Prescriptive music for the dying [link].

We become so focused on the need to fight death, we forget about the need to make it comfortable. When I brought my father’s CDs into the hospital, my mother fought me on it. She used the excuse that they might get stolen, but I knew what she really hated was the way I was moving his belongings into the hospital room. In her mind, the fewer of his possessions there, the easier it would be to get him home. And people who are comfortable, don’t fight. They give up.

The concept of death and disease as a war works for some people, I suppose. For the rest of us, fighting our own bodies, our own humanity just doesn’t make sense. Shadow boxing.

Healing is more of a dance.