Worldly purpose and goals seemed outside the realm of my uncle’s considerations. In our family myth, my Uncle Eddie led the way, and the youngest son, Sammy, just tagged along. However, Uncle Sammy knew his true purpose, his job, in the most important sense. The more time I spent with him, the more I understood his real work as well.As we journeyed through New York, I pieced together, like a quilt, the essence of his life and the lives he touched.

We’d take walks down Broadway. That famous avenue was close to his apartment building, and everyone and everything was there: a potpourri of life. He would be grinning ear to ear, and absolutely didn’t know or care which direction we went, or for how long. On one of our walks I asked him, “Uncle Sammy, how does it feel to not be able to change your own clothes, or remember where you live?” He replied, “I have no quality control, only God’s nature!” and he was absolutely right. Even then, he knew how to flow with all of life’s changes. He was in the eternal present. This state was so different from my usual state of ordinary consciousness. It was contagious, and I was in the Eternal Present with him. It was at this time I somehow knew we had to write this book together.  When I checked with Uncle Sammy, he said, “Hell, yes!”

Uncle Sammy exuded so much innocent confidence that he could walk up to anyone and sing or say something unusually relevant: amazing, since they were all strangers until that very moment. I saw, for example, CEO’s and street people shift and go from being guarded to being off guard, open to this extraordinary experience.

He would say: “I want to make people happy, healthy and dangerous. My job is to get people to know they are more important than they think they are.”

I wanted to know how he perceived his experience. What was it like for him not having all the normal orientations of time, space, and personal identity that most people have? When I asked him about this he said, ”I’m on the outcloud of my mind and enjoying it,” and he was. Joy emanated from within him as he said, “It’s all all right, you know.”

In the Schwab House, he brought merriment and music to the otherwise monotonous job of the elevator operators. He had chutzpa, and a beautiful voice, and he still had a good memory for melodies and lyrics. He could invent songs on the spot as a way of celebrating each person’s soul. With a man from Puerto Rico, he sang songs from West Side Story, or made up songs in his own kind of Spanish. Because he was so good-humored and respectful, he never offended this man. Another operator, who was rather solemn, lit up when Uncle sang riffs from Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, especially if Uncle Sammy ad libbed. This gave the man an opportunity to be the expert. The man would laugh and then correct Sammy. Uncle would accept the corrections goodnaturedly and then continue.

There was a McDonald’s in Sammy’s neighborhood, which he exalted and called the “golden palace.” There he was known and loved amongst the street people who frequented this palace. I often watched one despondent, Elderly gentleman come to life when my uncle made his morning rounds. Several other people would call out to him to come to their table; different ages, different races, all sharing the common yearning to connect, to feel included. This was his gang: an unorthodox cast of characters.

Banks were his favorite hangouts. He enjoyed lighting up these otherwise somber institutions. Although he was well-known in several banks, Chase Manhattan was his absolute favorite. We frequented Chase on a daily basis, where he created two jobs for himself. His first job was to approach each one of the women tellers, sing to her, and then, in some way, let her know she was beautiful. They all adored him.

His second job was holding the door open for patrons of the bank and offering greetings of wise sayings:

“The world all works together all the time, so it’s really all right, you know.”

One winter morning I was astounded when Uncle Sammy had the bank manager, the staff, and many of the patrons joining him in a rendition of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” 

My uncle befriended any and all he encountered, and was a source of laughter and light to many. Though clinically and legally he was considered completely incompetent, in his incompetence, and perhaps because of it, he fulfilled his true purpose beautifully.

Chapter 18

On Laughter

"I have no time not to fool around.”

For Uncle Sammy, laughter was a form of worship. Every morning when I greeted my uncle, he’d insist we practice laughing meditation together. He would begin by looking at me with the eyes of a true sage and the innocence of a young child. I felt like he could connect to my very essence. Uncle Sammy would say, “There you are, my dear child,” and laugh.

He might give some spontaneous comment:

“I live life up, not down!”
“I want you to be a person who laughs a lot!”
“I practice laughing night and day!”
“I have a great responsibility to have fun!”

At home we laughed everyday at his tips and quips. He turned so many beliefs and notions completely upside down.

