The other day, a song came on my car radio that I hadn’t heard in years. Within seconds, I wasn’t sitting in my car anymore. I was sixteen again, driving my mother’s Dodge Charger after school with the windows rolled down, the radio blasting, convinced life was about to begin. I was getting one of my first tastes of freedom. I could almost smell the summer air. I remembered the road, my friends, my dreams and that wonderful feeling that anything was possible.
That’s the remarkable thing about music. Photographs remind us of what happened. Music reminds us of how we felt.
Scientists tell us that music is processed in parts of the brain closely connected to memory and emotion. A familiar melody can bring long-forgotten moments rushing back as though no time has passed. But we don’t really need neuroscience to know that. We only need one familiar song.
Every stage of life seems to have its own soundtrack.
For me, one of those albums was Déjà Vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I was one of those teenage girls who spent far too much time daydreaming about love. I would listen to Our House and imagine where life would take me, hoping, wishing, and praying that somewhere out there I would find the love of my life.
From childhood lullabies and television theme songs to first loves, first heartbreaks, wedding dances, family road trips, and songs sung to our children, music becomes woven into the story of our lives. Hear one of those melodies years later and suddenly we’re not just remembering those moments, we’re living them again. We remember exactly how hopeful, heartbroken, fearless, or foolish we once were.
Even today, during the Bar and Bat Mitzvah celebrations of my grandchildren, certain songs still make me want to jump up and dance and I do!
Some songs carry sadness. They remind us of people we’ve loved and lost, or times we’ll never have again. Yet I’m grateful for them. For a few precious minutes, those people don’t seem quite so far away.
Someone who has spoken very little all day suddenly begins singing every word to a song from the 1940s. A gentleman who rarely joins a conversation starts tapping his foot to a Glenn Miller tune. A woman whose short-term memory has faded closes her eyes as the music begins, then smiles and enthusiastically sings along without missing a word. At JSL, I’ve watched this happen countless times.
In those moments, something extraordinary happens.
They are no longer simply residents in our care. They are teenagers dancing at the prom, young adults falling in love, newlyweds sharing a first dance, or parents rocking a baby to sleep. The music unlocks memories that seemed beyond reach. Their faces soften. Their eyes brighten. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they cry. Often, they do both.
Watching these moments reminds us that while memory may fade, it isn’t always gone. Sometimes it’s simply waiting for the right song.
Residents reconnecting with these treasured moments has changed the way I think about growing older. We spend so much time focusing on the memories that disappear. Music reminds us to celebrate the memories that remain.
Every one of us has a soundtrack.
Long before someone moved to JSL, they were a child singing with their parents, a teenager with impossible dreams, a young adult in love, a parent raising a family, or a friend laughing with people who helped shape their life. When we play their music, we help them reconnect with those earlier chapters of their lives.
Perhaps that’s why an old favorite song can still bring tears to our eyes or a smile to our faces. We’re not just hearing a song. We’re meeting an earlier version of ourselves.
And that’s a reunion worth celebrating.
Shabbat Shalom
