About Me

Getting to Know Carmala . . .

The Discipline of a Musician

Dah, da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, bwwwwwww, dah, da-dah, da-dah.

“Stop,” my teacher father interrupted as I played through the accordion sheet music in front of me. I sat on a plain wooden chair with the black metal stand in front of me. Dad sat on my right side in his cushioned desk chair in the small room where he gave lessons in our basement. “Play that again.”

Dah, da-dah, da-dah, da-dah, bwwwwwww, dah, da-dah, da-dah.

“Play just that measure.”

Bwwwwwww

“I’m pretty sure you can do better, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Carm, I don’t care if you never play music when you are an adult. I hope you will enjoy it, but you don’t have to be a musician. What is most important is that you take the self-discipline of a musician with you into your life. Now do this with me . . .

“Play that measure very slowly.”

I did.

“Again. . . and again . . . and again . . . Now a little faster.”

I played the difficult measure a little faster.

“Again . . . now a little faster yet.”

Hmm. The bwwwwwww was starting to sound like music. My fingers and brain were connecting.

“Now play that measure and the following one . . . again . . . Good . . .Now play the measure before it, the hard one, and the measure after.”

Wow. It was coming together! How did I miss this lesson? I’d been taking accordion and piano lessons since I was three years old and now I was a fourth grader. Somehow this technique had never connected in my mind.

“Do you understand how to tackle a difficult part of any song now?” Dad asked.

I nodded.

“Describe it to me,” he continued.

“Play the hard part over and over slowly. Then go faster until I can play it at the right speed. After that I play the next measure. When I get that much right, I play the measure before and all the measures.”

I used that technique throughout my amateur music experience. And to conquer obstacles in my schoolwork. To memorize metabolic pathways of bacteria as a microbiologist. To practice forms as a martial artist. To preach and teach as a pastor. And to fine-tune words when writing.

A Test on My Own Hero’s Journey

“Never give an inmate your address or phone number. You are never to contact them outside of the class you are teaching. There is no emailing them or accepting phone calls from them. You are not to send them letters. Never let them know when you are on vacation. Don’t tell them about your family.” The Volunteer Coordinator tried his best to make all the rules sound interesting to his class of volunteers getting oriented, but that would be a heavy lift.

He continued, “Never bring in anything that you have not received permission to bring in. It will be considered contraband and you will be removed from our volunteer list. That includes books not on the approval list for your class. Never, never bring in money. No click pens because the springs can be turned into weapons. Likewise, no spiral bound notebooks. If you are taken hostage, we recommend you don’t resist or fight back. Just cooperate with their demands.

With each reading of the several pages of rules, my dread grew. Images from Hollywood prison movies scrolled through my mind. The scary ones.

“Women,” he looked at the two of us sitting next to each other in the room full of men, “we prefer you wear slacks. If you choose to wear a skirt, please make sure it is long enough to cover your calves. No low necklines, nothing as low as your collar bones for sure!” Checking our choice of clothing, he concluded, “I don’t see any problems with what you wore tonight.”

“What have I gotten into?” I wondered silently, a small panic setting in. “This place is oppressive and terrifying. What kind of danger am I putting myself in?”

As if on cue, the teacher continued, “I know this sounds like a lot of rules. But we must have them. These men are in here for a reason. This is a maximum security prison. You have to understand you put yourself at risk every time you walk in here.”

How could I back out of this commitment?

I couldn’t. It would be cowardly.

I walked with a Correctional Officer escort through the grounds of the Nebraska State Penitentiary. A few old men, a few young men, several men who looked to be in their 30s walked past us. The prison uniform was a khaki short-sleeved shirt and matching pants. Some men wore white tennis shoes. Some wore black boots. Most of them made eye contact with me, a stranger in their community.

After some weeks of teaching the Hero’s Journey to my class, it was time to write about the stage of the journey into a death-like experience. Into “the Innermost Cave” using the stages of the Hero’s Journey.

Hank was a Vietnam War vet who lived in a dark place in his mind. This week, he wrote a powerful chapter of the time Jeffrey, a friend of his, stole some possessions of the Somali inmate across the cell from Hank. It was intended to be collateral for a loan. Hank and Aqeel, the Somali, were also friends. They enjoyed lots of conversations through their cell doors.

When Jeffrey returned the possessions, the Somali inmate killed him violently outside of Hank’s cell door. Jeffrey’s blood flowed under Hank’s door and it triggered flashbacks from his years in Vietnam.