“I’m busy being busy,” he would say. And he often apologized like this:
“I apologize for being perfect. There’s nothing like imperfection!”
He addressed so many mental traps with his humor.
Uncle Sammy remained vibrantly alive in a body which increasingly lost function. And his aliveness showed up in unexpected moments.

Some days at the Day Center there would be a somber atmosphere, especially if one of the clients had just died. I walked in one day to pick up my uncle. He had been pretty quiet for a substantial period of time, the residual effects of a few mini-strokes. When I arrived, he was at the far end of the room. As Sammy saw me, he yelled, with great strength in his voice: “There she is! She’s come to take me home and tie me up.”

It was so unexpected. He hadn’t said a full sentence in a long time and the content… I walked over to his side. Everyone was laughing at this absurdity. I asked, “So what will I do with you after I’ve tied you up?
” He quickly replied, ” You know what you’ll do with me,” still in that pseudo-sexual mode. He was a master of surprise. Everyone lightened up, thrown off guard by his humor.

We had a lovely, very serious guest from the mainland. Ingrid is a fabric designer and painter. She had come to Hawaii on a search to rekindle her creativity, and to recover from the dissolution of a relationship.

At this point, Uncle Sammy spoke very little, and he didn’t seem to notice her at all. Ingrid was in her own world, and didn’t relate to him at all. Suddenly, one morning, she asked to meet my uncle. She appeared in front of him. He said “Hello,” looked at her, started to laugh and kept laughing. At first she was startled. Her rational mind didn’t know what was going on. Then she got it, and tried to laugh along with him. Forcing it at first, it became more and more natural until she started to laugh, uncontrollably. She laughed and laughed and laughed some more. She completely got my uncle’s intention. It was the first time in her ten-day visit that she was not serious. 

She left the very next day, and soon we received two emails from her.

The first email said: “When I arrived home I wanted to see the sunrise at Mt. Diablo. I drove there and camped overnight. I woke very early the next morning with this strong, tangible sensation of a laugh slowly rising like a big, warm bubble in my stomach, and then coming out of my mouth. It was Uncle Sammy’s laugh. That sound was only in my dream, though, so when I was fully awake I had to practice it. Then I went further up the mountain and chanted to the four directions. I also painted that afternoon. Thank you, and give Uncle Sammy a big hug and big thanks.”

The second email arrived some weeks later. In it she said: “I have a new sweetie who has the greatest sense of humor and laugh and it’s infectious. HA HA HA.”

The e-mails reinforced my understanding that Uncle carried strong, positive medicine for people.
He knew just what each person needed in order to shift his or her usual perspective.
I told Uncle Sammy, and he just nodded with a radiant grin. He was truly a wise guy.

Sammy focused on honoring divine foolishness, holding laughter in a pinnacle position, knowing it to be central to sacred experience. When I saw a photo of “Sufi Sam” with his laughing hat, I recognized that Uncle Sammy had the same archetypal energy. Sufi Sam, Samuel Lewis Ahmed Murad Chisti, was a Sufi Master. My uncle was also a messenger of this archetype, and his expression of it became more and more refined throughout his dementia. He was radiantly conscious of this job.

Sammy wore special hats. He began to wear sailor hats, and with his new mustache, he looked a bit like Popeye. A few trips through the washing machine and the hats shape-shifted; they became yarmulkes, akin to a type of hat worn by many different Middle Eastern and Indian spiritual folks. They seemed perfect to do his healing work. When anyone looked at him in these hats, they would invariably smile, as his image called forth many other images, timeless and universal.

As Uncle used fewer words, he lived more and more in a sea of laughter, below the level of words. He played in an energy field with sound, movement, gestures, and facial expressions, an atmosphere of possibility and openness. This unorthodox sagetrickster used his humor and his mastery of the unexpected to cross boundaries, to jump the track of ordinary consciousness, and reach a world not governed by ordinary rules.

Chapter 44

The Art of Forgetfulness: Running on Empty

Dementia can be a state of grace. Even though Uncle Sammy forgot the details, he was fueled by divine intelligence. He never forgot the essentials: love, kindness, respect, reciprocity, laughter, music… though he did forget his name, where he lived, financial matters.

