#joyhumorstrength: Gifts from My Elders

I recently returned from a quick visit to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where I was born and raised and where much of my family still lives. I went home to see my great aunt who turns ninety-four this September.

I don’t call as often as I should. It’s hard for me to hear how time has changed her, and every goodbye is so purposeful – it lasts longer, there are more I love yous, the mandate to “be happy” holds more weight. Each time she says goodbye on the phone, she is saying goodbye forever.  I never know how to respond, so I usually reply with "I'll talk to you soon."

This is the aunt I confided in when I got my first hickey. The one I called when I threw away a five-hundred-dollar award in college by procrastinating, and needed to replace the money without my mother finding out. The one who, with her Billie Holliday looks, made all the boys cry, and who took the lead on the hard stuff – protecting my grandmother (her only sister) from real and imagined bullies, staring death in the face so others wouldn't have to, paving the way to self-acceptance for those of us who were too much of something or not enough of something else. I often cried on her shoulder during my lengthy awkward phase. She loved me harder because of my differences.

I take too much for granted. We all do.

We sat outside for almost an hour, talking about everything and nothing. I reached out to touch her hand every few minutes. When tears rolled down her cheek for no obvious reason, I resisted the urge to dry them, knowing she’d rather I not notice. 

When we left the nursing home, we visited another great aunt of mine who will turn ninety soon and, while recovering from double bypass surgery, is as sharp as a tack. She is the ultimate paradox – a living picture of grace and grit, patience and expectancy, softness and edge. She was watching tennis when we arrived, breaking down the match between Sloane Stephens and Simona Halep. I asked about her planned visit to the casino. “What else am I gonna do,” she quipped. "All my friends are dead.” When she says things like this, she’s not feeling sorry for herself. She’s stating a fact. It is what it is. You do what you must. You help how you can. Life is simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.

On our way out, I laughed at the window décor that read, “Forget the horse, ride the cowboy,” and noted that it must belong to her. She turned a finger on herself and chuckled, “yeah, that’s me.” But we both knew it was never about the cowboy. For her, it was about the ride.

My last visit was with one of my father’s four sisters. She loved to write and has encouraged the artist in me for as long as I can remember. The first anthology I appeared in was placed prominently on her coffee table. If you knew her life story like I do, you’d wonder how she’s still standing - not physically, but emotionally. She’s experienced more tragedy than I care to recount or than she would want me to. Yet, her gift for turning loss into laughter is the stuff of superpowers. All my father’s siblings have an incredible sense of humor - dry, goofy, observational, straight-up jokes – it runs the gamut. The six of them say their father was the funniest man they’d ever known, so they get it honestly.

It took hitting the pillow that night to realize what the experience meant to me. In one day, I visited three aunts who embodied qualities that eluded me in childhood: an insistence on getting the most out of life, the perfect blend of wit and charm, and a knack for turning tough times into mental toughness. When I was a girl, I wanted to be like them. As a woman, I see glimpses of them in myself, but I have far to go. I'm grateful for the example they didn’t realize they were setting.

Like many of you, I’m about halfway through my earth journey. I’m writing this reflection for my own benefit, because I want to remember. I’m sharing it because I believe we all have much to learn from those who've loved us longest and most.

Here goes.

1. It’s about the ride.  

People say life is an adventure and to enjoy the ride. Spending an entire day with relatives over seventy has a way of cementing this old cliché. I can’t see the future, but I hope to keep doing the work I love and to experience more of the world. I want to leave as much goodness behind as I’ve been given, which is a lot. I don’t want to complain about where I find myself. If I don’t like where I am, I pray for the courage to go somewhere else. I'd like to get good sleep, eat good food, and embrace things that challenge me. If I’m blessed to reach ninety, I want my children and grandchildren to see a gleam in my eye, and know it was put there by a life fully lived. I want to enjoy the ride, and inspire others along the way.

2. Laugh more. Worry less. 

There is always something to worry about. The “what if” train is a familiar foe. I worry about important things, but also about silly things, occasionally exhausting myself and my family in the process. As I sat with my father’s sister, I was reminded that worrying doesn’t add a day to our lives. I’ve never made anything happen by worrying about it, and I’ve never prevented anything from happening either. We don’t have to wait for the ultimate test to access perspective, which is available to all of us. Humor is a healer, but it’s also preventative. I want to be in the moment more fully and more often. I want to smile my way through the years ahead, even if that means more wrinkles on my face. (I see you, wrinkles!)

3. Be happy. 

I won’t lie. It was difficult leaving my 93-year old aunt when our visit was over. We’d reminisced over the same old photos we always reminisce over, which are displayed proudly in her room at the nursing home. I shared pictures of my family from our recent vacation at the happiest place on earth. She pointed to each of our children, hovering over every one. “They look so good,” she said. “Ay, Tara.” 

As we stood to up to say goodbye, I could see she was holding back tears. She told me to take care of myself. That she loved me. And of course, she urged me to be happy. “I am,” I nodded. “I’m very happy. Life is good.” I then glanced at my mother, and finally my husband. I needed all of them to know how much I meant it.

Tara Jaye Frank is co-founder and President and CEO of P3T Group, Inc., a firm created to help companies unleash talent by measuring and leveraging employee fulfillment as a performance driver. Tara is also a former Hallmark, Inc. executive and thought leader and speaker on cultural competence, multiculturalism as a business driver, women’s leadership, and personal accountability. She has dedicated more than a decade of her career to helping leaders reach their own professional high grounds, and wrote her first leadership book, Say Yes: A Woman’s Guide to Advancing Her Professional Purpose, as a practical guide to crafting a career leaders can believe in and achieve. Tara also serves as Board Director for Children International, and is a member of The Executive Leadership Council and Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc.