DIVINE WISDOM ~ a tribute to the teachings of Dr. Kathlyn Hendricks

"All the world's a stage, and all men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts..."  Shakespeare

Buzzed through a security door, I enter the most fascinating improv theatre I've ever experienced.

Immediately, the play begins, players appear.

Nell, a favorite, engages me first. Carrying her usual armload of stuffed animals dressed in baby clothes and aglow with delight, she starts her ritual of presenting  her "children."   On and on, in rapid-fire gibberish, I somehow learn all about them for the umpteenth time.  I smile, listen, "ooo" and "ahh" with genuine interest.  Apparently they're wearing new outfits.   I tell her they're beautiful.  Satisfied, she beams, strolls away.

Next is Paul.  Another favorite. Today he's  barefoot, holding his shoes, reprimanding them: "I told you receipts !" he's yelling.  "Two, three nine, two three nine !"  I bow, give him our usual "TA-DA" hello. (Picture a tap dancer making a big finish.)  He looks, gives me a dismissive wave, continues ranting.

Then Addy, big as a minute and a hundred years old, approaches.  Brow furrowed, arms folded across her chest, she blocks me, comes nose to nose, and announces, "BULLSHIT."  I, narrowing my eyes, equally serious, respond, "ABSOLUTELY."  SHE walks away.

As I make my way through a living room scene, James, sitting, half watching an old Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie, grabs my arm, asks, "Have you seen the bride ?  I'm very concerned.  No one seems to know where she is !"

"Ohh my..." I respond mirroring his worry.  "Maybe one of the aids will know."  I pat his arm.  "I'll ask for you."

"Oh, thank you !" he says, relieved and ever so polite.  "I'll wait."

Ahead, I finally see my "supporting actress" in this dementia play:  my mother - alone, slumped over, sleeping in her wheelchair.  I approach quietly, touch her shoulder gently.  I whisper, "Hi, Mom.  Howya doin' today ?"

Her eyes pop open.  She shouts, "Is that you Linda Ruth ?!"

I smile.

"Yes, Mom.  It's me, Linda Ruth."

She grabs my hand, smothers my knuckles with wet kisses.

"Wanna go for a ride ?" I ask, taking the lead.

"Oh, yeah."  Quick answer.  "I'll go."

I grab the handles of her chair and head for the garden.  It's a beautiful day and the outside world is screaming Spring !

"Look Mom.  Your favorite pinks," I say, pointing to the tulips and locking her wheels.

"Oh, yeah, pinks," she responds robotically, not even looking.

I take her hand, begin noting each flower and color, each tree, bird and bush.  She listens, but doesn't speak.  Eventually, we simply sit, silent, breathing, faces lifted toward the sun.  Peaceful... Connected... Present.   

I reflect upon our beginnings here, how I initially dreaded our visits.  I had judged the whole place to be a total freak show - repulsive, pitiful, depressing, embarrassing, and then, truth be told, SCARY and SAD.

It was all about ME - ME facing my biggest fears:  What if this happened to ME ?  What if I was the one pooping and peeing in my pants, talking to shoes, dressing stuffed animals, depending upon strangers to bathe, feed, dress and care for ME ?  ME, out of control of my body, mind, emotions ?  Horrifying losses, fears...

Then one day, while visiting her in the activity center, things changed.  We were sitting, quiet, just like now, when I glanced down at her skeletal, eighty year old hand and noticed every nuance.  It looked like a hand I would see in a morgue:  a knot of clenched bones under a film of tan crepe paper skin with splashes of purple-black clots and waves of blue-green veins, sinking, sinking.  I breathed them in and immediately got the image of her making cinnamon toast in the broiler.  I used to watch these hands make breakfast... For a moment I could almost smell it !  More breath, and I felt my heart crack - just a little - just enough - for tears of sadness, then gratitude, to well, tumble.  Allowing all and deepening my breath, I felt my torso warm, expand:  OH !  LOVE !   All over !  From that place, my natural curiosity on fire,  I looked around the room with new eyes,  began to wonder as I would in the face of any challenge ~

~ How might The Divine see this ?

~ What am I being called to learn ?

~ How might this whole experience serve me and others ?

~ Considering life's natural cycle of "create, sustain, destroy," what might I create to move me, us, through this slow destruction phase ?

~ How might all this be a call from/to more love ?

~ What can I appreciate ?

Before me I saw white-haired toddlers.  One wearing a belt over pajamas and one shoe.  Another was dancing with a broom.  Yet another was singing and walking in circles.  All doing, being, saying, whatever they pleased in the moment, completely devoid of egos, social selves, propriety and worry.  Pure essence.  Totally free souls yet totally dependent.

And I loved them all.

Still do.

Once they were teachers, doctors, scientists, editors, business owners, artists, inventors and soldiers.  Today, their only job is to be present, play and love. (My favorite things !)   After a lifetime of service, perhaps this ending is an odd kind of gift, a time when others get to serve THEM.

Then again, perhaps it's a time when they, in their last act, show us how to live.

It's almost dinner time, so I wheel my mother to the dining room, tell her I'm off to walk and feed our dog.  She doesn't open her eyes, just says, "Ok."  I kiss her forehead, say "See you later," and wave a cheerful goodbye to all my players.

As I'm buzzed out, I remember what my genius friend Jody Kaylor says:  "It's all improv."

It is.

Beamin' love and play,

Linda