The room was silent as the incarcerated writers and I sat with the power of the experience. It was strong writing about a horrible event. Then a conversation started.

“I was here when that happened,” Duncan said. “That was what, about 20 years ago? It shook up everybody in the whole prison.”

“I heard about it,” said young Jonathan who had been in prison two years. “But, I heard he got stabbed like 40 times. That story is legend around here.”

“I hate it when Hank does that kind of stuff!” added Carlton angrily. “I just want to forget about it! I was here, too, when it happened and I had just about forgot it. And then he brings it up! It’s like he’s trying to upset us all! Why does he do that?” Carlton, a body builder who was serving life for murder, was gathering up his books and paper. “I just want to leave!”

Hank said nothing.

I was definitely in over my head. The fear that had taken root in the orientation session was in full bloom.

The tension in the room was palpable. Personally, I thought it was more appropriate for Hank to write about it and process it than for Carlton to try to forget it. What should I say? Would my words make things worse?

“That Jeffrey who got killed,” Charles interjected before I could decide how to respond, “he killed my mom and little six-year-old step-sister.”

“Oh, Charles, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” replied Hank. “I wouldn’t have shared that story if I had known.” His voice was genuine and compassionate.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Charles said. “I wouldn’t have wished it on him, but I can’t say I feel sorry for him, either.”

More uncomfortable silence. Carlton was fidgeting in his chair and working hard to control his anger.

Would a fight break out? How do I lower the pressure in the room? All I knew to do was stay calm and respectful.

“Is there anything else we need to talk about? Carlton, how about you?” I asked.

“No, I don’t have anything more to say.” He was still visibly upset but controlling himself. “I said what I needed to.”

“I’m so sorry you had to experience that, Hank,” was all I could offer to him, concerned anything more might upset Carlton further.

Looking around at the students, I asked for the last time. “Anybody else?”

A few men looked down, others shook their heads.

The class was close to done. Carlton stayed after class to vent further, so I listened. Being heard seemed to reduce his anger and he left calmer than he had been earlier.

I was grateful for the time to process the experience afterwards. I hadn’t known what to do. Fear stopped me short of pushing Carlton more deeply by inviting him to engage his distress. And it kept me from engaging Hank as much as I would have liked.

Yet, I got to live the fear I’d previously only anticipated. I came out of it feeling stronger. The experience was not as big and awful and out of control as my imagination thought it would be. This was a small test in my own hero’s journey as I taught the Hero’s Journey to these men.

The incarcerated writers, who live daily in fear for their lives, knew how to handle the anxiety in the room. They talked about it. They expressed their emotions. They controlled their language and their behavior. I felt fortunate to have these men in my class, inadvertently teaching me. I drove home that day appreciating my students, trusting them more, and living with less fear.

You Want Me To Do What?

“We can’t let this money ruin us, Carm,” Jim explained. “We must not become greedy! We are still a ministry and need to use these assets to serve people.”

I was on the Immanuel board. Jim was the board chair. He had just asked me to follow him as the next chair. The board had just voted a few months earlier to withdraw our sponsorship of a hospital group and we had a half billion dollars accessible to the organization now. Big changes were ahead.

“Can I think about this? I’ll get back to you in the next day or two.” Quite frankly, I was intimidated by the prospect. There were millionaire business people, medical doctors, bishops, and CEOs on the board. And me. A pastor, spiritual director, and retreat leader. I understood ministry and service. I didn’t have a clue how to manage that much money.

I said yes. So began three years of growing in confidence and leadership. While I chaired the board, we created a multi-million dollar community foundation and tithed 10% to the Church. The board invested much of the money so we could use the earnings to expand our living communities. Fitch upgraded our bond rating to AA. We bought a new office building, expanded IT many-fold, brought on new staff, and managed growing pains. At the same time, we expanded our medical and housing services to the poor.

I grew in my ability to keep a highly qualified group of individuals focused on our mission, listen to diverse viewpoints, and balance mission with financial responsibility. I loved the challenges. My confidence deepened. We made a big difference in the lives of many more seniors in Nebraska and Iowa.

Please contact me at Carmala@CarmalaAderman.com or 855-219-9990 if you are looking for a copy or content writer for your business.

We Can Get To Work Helping Your Business Help Your Customers. Contact Carmala at :

Phone: 715-645-0645

Email: Carmala@CarmalaAderman.com

Linkedin : My Profile