The Sounds of Silence

"To hear, one must be silent."

~ Ursula K. Le Guin

It has taken me a few months to venture into the waters of silence. I'd like to say I purposely chose to wade in, but it has happened gradually and accidentally at first. Like so many folks these days, technology has made it all too easy for me to be distracted - the computer, the TV, the phone, notepads - so easy and enticing.

With John's death, 21 months ago today to be exact, I initially found silence to be foreboding. In the middle of the night, when I would wake to overwhelming grief and anxiety, it became a habit to get up, turn on the TV or music and distract myself until I could fall back to sleep. During the day, I would read (usually with a background of music), or call a friend, or run off to do errands or attend a meeting—anything to keep the pain at bay, at least for a little while. At least until I could parcel it out in doses and drum up tried and true approaches that had guided me through other challenges of my life - approaches, in retrospect, that only kept the demons at bay. 

And then, the virus hit, and though I thought and hoped, as many of us did, that everything would be back to normal by autumn, the rising statistics this summer soon proved me wrong. June and July presented a confrontation with everything I believed about myself, the future, and my ability to quiet the cacophony in my head and plan for the future. How does one plan for such an unknown future?

Then, one recent morning, with no particular reason that I can recall, I started to journal in total silence. No music, no news, silence, and the quality of my writing and the level of honesty was so noticeably different that I knew immediately that I could only still the inner noise and confusion by being willing to be quiet enough to hear and deal with it.

At first, I was stunned by a level of grief that I now realize I had simply covered up. Cloudbursts of tears became thunderstorms at the mere glance at John's photo or the discovery of a loving card. I could feel waves of irritation or anxiety physically when I prepared to run even the simplest errand. The more I wrote in silence, the more I got in touch with outrage over how this virus has been mishandled and my dismay over the distrust, nastiness, and division I see in my country. The more I wrote, I more I got in touch with a fear of incompetence and a degree of loneliness I had not felt in decades.

Gradually, I lengthened the periods of silence. I wrote more and more. Began to take my lunch out to the patio and just listen for birds or children playing behind the backyard wall. Slowed down and enjoyed my food. Noticed the sound of the breeze through the trees in the early hours of the morning or Rufus' gentle breathing as he curled up beside me in bed. Caught an idea as it surfaced unexpectedly. 

But most importantly, I recognized, quite abruptly in fact, that my underlying fear was not that I couldn't cope with the present, but instead that I had no sense of purpose for the future, and that I knew errands, and house maintenance and even volunteering were no longer enough. That, without John, I have come to yearn for family and physical proximity to people with whom I have a longer and more intimate shared history. At that very moment, I decided that I will move to New York State when my younger sister retires. At that very moment, I accepted that just as a future decision has emerged in my willingness to be still, so will a larger purpose.

One recent night I realized that I hadn't watched TV for a week other than to turn on some music while I cleaned the house. And that I am going to bed earlier and sleeping better. That when I do wake, I don't get upset. I merely read awhile until I go back to sleep. That projects are emerging more naturally, like simplifying the house, not just organizing it. Or finding it easier to let go of "stuff" because I'm already thinking of moving. Or knowing what I want to blog about without false starts and second-guessing!

Am I totally comfortable with silence? Not by a long shot. Do I plan to take up meditation? Not now, not yet. But I am growing comfortable with long stretches of silence, more confident that I will hear what I need to hear. And, surprisingly, grateful for this period of solitude.

Who Will Remember?

"I never wanted to be the eldest."

~ Ben Magestro

I haven't thought of this comment in years.  Many years.  Dad made it at the news of the death of his remaining older brother over 25 years ago.  Dad was just about the age I am today.  I didn't pursue the comment.  Maybe it was because I am the eldest child and grandchild and had never given it much thought at the point.  Maybe I feared I'd make both of us uncomfortable discussing why he felt that way. Maybe I arrogantly assumed I understood. Whatever - I just let it pass, one more comment to file away. 

Until recently, when I caught a video of my remaining uncle, now in his 80's, suddenly frail, undoubtedly old.  In the weeks that have followed, my dad's comment has popped up at the most unexpected moments.  Finally, I suspect I understand.  When this uncle dies, when I am the eldest in the clan, who will remember?

