Me and my guitar. always in the same mood.
I am mostly flesh and bones and he is mostly wood.
Never does grow impatient for the changes I don't know, no.
If he can't go to heaven, maybe, I don't want to go, Lord.
James Taylor - Me and My Guitar
I remember an inspirational music teacher saying to the youth orchestra that "You always need to remember 'I am a viola player' all the time, even when you aren't playing. When you're on the tube, or hanging out with our friends, or at school, you should still think to yourself, 'I'm a violinist' or 'I'm a trombonist', or 'I'm a saxophone player'. Your instrument is part of who you are". It's certainly true for me even now, many years later. And it's strongly instrument-specific as well. I play the piano, but I would never say 'I am a piano player'. Why not? Because I am a saxophone player. It's become part of me. I even play other instruments professionally as a doubler, but I'm no longer a 'clarinettist' (I used to be, years ago).
What does 'I am a saxophone player' mean? It means, for me, that without this knowledge, I would lose some essential part of myself. I need it to maintain some aspect of my identity. I'm also a 'music therapist', but this doesn't have the same resonance. I work as a music therapist, but I'm not 'a music therapist' in the way that I'm 'a saxophone player'. Maybe some people feel like this about their job, but I'm not sure. I think it might be something about the physical object itself.
Could this be related to transitional phenomena? Is my instrument a kind of transitional object? Does it keep me in touch with some essential internalisation which I need to maintain my sense of self over time, to keep my sense of continuity as a person? This seems plausible. Think about having to give up your instrument. There are people for whom this happens, through circumstances beyond their control. We might acknowledge this as a deep tragedy in many such circumstances, perhaps beyond the misfortune of, say, losing a job, or breaking a leg, and more akin to losing a person, an important attachment figure. I once had to stop playing for a few weeks when I injured a finger, which was a sobering experience. Reconnecting with my instrument after this was a big relief. I'd lost someone I loved and now they were back.
Maybe this connection is something to hold onto as a music therapist. Maybe it's important that the work doesn't take this away. Winnicott talks about decathexis in relation to transitional phenomena, about how they are 'spread out' over 'the whole cultural field' (1971 Playing and Reality page something-or-other). But when you are connected to an instrument perhaps you are able to re-focus, to concentrate your creativity once more, in a similar (but different) way you did with your teddy bear when you were three years old. Keep on cathecting, as the song might go (if you can find a rhyme)...
