A few years ago, I wrote a poem entitled “The Esteemed Generation.” It was a tribute to the generation of people my parents belonged to--the "World War II" generation, if you will.
My affinity for them began in my “tweener” years, when I’d listen to some of my mom's big band music that she used to dance to...almost feeling as if I'd been there with her, double-dating at the local USO dance.
I've always held this generation in high regard, because after listening to the stories of my parents, aunts and uncles, I realized just how much those people endured. They survived the Great Depression, they survived a war in which the whole world was going crazy and homeland needed to be fiercely defended. They enjoyed a few years of peace before all the next wars started up again, taking the lives of their precious sons...
They were a generation of people who learned how to live with very little-to-none during rationing, how to be thrifty and stick to a budget within their income range—rarely spending money they didn’t have. They lived the majority of their lives without comforts we take for granted, such as air conditioning.
They were strong people, and whenever I think I've got problems in my lifetime, I look at theirs and suddenly mine are downgraded to mild inconveniences.
So another activity that's been on my list of things to do for quite some time now--besides Salsa dancing--is to do some sort of volunteer work at retirement homes. Many of the residents who live there don't have family to come visit them, and are greatly in need of people to sit with, talk to, and to just feel cared about.
When I did my student teaching a decade ago, I was with a second grade class who visited the elderly in a local rest home. After playing a series of interactive games with the seniors, we all ended up sitting in a big circle and joining them in a sing-along. One of my students urged me to sing a couple of songs for them alone, so I chose “I'll Be Seeing You,” because it was my mom and dad's favorite love song...and “O Danny Boy,” because it was almost St. Patrick's Day. As I sang, they nodded their heads in time, mouthed the words, smiled and suddenly looked fifty years younger. An Irishwoman among them, who’d married an American, especially loved the folksong from her homeland.
Ever since that day, I'd wanted to get my sister (who plays guitar and sings with me) to go there and sing regularly with me--but she was too busy mothering her young sons at that time. It never happened before I left
Now, I have a new tool to use all by myself. I do massage therapy, and therapeutic touch is soooo healing for our esteemed seniors.
A kind-hearted coworker of mine who teaches Tai Chi at a local retirement home referred me to its director, and this morning I did my very first session.
The residents of this beautiful home (with a rooftop view of the ocean) watched me set up the massage chair curiously, and by the time I was done, my signup sheet was nearly filled. Some watched while their friends got worked on, others shuffled in when it was time for their appointment. It was magical, almost, to watch the aches and stiffness melt away from their fragile bodies...to help them out of the chair and see their face a little more vibrant and happy.
One woman (with an awesome Brooklyn accent) had Stage I Alzheimer’s, and told me probably ten times that "this is my first massage...and it's wonderful!” And every time she said it, I gave her the same answer, "I'm so glad I got to be the one to introduce it to you!" Another woman, a Brazilian national, was 98 years old. She reminded me of a sophisticated, spunky, female Peter O'Toole, and seemed to only be about 80.
Some of them reminded me of my mother, who lives so far from me now. But as I worked on them, I envisioned the warmth and the energy of my touch reaching across the miles to her as well. Through my heart connection with her.
The scariest part of this visit to the retirement home was realizing that some of the youngest members were baby boomers, no older than my oldest brother! So the changing of the guard from old generation to new has already begun.
Reaching out to the current generation of seniors does something wonderful to the heart and soul. One day, I would like to stay and listen to their wonderful stories, and perhaps draw from the hotbed of wisdom that resides within their minds.
But they won't be around much longer...this is probably their final decades on earth. So I guess I just wanted to share this, in hopes that if you have relatives this age who you haven't seen for awhile—go see them. Be with them. Hold them. Listen to them. Or perhaps find ones that you don't know, and do all that anyway--if that is your cup of tea. And bring kids!
One day, we might be where they are...and someone will come to visit us. It was my great honor to pay it forward.
Namaste.
Some of them reminded me of my mother, who lives so far from me now. But as I worked on them, I envisioned the warmth and the energy of my touch reaching across the miles to her as well. Through my heart connection with her.
The scariest part of this visit to the retirement home was realizing that some of the youngest members were baby boomers, no older than my oldest brother! So the changing of the guard from old generation to new has already begun.
Reaching out to the current generation of seniors does something wonderful to the heart and soul. One day, I would like to stay and listen to their wonderful stories, and perhaps draw from the hotbed of wisdom that resides within their minds.
But they won't be around much longer...this is probably their final decades on earth. So I guess I just wanted to share this, in hopes that if you have relatives this age who you haven't seen for awhile—go see them. Be with them. Hold them. Listen to them. Or perhaps find ones that you don't know, and do all that anyway--if that is your cup of tea. And bring kids!
One day, we might be where they are...and someone will come to visit us. It was my great honor to pay it forward.
Namaste.
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