For, it's not only that this uncle is the last of his generation.  In many ways, he was more an older brother than an uncle.  We lived under the same roof at the end of World War II.  He consoled me and tried to protect me when the stress of that household at that time was too much for a little girl.  He took me trick or treating.  He fixed my plate at the buffet when we celebrated my great-grandmother's 100th birthday.  He was there when I was baptized, and when I received Holy Communion.  He remembers the day Grandma gave up her icebox for a refrigerator, what it took to keep the coal burning furnace going, the snowstorm that crippled the city in 1947.

He was the first male in the family to get a college degree; I was the first female.  He was the first to leave the city and his family to serve in Korea.  I was the first to leave the city and never return.

When he dies, there will be no one left who knows where I began, who can appreciate even remotely what it has taken to be who and where I am today. There will be no one else who remembers. I'm not sure this is what Dad meant when he made that comment so many years ago.  But I rather suspect I'm in the ballpark.

I know there are scientific reasons given for why we older folks begin to dwell on memories of our younger selves.  But what if it isn't also that we reach a point when we are the eldest and there is no one else who remembers?

Coming Full Circle

"We never know from one day to the next what surprise lurks around the corner."

  ~ Joy Loverde, Who Will Take Care of Me When I'm Old 

I know, heaven knows I know, what Joy is talking about.  From the major surprises like disease, death, or natural disasters to the minor surprises like a garage door that suddenly won't open or a burst water pipe or a flat tire, we never know.  But we also never know when we'll meet someone who will change the course of our lives or pick up a book that gives us the answer we've been looking for for months.  Or, as happened to me last week, the information that I made a difference in someone's life who continues to make a far greater difference than I ever could have made.

Joy is an old friend. We go back over 25 years.  More than a friend, more like a much younger sister or the daughter I never had or would have been proud to have had.  There was a day when she asked to come in for a coaching session as she wanted to talk about a career change.  A change from the marketing career at which she was skilled, experienced and successful.  A change to something that would use those skills for something that made a bigger difference than promoting someone else's product or business.

I remember that conversation as though it happened yesterday.  I've shared the experience of it many times in coachings and trainings in the years that followed.  I asked Joy only one question.  "What issues are you passionate about - in what arena would you like to make a difference?" She answered quickly - "The way children are treated and the way old people are treated."  I then suggested she go home and choose the one she would like to focus on and think about how she could apply her skills and talents to the problems she saw.

It was as simple as that.  She returned shortly saying she had chosen to approach the issue of eldercare and knew exactly how she might carve out a new career.  What followed was her first book, The Complete Elder Care Planner, speaking engagements, workshops,  consulting and ultimately recognition as a major contributor in the growing eldercare advisory industry.

Fast forward to a week ago.  I was searching for a book, any book that might address the overwhelm I was feeling about a future without my husband.  The perfect book appeared, at least the title suggested that it might be.  As though the author could read my mind - Who Will Take Care of Me When I'm Old.  And the author - Joy Loverde, my Joy.  

I downloaded it immediately and started to read it.  Exactly as I expected, it is well-written, well-researched, clear and compassionate.  But what I didn't expect was to find my name in her acknowledgments.  After all these years.  I didn't expect the tears, gratitude, and the profound sense of satisfaction and delight that almost overwhelmed me.  To know that I had influenced someone who now influences so many others and will continue to do so.  And that I am now a recipient of what was set in motion in that simple conversation long ago.  We have come full circle.  And that knowledge, in itself, may be more important to me than anything in the book.

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Cherish Is the Word

The word cherish is in my reading vocabulary, but not much in my speaking or writing.  Oh, I had promised it would be 15 years ago when I fought breast cancer and realized how many people cared about me.  When I noticed how much I hadn't noticed.  When I vowed I would be more present, more attentive, more grateful.  When I realized how much I had to not only be grateful for, but to cherish and cherish deeply.  For, to be grateful for a red rose or a pretty sunset, to be glad a friend called can become an intellectual exercise, a momentary acknowledgment, a good habit, but a habit nonetheless.  

