Some Glad Morning

Introducing my new Substack with stories about Elders and Music

Some Glad Morning by Robert Roberg

Most live in wheelchairs. Some are lucky and still use a walker. Nurses spoon medicine into ancient mouths from tiny paper cups. They forget things, many things, although maybe not about being cheated on or the first girl or boy they ever kissed at a dance. Some sit hunched over, spine collapsed, muscles no longer strong enough to hold their bodies upright. They wear adult diapers, must be assisted in the shower or to go to the toilet. Their skin is like a multi-colored desert landscape: pinks, yellows, and shades of brown, as if lined with tiny rivulets from a spring rainfall.  They no longer strive for career success or romantic conquests. Their greatest fear is now the threat of falling and breaking bones, especially a hip. Eyelids lie in graceful folds like sand dunes, eyes framed with a delicate filigree etched into the skin. But when they shine with emotion, those eyes look like the eyes in the high school graduation photo on the dresser. You can still see the teenager if you just look into the eyes. Eyes don’t get wrinkled.

They once had lives full of meaning and bustling accomplishments. Doctors, artists, politicians, homemakers, musicians, secretaries, attorneys, therapists, CEOs, nurses, teachers. Mothers, fathers. Democrats, Republicans. Now those achievements are remote, distant memories of a life long ago. The world has narrowed into three meals a day and a partitioned room with an adjustable bed, either by the window or by the door.

But they feel love. Music still moves them as deeply as it ever did. They cry and laugh and long for the caress of the wind on their faces. They reach out to feel the touch of a warm hand. They are humans just like you and me—except they have lived longer, and their bodies are breaking down. They are ahead of us in this game of life. They are who we may be one day. They have much to teach us.

I am very lucky. For the past seven years, I have had a job singing and playing guitar for these elders. And they teach me so much! Sometimes it’s hard. Feelings can be intense. Any human life has had pain in it, and some lives are more painful than others. And at this point in their lives, they are dependent on others and must live with extreme limitations every moment of the day. Some live with debilitating physical and emotional pain. Some are more graceful than others in dealing with these limitations. Their eyes still twinkle, they keep faith in their hearts. I hope I can be like them when I am their age. Others are in a nearly permanent state of sadness or grief. For all of them, it is my task to bring some magic and engagement into the time we have together.

I fall in love with these people, and they fall in love with me. We touch the moon and the stars together, and sometimes I help them forget the hard bits. Sometimes they help me forget the hard bits of my life too. I play songs they know and love, and they often remember the words. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they cry. Sometimes they tell me stories about what the songs have meant to them. They become my fans, which is fun for both of us. And just like teenagers, they are curious about the artists they love—so I share my own songs and stories with them too.

I would rather sing to them than to anyone. They give me the gift of Right Livelihood, and I am so grateful. Often, I must grieve them too soon after we meet. When you make a new friend who is 97 years old and living in a nursing home, you learn to cherish each moment you have together.

Death comes for us all eventually. Suffering is part of life. We all must learn to deal with it. This is what the Buddha taught, and I do my best to understand suffering in myself and others. But there is also the joy of living in the moment, even the most ordinary moments. We only have so many moments in life. There is something so ancient and so powerful about music that helps us find that joy, helps us connect with one another and be happy together. Music is deep in us, and it’s connected to love. There is no greater power than love, and no greater task than to love one another. Music can be the conduit.

These people have transformed my heart. It is my hope that these stories from the edge of life mean as much to you as they do to me, and that they will somehow help you on your own path.

I used the wonderful painting at the top of this post with the gracious permission of the painter Robert Roberg. It beautifully illustrates the lyrics from the gospel song “I’ll Fly Away,” whose first words I borrowed to name this Substack. My father used to play this song, and it is one of my favorites to sing with groups of elders. Me and 40 people in wheelchairs can fill a dining room with our voices on the chorus! “Let’s get a tour bus and take it on the road!” I sometimes say. They smile with me, and for just a moment, we all can imagine how fun that would be.

Note: if you have received this as an email, it’s because you subscribe to my other Substack with essays and original songs and videos, Elizabeth Hummel. There is some overlap, but Some Glad Morning features vignettes born from my experience singing and playing music for fragile elders. I’ve been writing these stories over the past seven years since working first as a volunteer, then as a contractor for facilities and privately for families with fragile elders. I have shared some on Facebook, so if you know me there you may have seen some of them. The stories are all about real people. I’ve changed most of the names unless the person or their families wished me to use their real names.

If you are a paid subscriber of Elizaeth Hummel, I have gifted you with a one-year paid subscription to Some Glad Morning, as a thanks for your past support. I have some plans for paid subscribers and will keep you posted!