attitudes toward difference.
I share because I see something of value that I’m not sure the people around me see, and it’s just my brain’s wiring that makes me think that’s what I’m supposed to do.
In a neurodiverse community, all are welcome, all are recognized as having a unique perspective, and something of value to offer to the community. And we can, if we pay attention, and if we show up, recognize uniqueness within a community as having value, especially in a time where sameness is centered and strived for.
Thanks for listening. Thanks for showing up. Thanks for recognizing the value in the many ways of being a human being in the community we find ourselves in.