My intention was confirmed and reaffirmed when, two years later, John was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins, and he received his stem cell transplant.  And survived.

I'd like to say I've lived the dozen or so years since then having kept my promise to myself, but I haven't.  I became distracted, caught up with retirement, and moving, and planning and preparing, more everyday tasks and chores.  I didn't even catch myself up short when John was diagnosed again a year ago.  After all, more tasks to get our "house in order."  More planning and preparation.

Then, last weekend a series of sweet, small events gave me pause.  Telephone calls from old and new friends to see how we are holding up.  To remind me they are here for us.  A visit with dear friends who were about to move.  And another from friends we left behind when we moved.  Hugs and words of endearment and encouragement.  And tears that flowed for days - with sadness and gratitude.  So much, so many to cherish.  How could I have forgotten?

Why does it take a crisis for some of us to remember?  To cherish what we have now.  To cherish deeply what we have now.

Standing in a Hammock

"So, how was Houston? What did you learn?"  "How is John?" "How are you holding up?"

Today, three weeks since our trip to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, I would answer these questions somewhat differently than when we first returned, having the advantage of hindsight.  First, Houston was in better shape as a city than we had anticipated, remaining water viewed more from the air than in the area of the Center.  The Center itself as busy, as challenging to navigate as ever.  The sight of so many folks in distress as difficult to handle. 

But for us, the fact that they could not get a sufficient bone marrow sample added stress and uncertainty as we had traveled there specifically to check the progress of John's disease.  What we did learn was that currently there were no clinical trials available to pursue.  And that we would have to wait another week for whatever further information could be retrieved from the sample.  The best advice we received was to resume monthly chemotherapy treatments.

I would have said on the morning we left Houston that nothing much had changed as a result of the trip.  And then, in the airport, waiting for our departure, I heard John tell a friendly stranger that he has an incurable cancer and is not sure he will survive another year.  Something I had never heard him acknowledge before, even at times seemed unable to acknowledge.  It broke my heart - and it was such a relief.

For, it has been very challenging for me to hold the reality of this prognosis without impacting his optimism, his conviction that he could endure this long enough for a cure to be found.  That, at least there might be a clinical trial that would provide a better treatment plan.  After all, he beat cancer before. That optimism, however, has been an obstacle to getting our "ducks in a row" should he or before he loses this battle.

Oddly enough, admitting this is a possibility, even a probability has decreased our stress and anxiety.  Rather than be depressed, it has brought us both a sense of calm relief and purpose.  And subsequently, we have adjusted our expectations and aligned behind a commitment we can manage.  We are focusing on three months at a time and a laundry list of to do's that keeps us grounded, energized and in tandem.  

So, how am I doing?  I told someone recently that I'm learning to ride the waves.  "No," she said, "you're learning to stand in a hammock."

And John, well, he recently reminded me that doctors could be wrong.

When You Need Somebody - Part I

"Tell us - from friends, loved ones, and even acquaintances- what does help/support/relief/kindness really look like?"

I've been mulling this question from my friend, John G., for the past few days.  He suggested the answer might make a good post here.  After giving it a lot of consideration, here's my first attempt.  Not a definitive description because I don't think there is one.  At least I don't have one.   What I will share, for now,  is what I am learning about support.

~ What support looks like not only varies from person to person but also for any one person, depending on the challenge and when it appears.  When John was battling non-Hodgkins, we lived in Houston, in an apartment near the hospital.  I didn't have to cook or clean and we were 12 years younger.  I needed very little physical help as compared to today.  But I could have used more emotional support; maybe I just didn't understand that I did as much as I do today?

~ There may many people who will offer to be of help, and though some may offer only as a courtesy, no one is a mind reader.  Unless someone knows you very, very well, they cannot know what you might need and what you will accept. Even if they know, a new situation may require a level or kind of support neither of you recognizes.  I've found it helpful to me and those who would support me to list all the ways someone could help me physically, intellectually and emotionally.  It led me to make many requests I would not have otherwise - asking our window cleaner if he would take down all items from upper shelves so that neither of us needs to use a ladder anymore, replying to a friend who asked me what could lift my spirits that day -"flowers", or to another "a regular luncheon date at a spa."

