Compassion at the Heart of Emotional Intelligence!

“I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” is a 1969 autobiographical novel that makes a speciality of the early years of writer Maya Angelou’s lifestyles. Written at the quit of the American Civil Rights motion, the paintings explores the isolation and loneliness Angelou confronted.

Up some distance too late into the wee hours of the morning, an all too often sector in which I locate myself, on one of these events, I also determined myself thinking about Angelou’s tale and its parallel to the existence of not best my personal, however to many musicians.

As a musician, it’s far extra often than now not, tough to discover a true pal aside from every other musician (simply, the identical is often true within the tune network itself). But, for this article’s motive, for instance, non musicians appear to either view musicians as demigods due to their skills, or they may be deemed freaks of society (some choice fans can also view us as each…Simultaneously).

After all, as musicians, we do now not match the Maya Angelou Quarter status quo…The “combo in enterprise as traditional” scenario…The all encompassing method of graduating high school, going to university, and getting a process that we are able to retire from forty years later.

No, even though we attend and whole university, then take a process in a local college district coaching the faculty band or choir within the interest of “normalizing” our lives, inevitably, we are able to be placed in society’s one in all “demigod” or “freak” molds (once more, possibly, each simultaneously) dare we ever go out our nether international to perform publicly to a crowd of a couple of.

In my own private enjoy, as well as the stories of my musician friends/acquaintances, when you have been a musician for maximum of your lifestyles, it is able to be said that your existence within the global of music supersedes your gambling an instrument, making a song, performing, or composing.

It is in all likelihood and, in any other case, a religious “calling” in order to now not permit move. And, it could without problems be stated to have an inescapable keep on you…A blessing in a feel, but and perhaps, even a curse…Just like that dreaded 30-day c program languageperiod of the silvery moon that your friendly neighborhood werewolf should endure and continue to exist
lifelong with out bringing undue attention to himself or herself.

And, it is a unique degree of human spirituality that most non artists cannot and could probable in no way understand. In contrast to Ms. Angelou’s paintings, together with our musical skills and the enjoyment of being blessed as a author, comes a slightly seething loneliness that, in turn, maintains our honesty to our “calling.”

Regardless of your favored style which you dare no longer admit chose you, rather than your choosing it, you may possibly agree that the common factors of anger, disappointment, and other associated and indifferent feelings may be derived from, as a minimum, one track of any given artist’s repertoire, whether or not that artist is Enya along with her “Caribbean Blue” (Celtic), Roy Ayer’s “Searching” (Jazz) Sting’s “If I Ever Lose My Faith In You” (Progressive Rock), Jill Scott’s “Golden” (RnB), or any of Eryka Badu’s works, as well as those of many other artists.

And, as unhappy as it is for me to confess it, I have additionally discovered that many artists (which includes myself) can remain too near, too lengthy, to their track with out a vitally necessary unrelated diversion to overtly distract and store us from instituting a “Curt Cobain.”

Because, music has a uniquely powerful way of forcing a suppressed (and, frequently painful) private records to the floor for re-evaluation and analysis. And, as musicians, and because we’re creators, this is, probably, the purpose for our excessive diploma of emotional reaction to it extra so than non artists.

While this text has been supposed to function “frame filler” for this article, it also serves me properly as a few moments of self-reflective remedy, as my spirit eclipse’s the oh so soothing albeit depressing sounds of Ms. Lalah Hathaway’s vocal lead (lyrics through Ms. Bette Midler) that cascade Mr. Joe Sample’s rendition of Ms. Midler’s “When Your Life Was Low” (it is on my playlist on my MySpace web page, but do not listen too regularly, lest ye fall sufferer to and come to be a would possibly painfully enthralled, together with my wretched soul hath carried out time and time again).

Ignorance is bliss, and I often desire that I remained a non artist who had in no way found out what I now understand about growing tune, its mechanics, or its intricacies, such as a way to arrange a particular chord inversion or a drum element’s backbeat that now not only evokes reminiscences and/or emotions that either make me need to leap better than Kal El may want to ever dream of doing, or are searching for the nearest gunshop for “El Fin,” however which either can draw the high-quality or terrible tear from a too regularly dry bloody eye.

And, after having self-analyzed, self-explored and self-purged, I too now realize (and understand succinctly) why the werewolf howls at the first light of the stunning silvery moon.