Every morning he greeted the new day and the sun as brand new. I later discovered this to be a practice, worldwide, in indigenous cultures. He, upon awakening, would begin to sing; he never forgot that. He would sing or say in some way, “How lucky the day is! What a beautiful sun it has!” or, “How lucky the sun is! What a beautiful day it has!” And then he would laugh. With the fresh innocence of a young child, he would look at his environment and see its beauty as if for the first time.

When I walked into his room, he would look at me and say, “There you are!” He was so delighted to see me, as if that was the first time he had ever seen me. We did this every morning. After being awed by the morning and all of its gifts, my uncle would playfully sing and laugh. He never forgot to play. He was satisfied if I began to sing, too. If I was serious, or if I forgot what was truly important, he would keep on. His intent gaze or a simple gesture would let me know, with no uncertainty, that our morning ritual and meditation had begun. At this point it was irresistible. He shared such joy that I would then remember, and join him, playfully singing and laughing, so grateful for the reminder.

After Uncle Sammy moved to Hawaii, he forgot he disliked healthy food. Along with his ice cream and coffee, he ate everything, including salads. After his first year in the islands, he ate with great gusto, and his old worries about overeating, and everything else, were gone. He said, “Don’t worry. I never do. And if you don’t worry, you don’t have to.”

He completely forgot about worrying. He also completely forgot table manners, and ate in a most unusual and hilarious fashion. When he ate with friends, they laughed when he encouraged everyone to eat from each other’s plates, and most of all, to have fun with their food and each other. He never forgot fun.

Uncle forgot many personal preferences. One of these was his dislike of mustaches. After seeing George’s mustache, he grew one, and he loved to fondle and play with it. He forgot his discomfort with the outdoors and nature. Sammy began to love being in nature, near the ocean. He enjoyed feeling the breeze and the scent of flowers. The beautiful vibrant colors of Hawaii intrigued him, and he would marvel about this beauty. Outer forms, such as personal identity, were forgotten and dropped away. As surface mental activity was forgotten, he could simply be in peace and contentment.

Chapter 45

Sweet Surrender

There are only two ways to live your life: as though nothing is a miracle or as though everything is a miracle.” —Albert Einstein

What astounded me most about my uncle was his ability to use whatever faculty remained with great appreciation. Love, joy and freedom flowed out of his rapture. He realized that every new limitation reveals a new possibility, that  “What must be must be.”  Uncle Sammy surrendered with total grace to the advancing progress of his infirmity.

So often in my professional career as a social worker I had witnessed the shame of people needing help. Sammy suffered no such shame. In deep surrender, he was able to accept all of the physical help he needed with graciousness and appreciation.

When I was injured, my friend, Kathleen and her husband Alan, offered assistance. They transferred Sammy from bed to wheelchair, and changed his diapers. Whenever his diaper was being changed, my uncle would casually put his arms behind his head, as if relaxing at the beach, and allow any and all needed help. Kathleen had been changing his diaper for several days, and didn’t think Uncle Sammy took any notice of her or this procedure. Suddenly, one day he looked at her quite pointedly and said, “Why, I hardly know you.” She was startled into amazement and laughter.

Sammy never identified himself as a case, disabled or Elderly. He had little or no attachment to his personal identity, or anyone else’s. I once remember saying, “Good morning, Uncle Sammy,” and he replied, “I used to be your uncle, but now I’m open to everyone.”

He said this in jest, and yet it was accurate. At this stage of his life he was open to everyone he encountered, and had expanded his range of lovingkindness.

In his younger years my uncle used his powerful and melodic voice and his love of singing to entertain and amuse. After the onset of his dementia, he used his music for a different purpose: to connect with people, soul to soul, and to open them up. Music and humor were the basic tools of trade for Uncle Sammy’s Crazy Wisdom.

Over time, with the diminishment of his memory, my uncle would make up songs using different languages, different melodies and different styles. With his next stage of impairment, he made up sounds, along with some remembered words, melodically, spontaneously, and with much joy.