~Which brings me to my last point (for now), and perhaps the most important - support, help, assistance, however you refer to it, is as much related to whether or how well you accept it as to whether or not it is offered.  In the past, my pride was an obstacle to receiving the support I wanted.  Sometimes, I thought it a sign of weakness or incompetence to admit I needed help.  Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to say, I thought I could do it all or better. Experience has taught me otherwise. Sometimes I just didn't know what I needed. And sometimes, even today, I get too overwhelmed, too caught up in anxiety and fear to even recognize what is being offered.

Well, John, my friend, your question has instigated some serious thought. I recognized even as I started to compose my reply that there is much more I want to add - so there will be a Part II.  In the meantime, I welcome comments, questions, and other ideas.  Support each other?  What a wonderful idea.

I Hope Life Has Been Good to Her

I haven't thought about her for years.  I doubt she would remember the dinner she prepared 40 years ago as a favor for a mutual friend who was deeply concerned for me and thought she could be of help.  In the midst of debilitating panic at the prospects of living alone for the first time after a nasty divorce, I, too, was concerned, and thus, very grateful for the invitation.  Hoping she, indeed, could be of help.  

I don't remember her name.  I'll call her Sara. Our friend said Sara was ahead of me in the stream of 70's divorcees, swimming with grace and serenity.  Walking into her home, I could feel the peacefulness immediately.  After our meal, she got straight to the point. This I remember vividly.  "Mike says you are struggling with living alone and hopes I can offer some good advice.  Well, I'm no expert, but these three things work for me, a career I love, friends of the same sex, and hobbies or interests that fill the empty hours."  Simple. Straight to the point.

Well, I was teaching and loved it. I had a group of female friends from among neighbors and colleagues, who supported, and worried about me. But hobbies, interests? All my interests had been directed by my ex. So I thanked her, not adequately I'm sure, and set out to develop my own hobbies. And never saw her again. I eventually settled on needlepoint,  needle pointing a pillow for everyone I knew. Eventually, settled into a modicum of comfort in my singleness, but more importantly, gained the confidence that I could and would do so eventually with my own style of grace and serenity.

So what triggered this memory?  No single comment or event, but rather a series of events that took place this week.  A week of daily contact with friends, old and new. A week of sharing memories, tears, laughter, good food, serious conversation, fears and hopes and even a few interesting possibilities for the future.  A week that has culminated with suddenly remembering Sara and thinking of how, 40 years later, I would respond to her advice.

Some of the contacts this week were extemporaneous - e-mails, Facebook posts, a telephone call - from friends acquired along my career path, some friendships over 25 years old. Others - the newer St. George friendships - had been planned for some time.  My monthly luncheon date with a friend in her 80's, who shared her dream of seeing Alaska some day, and opened the possibility that we might do that together.  The next day, lunch at a local spa with a friend in her 50's, Grasshopper to my Sensei. Discussing my plans for the future, she sparked an idea for a  project I could become passionate about.  Asked how she might be of personal support in the days ahead, we committed to a monthly luncheon, at the spa, of course.

Then, there were the gatherings.  A monthly meeting of a group that has been meeting for two years now, pulled together in the hopes that these women would be a bastion of support in the inevitable life crises that, indeed, have begun to emerge.  Aging from 65 to 82, with a fount of knowledge and expertise and a bottomless well of compassion, they have become the haven we hoped for two years ago. For me, for sure. Then, today, lunch with friends to discuss Hillbilly Elegy, four "senior citizens" who share a love of reading and learning, 

So, how would I respond to Sara's advice today? At 76, retired, with perhaps too many hobbies, I would say friendship has become the most important, enduring element for me in living a satisfying life, whether alone or with a mate.  I would add, that especially as I have aged, I value a web of friends of different generations and different interests.  That though it is tempting, especially in today's divisive, hostile environment, to surround myself only with people who think and believe as I do, the diversity of age, interests, and viewpoints keeps me engaged and invigorated. That I need friends to cry with, and friends to laugh with, too. That I need friends who share a piece of my history, friends who nurture me in the present, and friends who help me face the future.

