When I'm in Caregiver mode...

When I'm in caregiver mode, the age of each person is irrelevant. It's the root essence of the person that speaks to me. Not their attitude or personality. It's their authentic self in need of contact and care.

"That's easy for you to say." you might be saying to yourself. "But when my Mom is flailing around, yelling at me, being very hurtful with her actions and words, how am I supposed to 'see her essence' and not her attitude or personality."

And that is a great question. When, in the moment, how do I acknowledge their "Authentic-Self?"

And this next part may seem like a plug for the school I went to, The University of Santa Monica, where I studied Spiritual Psychology, but honestly, the lessons USM taught me helped in me seeing my mother for who she really is - a scared, little girl, trying to make sense of her ever changing world.

It happened one day, over the phone with my mom. She lives in Texas and I live in Arizona. I had recently heard about her three small strokes and wanted to talk with her, mainly to gage her level of communication skills. They were, as I expected, limited to a small degree. Slightly slurred and choppy.

In the past our conversations have always been "service level." Always about the weather or the Texas Longhorns or family gossip. Nothing, and I mean nothing deep such as feelings or spirituality. And to a degree, somewhere inside me I felt annoyed by this. I longed to have deep and meaningful conversations with my mother. Just one? Just a few words that confirmed I wasn't adopted or found in basket on the stairs. On this day I would apply my learned skills to my mother.

At first the conversation started as simple as it always does.
"So how are ya feelin' ma?"
"Well, I'm tired. It's been really cloudy today. And too windy."
I wasted no time. I applied a skill our teachers taught us at USM where I visualized my "Inner Counselor" centering himself in my body. I can't describe too much of my Inner Counselor to you. But I can tell he is a wise soul and very loving. So, as authentic as possible I responded,
"I hear ya. Mama I want take this moment to acknowledge you for your courage and strength through your entire ordeal."

She paused. I could hear her shallow breath.

"And I also want you to know that you are a great mom."

I don't believe it's ever the words that open a person up. It's the intention. It's in the sincerity of the delivery. It's the inflection and tone that convey the heart. With all of those aspects combined the recipients mind takes a pass at commentary and sends the dialogue straight to the persons heart. There the magic happens. There my mother opened. And it wasn't for very long. I would say it took her 30 to 45 seconds to be as vulnerable as she was going to be with me that day, and maybe the rest of her days. But I heard it. I heard her weep for the very first time. And I heard her, not as her youngest son trying to fix her or the situation or to take blame or feel guilt. But I heard her as one person in pain. As a little girl, angry, confused, hurt. This is what I mean by, "the root essence of the individual." For the first time I heard my mother. A moment I will always cherish.

Since that moment, almost two tears a go, my mother and I have the closet bond we've ever had. Has she changed? No. She still smokes. Eats unhealthy meals. Bickers and gossips over the littlest things. She can never seem to be pleased. But, that's my mother. I know now, she's only working with what she has in her mind. That means she raised me with all the resources she had available to her. I can't hold he accountable. But I can hold myself accountable for my reactions to her. Even with all her little idiosyncrasies, she's mine. All mine. And I would want another mother for the rest of my life.

My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.


NOTE: This is a personal favorite for one reason - it's fun! Ever time I perform this poem the residents seem to react with favored smiles and laughter. The rhythm and flow of this piece are unmistakably effortless. And many residents know this poem as well. Not all of it but when I spout the first few words, they wake up and eyes come to life again. Make sure and be very expressive with this poem and jump around. Play with it. It's a fantastic and whimsical poem that begs to be given vibrant life.

I can't imagine...

...a world where our elders are lost in the mix of life. They hold ALL the stories we have, ALL the realness. ALL the main attributes of one searching.

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.


NOTE: Oh yes, a very popular one indeed. Big Bad Willy, to his dear friends, is one of the most popular poems I have ever had the pleasure to perform. EVERY lady in my groups has nodded or smiled in affirmation that they know this poem or, at least, have heard it time and time again.

"There is no right or wrong, but thinking that makes it so." is THE most popular Shakespeare quote I can think of and one that lives close to my heart. I would highly suggest brushing u- oh your Big Bad Willy because many o' elder know him. I love how he can still stop a room when recited.

