Riders on the Storm

                                                  Photo by John Midelkoop, Unsplash.jpg

Most of us Baby Boomers were and still are influenced by the music of our youth. I’m not ashamed to admit I listen to my own personal jukebox (in my head) on a regular basis. Just the other day I mentally listened to *Riders on the Storm. I was visiting a memory care unit where people were staring off into space and aimlessly wandering around looking for home. It reminded me of a news feed of an Oklahoma tornado victim picking through a pile of rubble. Pajama clad and confused,  wondering what the heck just happened, “All I know is, it sounded like a freight train…”

Alzheimer’s/Dementia is the stormageddon none of us saw coming. And even if we did, there’s no safe place to hunker down to hide from it. We need to establish better long term “shelters” for those permanently displaced in its aftermath. If you see substandard eldercare, don't just look the other way and utter a prayer of thanks that you're not living there. Use your voice to speak for those who can't speak for themselves. Disaster recovery seems to bring out the best in us, so roll up your sleeves and get involved! The sooner, the better.    

I hope you enjoy this classic: 

*Riders on the Storm - The last song Jim Morrison ever recorded with The Doors

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS-af9Q-zvQ

______________________ _______________________________

Mothering

Life’s Lovely Circle. 

I drove a total of 3,464 miles just to hold my youngest grandson for the very first time. His eye sight not fully developed, he intently studied my face and his breathing quieted. His skin - so delicate, his coos and whimpers - music to my ears. I noticed every nuance, sigh, and quiver while his mother quietly nursed him in her arms. He knows her. Her silhouette, her voice, her scent. I was witnessing the beginning of their lifelong journey as mother and child. My heart both thrilled and ached for her; motherhood will require all that she has to give and then some. 

All too soon it was time for me to get back in my car to make the long journey home. I took one last long look at them - trying to press every detail into the pages of my mind. I kissed the top of his bald little head and quietly tip-toed out of the room.

A few days and many miles later I stopped by to visit my dear friend Agnes. I found her sitting in her favorite chair, nearly naked, except for her disposable underpants and a child size undershirt. The sight of her translucent skin loosely draped over her 90 year old frame was nearly more than I could bear. She strained to see my face through hazy lenses and her breathing slowed to a peaceful rhythm. Like a helpless infant, I wrapped her in a fleece robe and held her close. We talked, and laughed, and prayed together.  A soul deep contentment washed over me as my mothering instincts re-emerged. I slipped off my shoes and yielded to what is, and what was, and what eventually will be. After a while, she fell asleep, so I tucked some pillows all around her, kissed her on the top of her balding little head and tip-toed out of the room. 

Tiny babies and frail older ladies...their lives are much the same.