I take comfort in knowing I have created just such an elaborate web of friendships over the years, largely by remarkable good fortune, surely not by conscious design.  I don't know how Sara has fared.  If she would amend her advice as I have.  I hope life has been good to her. I hope she is surrounded by a web of loving, nurturing, diverse friendships.

The Zen of Jigsaw Puzzles

Keeping this blog is finally becoming a pleasure, rather than a project I think I should pursue.  Selecting the quotes and photos, organizing my thoughts, crafting the content, checking to see how well a post is being received, all enjoyable. That is, once I select the topic for the week.  Most often, I churn,  debating ideas, mulling a title, fretting about the opening line, wondering whether this is of value to anyone other than me.  This week, therefore, I decided to put all that on hold and to trust that an idea would simply emerge.  It did.

Last night, I woke at 3 in the morning, a common occurrence of late.  I got up to go to the bathroom and returned to note, again, how grateful I am that John no longer snores.  A result of his stem cell transplant years ago.  I tossed a bit, tried a couple relaxation techniques that sometimes help to lull me back to sleep, and then, unsuccessful, decided to heed the advice of sleep therapists to get up and do something else. 

I padded into the kitchen, intent on getting something to drink before settling down with a mystery and spotted the jigsaw puzzle I have been working on for the past couple days.  A great puzzle with sturdy pieces, an intricate and whimsical picture, bright colors and just the right level of difficulty, challenging but not frustrating.  And close to completion.

For 90 minutes I persisted, patiently and calmly.  I would pick up a piece, examine it carefully, scrutinize the picture. I noted tiny details I hadn't noticed before, variations in texture and subtle differences in shading.  And the more I noticed, the easier it got.  I could pick up a piece and put it down exactly where it belonged.   With a surprising sense of accomplishment.  If not, I would simply place it back in the box and choose another. 

Patient, calm until finally done.  

If anyone had seen me then, standing over the finished product, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I'm sure she would question why I might take such satisfaction in completing a jigsaw puzzle. And she would have been missed the point.  For I was grinning with the sudden realization that, for 90 minutes, I had been fully present to the task at hand, fully engaged. Not grappling with why I couldn't sleep.  Not chastising myself for not having taken a sleep aid.  Not worrying how I was going to manage today.  Not stewing over this week's post. Above all, not wondering if this is my future, waking, alone, at 3 in the morning to do a jigsaw puzzle. Engaged. Present.

My grin almost dissolved into tears.  For 90 minutes, I hadn't worried about John's health or dwelt on the state of the nation, or chewed on the daily challenges I am confronting with my own aging.  I hadn't turned on TV nor checked Facebook.  I had simply become engaged with something that required attention, complete attention in the moment. Simple, granted not easy, but always available.  Like a good book, or a foreign film with subtitles, or deadheading roses, or really listening to a friend.  Presence, my topic for this week's post had emerged.

Now, I have no illusions that having this experience means I can call it up again on a whim. I have been here before. It's just so much easier to dwell on past memories or future concerns. Easier to be lulled by distractions or caught up in the cacophony of the latest breaking news. Easier to get swept up in emotions (mine or others') or the internal chatter I sometimes confuse with thinking.  Easier, but not very satisfying.

I have no illusions that at 76, I can develop the same ability to dwell in the present as a Buddhist monk who has meditated for decades, or a yoga practitioner, but I am determined to improve.  To at least notice when I am somewhere else and to return to now, the present moment, the only moment in which I have some control.  To restore focus and calm no matter the existing circumstances.  Maybe jigsaw puzzles can become my meditative practice?

Looking for the Silver Lining

For as long as I can remember, song lyrics have popped into my head at the strangest times - a chance remark, a memory, someone's story, or even for no apparent reason.  I'm used to it.  Have come to just let it be when it happens, and trust that if there is a meaning or reason for its appearance, eventually I will make the connection.

