If a person is fortunate in this life, they love the work they do when they are doing it. I love teaching yoga and what’s more, I realize I love it when I am doing it. One of the reasons for this has to do with the people I am privileged to teach. Several times a month I teach chair yoga to senior citizens at a retirement home. They remind me in the most natural way to stay in the moment. They do not ask what comes next or seem to worry about an upcoming obligation. Their obligation is being fulfilled right there in their chairs.
Recently, one of my favorite residents passed away at the retirement home. He was a tall man with grey hair and had practiced law, but his love was for tennis and conversation. At the start of our practice I would give my first name. “What is your last name?” the practiced cross examiner would ask. Then he would spell it. “F-I-T-Z-M-A-U-R-I-C-E, is that right?” I’d compliment him on getting correct. As we stretched arms, stomped feet, and rolled ankles he never lost the twinkle in his eyes.
I would end each session reading a poem to the residents. When I parted, I’d pat a knee or shake a hand and to the tall man with the sweet grin I’d say, “I’ll see you next time. Be good until I get back.”
“Come back soon, I can’t be good forever,” he’d reply.
One Spring day I read the Wordsworth poem, Daffodils. As I started in—reading the typed page in front of me—I heard a voice chime in. The sweet man with a grin knew the poem. He recited it word for word, line for line. Each Spring, I’ve pulled out that poem and recited it with him for the rest of the residents. Some would clap and his gentle grin would widened.
My heart was heavy as I thought of that nice man who made my day a little brighter and I told another friend. This friend cast his eyes in question and asked, “Do you think you really made a difference for him?”
My eyes teared and my breath caught. I realized I had never considered if I was making a difference for this elderly man who sat most days in a chair at a retirement home, eating his pudding slow and rereading the same articles in the paper all afternoon. Yes, his memory had lost its linear connection and he shuffled when he walked, and his questions ran on a repetitive loop. Maybe he never remembered I had come to visit, to stretch, to smile, to laugh, and to share a poem. Had I made a difference? Honestly, the answer is a weak maybe.
This past week I taught my classes for the last time—at least for awhile. I had to say goodbye to the gentle yoga class whose students like to arrive early to claim their spots by the wall and who have shared more with me than their gracious hearts and their seasoned advice. I practiced with my six am class who not are acknowledged for showing up so early, but for making laughter a regular part of our class. These groups have helped me grow as a teacher and to realize how fortunate I am to do what I love. Still, my friend’s question does not escape me.
For most of us, we may never know if we made a difference. We may go through our days unsure whether what we do or how we act has helped or served anyone? However, I choose to believe that because I love my work and because I have loved who I have worked with then I have experienced the full karma of making a difference and feeling the difference. The path runs both ways. I feel the difference so I choose to believe I have made a difference.
I know the man with the sweet grin made a difference in my life. I know I will never recite the lines, “I wander lonely as a cloud,” without thinking of him. Perhaps I made a difference too, even if only for a brief moment—in that moment of dancing daffodils.