When his voice no longer had consistent strength, he would seize the times when it did to shock his community into laughter. One Thanksgiving we were at a large gathering at a friend’s house with a six-course turkey dinner. Everyone was eating solemnly when Uncle Sammy yelled, ”NOW EVERYBODY BACK TO WORK!” completely out of the blue. The energy in the room was transformed, and became much sillier, friendlier and relaxed.

As he lost movement in his lower body, he would gaze admiringly at his hands and say, “Look what my hands can do. Aren’t they amazing?”

Later on he began moving his hands in strong blessing gestures, while speaking the made up sounds of, “ZOOM ZAM ZEEM” or “ZABA DABA DOO.” People felt the blessings he sent.

Towards the end of his life, the last year or two, his gestures became gentle and very focused. His glance was potent as he delivered his benevolent blessings. He communicated love, connection, and great joy. He seemed to look into the face of diminished earthly capacities, into the face of death, and not falter.

He was a great model of surrendering to limitations without forgetting the greater opportunities. Not only was my uncle able to surrender to needed help, he surrendered to all the changes life presented. During the entire length of his disabled state, he maintained a great power: that of remaining open and willing to receive whatever gifts the universe provided. Consequently, caring for him became a total joy.

My friend Aerie summed it up when she said, “He was on a surrender bender until he was returned to the sender.”

Chapter 34

Ancient Wisdom

Often people had no idea what dimension Uncle Sammy was in. People who met him casually never suspected that he had been diagnosed with dementia, and deemed legally incompetent.

One afternoon we were in Kailua-Kona, a small town where one could easily walk from one shop to another. Uncle Sammy enjoyed strolling into new shops and engaging with people in his unique style. I was always so curious, because these encounters would often have some unexpected twist to them.

On this particular day, we noticed a shop we had never been to. It was called Ancient Wisdom. The shop sold beautiful gemstones, jewelry, and artifacts from different cultures. It also had tarot decks and other items that appealed to people with a certain kind of spiritual perspective, sometimes referred to as New Age spirituality. The crystals and other luminous jewels in the window captivated Uncle Sammy.

There were two shopkeepers who were quite friendly. The store had leather couches in the back, and Uncle Sammy headed straight for them. Once seated comfortably, he began to expound on his philosophy. He said, “We’ve come to donate our happiness, and we want you to be happy, healthy and dangerous,” and began to laugh. Sammy immediately delighted the two women. They sat down next to him, wide-eyed, attentive, and very impressed. They treated him as a very special personage, a sage or a guru who had just happened to walk into their store. He glowed in the openness and willingness of these women as they sat with him. But he also found their appraisal of him a bit hilarious, and he spontaneously decided to take us all for a ride.

They brought out treats on a tray in little elegant dishes. Also on the tray were beautiful crystals and semi-precious stones. He laughed gleefully and put one of the crystals in his mouth, smacked his lips, and said, “Marvelous!” and then put it down. He played with the other crystals, as the women watched him quite intently. The treats they offered him were vegan hors d’oeuvres. Once Uncle tasted these, he leaned over to the women and said in a stage whisper, “But you know, one of the best kept secrets to life is ice cream. What you wanna do is do it and then we have ice cream.” The women laughed, and were obviously delighted with these comments,because one of the women left immediately and returned shortly with lots of ice cream. There was a very good homemade ice cream shop nearby. We all ate copious amounts of ice cream, and Uncle Sammy became even more animated, with superb one-liners. By the time we left, the women had invited Uncle Sammy to come back to give a talk. He smiled and nodded to them as we left the store and headed home.

Soon Sammy became more physically incapacitated, and couldn’t go so far on our neighborhood outings. I, however, would stop into Ancient Wisdom, and the women kept asking me when Uncle could be scheduled to give one of his talks. They persevered in their view that Sammy could be a liberating and inspiring force for others.

What was so delightful to me about this situation was that this inspiration came from such an unexpected source: a little old guy who no longer identified with his name, where he lived, or how old he was. This wisdom came from someone who wasn’t a guru, and who was, in fact, a part of our population that is seen by our culture as no longer essential, or even functional.

They had never met anyone quite like Uncle Sammy.