Generational Alchemy
The Alchemist, wise with potions rare,
Spoke of dreams that float on air.
“Seek the chance, where waters gleam,
Sail toward hope, chase the dream.”
Generational alchemy.
The magic that comes from friendships across generations.
What we inherit from those ahead of us, and what we learn from those coming up behind.
As the youngest child, I was the kid dragged to my parents’ dinner parties when there wasn’t a babysitter. I sat nearby, listened, and let’s be honest, often inserted myself right into the mix.
Their friends became mine.
As life unfolded, those connections deepened. One officiated my wedding. Others guided my career, traveled beside me, or picked up the phone when I didn’t know what to do next. Many have since left me. Some are still on my speed dial during daily walks, or waiting for me on the beaches of Martha’s Vineyard each summer.
Generational alchemy.
There is a particular kind of joy when our favorite people raise our favorite people.
Last month, I went to Jupiter, Florida expecting time with my college roommate and instead found myself spending the days with her 24-year-old daughter. Bright, beautiful, just beginning her career and life in Manhattan.
We laughed at funny things, talked through career paths, drank wine, sipped seltzer, and swapped stories about life as Gen X and Gen Z.
These days, often my favorite texts come from OPKs—other people’s kids—with a funny photo, a quick question, or a reply to my random text about where to go, what to wear, and the hip things a Gen Xer learns from a Gen Zer.
Generational alchemy.
The character I call The Alchemist is inspired by one of my parents’ Vineyard friends. He was my go-to throughout my adult life whenever I needed to think through a career decision.
He started with a humble dream to build a customer value store in Lowell, Massachusetts. It became CVS. The New York Times later described him as “informal and no-nonsense.”
He was philanthropic and wise, loved a practical joke, his family, his dogs Mary, and always answered my calls.
He competed with my father for an annual Sterling Silver (maybe it was Reynolds Wrap) Bedpan Tennis Trophy during their tennis days, competed to shoot their age over golf games in their 80’s and they took the last sail of the summer together. They died months apart. In their final summers, they met each Thursday for hot dogs and chow’da to talk books, politics, and life. Their minds sharp. Their friendship steady.
At the end of lunch, I would pick up my dad and get my dose of Stanley. Always wise. Always witty. Always “informal and no-nonsense.” I miss those moments.
And then, one day, something shifts. The generation you called is no longer there.
You become the person the next generation calls.
This week I woke early to an unexpected East Coast call. Maybe a pocket dial. A young man who started kindergarten with my eldest stepson, who lost his own father too young. We laughed, caught up, and started the day grateful for that St. Hilary’s bond.
The day before, a text from a colleague’s son asking for help prepping for summer internship interviews.
The fairy dust of generational alchemy.
It happens at every Ole Miss home game in the grove. On Christmas Eve in New Orleans at Antoine’s. On Holy Saturday at Henderson Point at the Egg Toss. These cross-generational gatherings filled with magic.
The magic across lifetime moment’s, small and large. I saw it clearly at my wedding—four generations, ages ninety-two to six months. Twenty-four flower girls, four bridesmaids and four ushers, all other people’s kids. Three wedding anniversaries falling on Summer’s Equinox. One flash mob. Lots of time in the Photo Booth. Across the generations, a night at the beach creating memories. My mom toasted the crowd that night, already aware she had begun her last mile, raised her glass and said, “Carry on.”
Just today, a summer friend, who served as a babysitter at the above-mentioned wedding, texted my sister about our upcoming NYC events. Having grown up with my mother, Mary Maud, on the Chappy beaches, she connected the dots that the Rhymer’s Club is part of Café Maude. “Well played,” she wrote.
The Poet’s Toast at the Rhymer’s Club is built on a simple idea: bring together the favorite people of our favorite people. A room where generations mix easily, stories are traded, introductions matter, and something new begins. Less about the program, more about the people. An evening designed to spark connection, pass along wisdom, and create a little generational alchemy in real time.
We need it.
Mix it up.
Show up.
Bring people together.
Learn as much as you give.
And have a lot of fun along the way.
That is the alchemy at work.