An Article in the AZ Republic

This is an article written by a dear friend when she worked for the Arizona Republic Newspaper. I hope you enjoy.

Poetic approach reaches Alzheimer's patients

Long-term memory stimulated by visits

by Nicki Escudero

AZCENTRAL.COM

Arizona Republic Newspaper

Twenty women suffering from Alzheimer's disease sat in a circle at the Encore Senior Village in Phoenix to listen to poetry.

The attraction was the Alzheimer's Poetry Project, a nationwide program where experienced poets perform classic poems for Alzheimer's patients.

Poet Christopher Lane shook each lady's hand before starting to read them The Tiger by William Blake.

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"I want to know," Lane said, "have any of you seen a tiger before?" He then recited, "Tiger, tiger, burning bright."

When Lane performs The Tiger and The Arrow and the Song, the listeners often recognize the words from their long-term memory and start reciting them, he said.

"Every time I go in there, I'm drained emotionally," Lane said. "Some of the things that come out of their mouths are amazing."

The Alzheimer's Poetry Project began in 1997, when poet Gary Glazner received a grant from Poets and Writers Magazine to start something poetry-related for an adult day-care center in California. Lane is one of 10 poets Glazner has trained, and the two met in Sedona, where Lane is based. Lane said he wanted to start Arizona's Alzheimer's Poetry Project after he read Glazner's book, How to Make a Living as a Poet, and Glazner said Lane is highly qualified to bring this unique program to Arizona.

"Not only is he a good poet (who) has strong writing and is passionate, but he also is an amazing organizer, and you guys are lucky in Arizona to have someone like him who goes out and starts stuff on his own," Glazner said. "He's really dedicated, and that's really rare to find in a poet because most poets are only interested in their work."

Indeed, Lane kept the attention of the listeners, whose smiles and clapping showed their interest. They also got involved with the poetry themselves.

"What is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" Lane asked the women gathered Oct. 13.

As each of the women named items and people like sunshine, mothers and a lake house, Lane furiously scribbled their answers in a notebook. Then he started an impromptu poem incorporating each thing. It was simple but touching and worked the participants' short-term memory.

At last Friday's program, one woman was inspired to share her own poem, and the rest of the group applauded her.

Though the Alzheimer's Poetry Project is fairly new in Phoenix, it seems to have already achieved much success with the people it's reaching.

"I had a ball. Everything's been great," said Frances Smith, an Alzheimer's patient at Encore. "My favorite part was the continuity, getting together and all participating."

Lane plans to visit Phoenix every month. Lane has been doing the Alzheimer's Poetry Project in northern Arizona. This was the first time he came to Phoenix. As a non-profit organization, funding is a challenge, even though Lane has already received seven grants for the project. He said there are several ways people can help and get involved.

This isn't the only endeavor Lane, executive director of NORAZ Poets, which is based in northern Arizona and that organizes the readings to Alzheimer's patients also in charge of Young Voices, Be Heard, where he goes into high schools and works with students on their poetry. There are also two projects in the works: Legacy, which he hopes to have going in Phoenix by next fall and in which the high school students he works with perform for Alzheimer's patients, and a project in which poetry is brought to detention centers. Fellow Arizona poet Corbet Dean said the Alzheimer's Poetry Project is beneficial to an often-ignored community.

"Have there been poetry projects in elderly facilities all over the state? Absolutely," Dean said. "This is something different and specific in the sense of targeting an especially forgotten group and using poetry to unlock their history."

Day Two (From Marian)

Again the conversations need to be transcribed and added in)

Day Two:

Top Ten reasons why I love my elders so much? (in no particular order)

1. I feel like a rock star when I'm around them.
2. They enjoy talking so much they're always ready.
3. They remind me of my childhood.
4. They smell different.
5. They've been independent longer.
6. They know hard times.
7. They always offer to pay.
8. They laugh.
9. They remind me there is always a simpler way.
10. They hold my hand as long as I want them to.

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I arrive at the Reflections Unit (Kachina Points Memory Care Wing) a little early today, but Marian doesn't know this. I am a young stranger to her. I walk to her room and stand out of the way enough to see what she's doing. Unaware of my presence Marian still seems to grow a canopy for grapes. The proof is how she harvests herself this morning. She sets her heavy hairbrush down on her small vanity space neighboring her nail file and toothbrush- a perfect row. She then moves her walker in front of her and with in two attempts, she is up and shuffling to her doorway, looking both ways, smiles at me and then hangs a right and merges with the morning traffic of the hallway; freedom driven, as if she can still drive. She arrives at the nurses station where the glances are already tired. Then giving her most sincere Good Morning to the busy ladies, Marian turns back and starts her doctors advice, the walk.

An almost meticulously rigorous schedule helps Marian feel successful. For or from what she does not know, but the nurses tell me, "she loves her morning walks." And it shows. I have moved to a bench next to the Family Room where we will be having our conversation. It's quite with the door shut; a big help since Alzheimer's affects not just the memory but the eyes and ears too. Visions become questionable. Sounds become strained.

Marian passes me twice. On her way back for third lap I rise to greet her slowly. Our eyes meet happily.

"That was a great walk Marian. I was watching you from here and noticed how well you're moving. Let's sit down for a minute and chat."

"Who are you?" Marian ponders.

"Just a friend that wants to hang out with you."

Marian smiled her big genuine smile and walked with me into the family room. Today my heart is a bit heavy but it has nothing to do with Marian.

Marian's hands are a tired assembly of bone, veins and satin; bundles of Juniper branches draped in velvet. Today I try and convince my self that by holding on to Marian's hand I'm helping her retain a portion of her dignity. And it's true that constant physical contact such as hugging and hand holding does help my elders feel more secure, but that's not the only motivation. In this moment my mother is a thousand miles away and only fives years younger. Today I'm holding Marian's hand as long as she'll let me. I want to rest my head on her shoulder. This is my first acknowledgment that Marian has triggered an issue for me to resolve. This is good.

Holding Marian's hand also helps me understand her world with her dignity intact. "I am here for you Marian.", I say with my touch, hand on top of hand, my eyes patient and neutral. "I have no where more important to be than this place, right now." By holding Marian in the moment, by not judging her state of mind with frustration or quick temper, "Why can't you remember me fifteen minutes a go?" I can enjoy not just Marian, but I can enjoy myself authentically. By being with her fully, I am with myself, with full spirit and energy and heart. With out judgment of her condition, the judgement of who I am subsides and a balanced-self steps forward and reaches for another hand to touch and realize.

At 4:36 this morning I was right in the middle of these thoughts when Oren, my oldest son, calls out for me. He has awoken to a wet bed and slight embarrassment. Would shaming him with frustration and quick temper help the situation? No. I simply lead him into Mommy and Daddy's room, helped him into a dry set of pajamas and invited him to sleep in Daddy's spot. I went back to his room, collected the sheets, piled them near the washer and came back to assemble these thoughts.

Marian deserves to have her dignity protected, just like my son. If I return to my authentic-self in the vehicle of compassion, I need no manual or book to guide. By preserving my sons dignity, I preserve Marian's, I preserve mine. If need be, I will preserve my mothers.

Wynken, Blyken and Nod by Eugene Field

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe---
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea---
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish---
Never afeard are we";
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam---
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea---
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

NOTE: This has to be the most popular poems I perform. At the very least one of my elders knows this poem. Smiles are abound when I begin this piece. I can imagine their childhoods, wrapped in old quilts and evening fires as this poem is being read by either a parent or a sibling. An evening hour much like the ones my oldest son Oren and I share.

After two or three books Oren will ask me for a story and every once in while this poem will capture his imagination again. And at the age of five he's beginning to recite the lines he's familiar with.

Use your face expressively for this poem. Really bring out the fantasy through over exaggerated movements and inflections of tone. Move freely so the elders can try and follow you as much as possible. Dance with them if you wish. This poem is to be a very playful and childlike in its delivery. Make that your focus and you'll find this may become your favorite piece as well.