May you live all the days of your life.
Jonathan Swift
I DUG AROUND IN my purse until I found the bright orange paper containing directions to a local retirement home. As I read the steps out loud to Scott while he drove, I felt a sense of peace about where we were heading. The list of project sites for the Magic City Miracle community service day had been extensive, but the decision to visit the elderly had been a unanimous decision for our family. I did have one regret, though. I wished I’d thought to bring one of my pocket-size writing notebooks that I typically carried in case something happened that I didn’t want to forget.
I didn’t have my notebook that day, but I managed to mentally collect more than a dozen poignant moments that began on the car ride to the facility and ended as I pulled the covers up to my daughter’s chin. Like the deep crevices that lined the worn hands we held that day, these moments are engrained in my mind indefinitely.
I won’t forget how, on the way to the retirement home, Natalie told Avery that she googled what to say to senior citizens. From the backseat I heard, “A safe question is ‘What is your favorite memory?’ But don’t ask, ‘How old are you?’ ”
I won’t forget how my daughters stared out the car windows clutching bags of handmade cards, their hopeful faces indicating they were eager to distribute messages of love. “Breathe in blue sky, breathe out gray sky,” said one card in the most delicate font I’d seen written by a child.
I won’t forget how neither an ominous security system nor a strong medicinal odor deterred the children from eagerly walking through the double doors to meet those eagerly waiting on the other side.
I won’t forget how my daughters and their friends walked right up to the wheelchair bound, refusing to allow bulky walkers to impede their ability to get close to those who needed closeness.
I won’t forget how the mere sight of smiley, disheveled children made dull eyes light up and lowly hung heads rise.
I won’t forget the woman in the lavender sweater. Her words were so soft and so shaky that I struggled to understand. Yet Natalie walked up and began nodding her head as if she understood every word.
I won’t forget watching Avery read her homemade card to a silver-haired woman in a tattered sweater. I won’t forget how despite having severely hunched shoulders and being nonverbal, the woman leaned forward gracefully and kissed Avery on the forehead. I won’t forget how Avery’s face brightened, as if blessed by a royal queen.
I won’t forget how Avery summoned me into a resident’s room. “Mama, you just have to come see,” she whispered. And when I entered, I gasped at the dismal sight of a bone-thin woman in sheer pajamas lying in a bed with an oxygen mask hooked to her face. I won’t forget how I recoiled, thinking of my grandma in her darkest days. I won’t forget how my feet wouldn’t move, but Avery’s hand reached for mine. “C’mon, Mama,” she coaxed. “Meet my friend. She’s very nice.”
I won’t forget how Natalie broke the silence of a somber hallway with lightning-fast feet and celebratory words. “You’ve got to come to Mrs. Bonnie’s room. She’s one hundred! She’s one hundred!” Natalie exclaimed as she motioned me forward.
I won’t forget how a group of children had gathered around a beautiful lady wearing a bright yellow sweater and a shy smile. Mrs. Bonnie had recently turned one hundred years old, but she was as spry as someone half her age. I won’t forget how Bonnie’s eighty-eight-year-old roommate called Bonnie “Mom” and how the two held hands for a picture.
I won’t forget how the residents cried when it was time for us to go.
I won’t forget how the children hugged their white-haired friends and said, “We’ll be back soon. Next time, we’ll bring candy!”
I won’t forget how the woman in pink called out, “I hope I’m still here.”
I won’t forget how I wanted to blurt out the same exact words, but with one added detail. “I hope I’m still here too,” I wanted to rejoice at the top of my lungs. “I hope to live a very long time! I’m keeping track of life, you know!”
No one would’ve known what I was talking about, except maybe Avery. She’d given me that term, keeping track of life, which helped me distinguish which numbers, efforts, achievements, commitments, and opinions mattered from the ones that didn’t. Being in the nursing home that day must have triggered the same thoughts of dying, living, and keeping track of life in Avery’s mind as it did in mine. As I was tucking her into bed that night, Avery asked when we’d be going back to the retirement home to see the people in “wheely chairs.”
I told Avery that the director of the nursing home had given me her contact information and suggested we come back for the holidays. Then I crawled into the bed to read to her like I did every night. Except this time, Avery felt like talking.
“What do you think you would be doing right now if you didn’t start being a Hands Free mama?”
The question stunned me. I could not find any words. I attempted to swallow the emotion welling up inside my throat.
“Well, I know,” she volunteered. “You wouldn’t be here with me. You would be too busy to spend time with me and Natalie. You would not laugh very much. And you wouldn’t be you.”
I reached out and held her. There was really no more to say even if I could speak. I would not be me. Someday, when Avery could fully understand, I would tell her how true that statement was. I would not be. . .
that squeaky violin player,
that sandy-footed starfish rescuer,
that notebook-filling author,
that peaceful graveyard visitor,
that observant Noticer-in-training,
that open-armed giver,
that patient encourager,
that two-handed hugger.
that authentically messy, lovingly flawed lover of life.
In my pursuit of a Hands Free Life, I’d found beloved parts of myself that I’d thought were gone and even some parts I didn’t know existed. What parts of me were yet to be discovered, cultivated, and set free? The possibilities made me want to jump for joy and continue living Hands Free till the ripe old age of one hundred like Mrs. Bonnie. Perhaps someday kind people would visit me in the nursing home and be enamored by the twinkle in my eye.
“Did you see her sparkle? I wonder where it came from,” I could imagine the visitors whispering as they left me for my afternoon nap. I would smile from my plush recliner, wishing that everyone knew the secret to the sparkle was really no secret at all. It was merely evidence of a life well lived:
I made someone smile.
I gave a tender kiss.
I hugged and wasn’t the first to let go.
I encouraged.
I laughed.
I believed.
I lifted.
I kneeled.
I forgave.
I loved.
I kept track of life.
And in doing so, I found that the most important things in life are not measured but are felt through the hands, heart, and soul of each life we touch.
But most importantly, I hoped everyone knew, as it is written in this book, a life well lived began with a minute, an hour, a single day well lived.
So let us begin right now.
Let us feed our sparkle and light up our life.
THE ULTIMATE HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER
If I live to be 100, it won’t be because I tidied up the house before I left each day.
It will be because of the glorious mess I made while I was living life.
If I live to be 100, it won’t be because I kept every hair in place.
It will be because I rolled down the windows, turned up the radio, and let the wind blow every glorious strand out of place.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I logged endless hours at the office.
It will be because I clocked countless hours laughing in good company.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I maintained a full bank account.
It will be because I gave of my heart and filled my own emptiness.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because of quarterly financial investments into my bank account.
It will be because of daily emotional investments into my most sacred relationships.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I separated myself from the sick and the weak.
It will be because I walked right up to suffering and lovingly reached out my hand.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I could accomplish more in one day than most could in a week.
It will be because I took time to gaze at stars, sip hot chocolate, and walk beside my children, not ahead of them.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I earned prestigious degrees that lined my walls.
It will be because I pursued the passions of my heart and decorated my soul.
If I live to be 100, it will not be because I used expensive efforts to prevent aging.
It will be because I embraced my wrinkles, took walks, and left all regrets in the past.
If I live to be 100, it will be because
I listened more than I spoke,
I leaned in for kisses,
I cried with those who cried,
I recognized my blessings,
I kept my promises,
I gave loving hellos and undistracted goodbyes.
If I live to be 100, it will be because I lived and loved
more than my heart ever thought possible.