January, 2007, I was recommended for a position at Central Garden Convalescent Home in San Francisco by my art instructor at Dominican University. I taught art to elders who were mainly wheelchair bound. I absolutely loved working with my diverse group of artists ranging in age from their late 50s to an ex-librarian that was over 100. Week after week, my desire to share what I learned as an artist grew with the enthusiasm I received from my home bound elders. The art they were producing was outsta
nding; mind you, some of my students were physically handicapped, may not have had use of their writing hand due to paralysis, suffered from Alzheimer’s, or were so heavily medicated, they fell asleep in their paintings. The more I worked with these beautiful people, the more I began to realize that I complained way too much about mediocre things in my daily living; I realized I had choices in my life and could create anything I put my mind to; and I realized that “I” was actually the student and they were my teachers.
After one of my art sessions as I was heading for the front doors of the convalescent home, I nearly jumped out of my shoes when an alarm blasted throughout the corridor. A staff person ran past me to retrieve one of the patients that was too close to the front door and guided her back to her room. I heard her say, “Now, Mrs. Morris. How many times do we have to tell you, you can’t go home.” As Mrs. Morris was escorted away from the exit, I noticed something around her ankle. For her safety, she had been equipped with a thick ankle bracelet that would alert the staff before she escaped.
I rushed through the front door that whooshed open into freedom. A gust of chilly San Francisco wind hit my face, and I took in a huge gulp of air and cried at the same time. What a wake up call! I had taken my freedom for granted; I was missing the opportunity to really live my life to its fullest everyday. I had denied myself so many passions and desires for whatever reason: fear, not enough money, what will my family think, I don’t have the time, I can’t take time off work, what if something happens. I had just received a jolt of reality that reached my very core.
Good thing my car knew the way home, because I was not present. My 23-minute drive home took only a few minutes — I was still in shock from what I had witnessed. What transpired next was the beginning of Living Life on Purpose. I knew I would never be the same again.