Given both the current political climate and our personal challenges, it hasn't surprised me, therefore, that "Look for the Silver Lining" would be echoing in my head for days now.  "Look for the Silver Lining", for folks who haven't heard of the song, was introduced to the world in 1920, made popular by Judy Garland in 1945 and revisited most recently by Tony Bennett in 2015. And though many people may not know the tune or lyrics (which I include later in this post), the exhortation to "look for the silver lining" has become a common phrase used to support people through trying times. 


So, I've taken time to look for the silver lining in John's illness.  Clearly, we would much prefer not to be fighting cancer yet one more time, not to be facing something currently incurable, hoping that a breakthrough will occur, will be offered the next time we see the doctor.  We would much prefer that John have the energy and stamina he used to have. We would prefer he not need regular blood transfusions and chemo.  But having said that, there are other very real, very special side effects that we might never experience without this challenge, and that's the silver lining.  

Of course, there is the obvious - we are more present in the moment, more conscious of how we speak to each other, how we spend our time, the choices we are making and need to make.  As we have been through other crises, yet seem to forget once the crisis is past. We are also more affectionate, more intimate.  More so than we have ever been.  With little gestures, and at odd little moments.  More appreciative of the life we have had together, the homes, the friends, the memories.  We enjoy the little things, the simplest things, like laughing at Paul Harvey's antics on Family Feud, or deciding which judge a contestant should choose on The Voice, and are conscious, in the moment, of our enjoyment.  Then there are the everyday things too easily taken for granted, like the desert sunset or a glass of B and B after supper, the call or e-mail asking how we are doing, the thoughtfulness of the service people who have taken up the slack for us, a favor we do for each other without being asked.

I'm sure there are others who have learned to live their lives this way without incurring a disease or experiencing a disaster.  I'd like to think we might have evolved this level of consciousness and appreciation over time, but I'm not sure that we might just as well drifted along, most days only semi-conscious.  I also am aware that some people never see the silver lining, never look.  For us, this is the paradox, the contradiction, the both/and.  We are fighting for John's life and we are blessed.

Look for the Silver Lining

                            

Look for the silver lining

Whenever a cloud appears in the blue

Remember somewhere the sun is shining

And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you

A heart full of joy and gladness

Will always banish sadness and strife

So always look for the silver lining

And try to find the sunny side of life

One Part Reflection, One Part Rant, One Part Resolution

I cannot recall a time when I was unaware of the power of words.  Living with my mother and brother in her parents' home, with a young uncle, an aunt and an aunt by marriage, at the end of World War II, offered a primer in the use of language to convey hurt, worry, anger, resentment and fear.  A primer in the use of language to cajole, ingratiate, belittle, manipulate, and, conversely and thankfully, occasionally to soothe, comfort, console, and reassure.  Unfortunately, too much of the former, too little of the latter.  

Every male of fighting age in our extended family was enlisted and many engaged in combat duty.  Most of the families in Milwaukee's blue collar neighborhoods, probably throughout the country, were in the same boat, coping with the same stress levels, with the same insufficient training and experience to deal with it.

So I learned quickly to pay attention to tone of voice, to sense when emotions were high and arguments were likely to escalate.  I came to recognize the words and phrases that could trigger a volley of insults and accusations, name-calling and laying blame..you never, you always, you need to, why can't you...etc., etc.  I waited for apologies that never came.   I remember the clenching of my jaw, the twisting in my stomach, the tears I struggled to hide. I remember wondering how someone could be so sure of what someone else really meant. But most of all, I remember the bewilderment I felt when people whom I believed loved each other and needed each other's protection could be so deliberately hurtful.   I remember feeling very unsafe.

Those years were the impetus for my lifelong interest in communication - what constitutes effective communication?  What forces impede communication?  What limits our ability to discuss differences?  How much responsibility do I own for how you hear me?  How much responsibility do you own for how I hear you? Each answer leading to more questions.

I now look back on those early years with some understanding and compassion.  People were so fearful, so unprepared.  We lived in isolated neighborhoods, with limited information trickling in via newspapers, news reels, the radio.  We didn't know what we didn't know.  Our perceptions were shaped by rigid cultural norms, strong religious influences and carefully crafted political propaganda.  Our behaviors by history and habit.  Yet, somehow we managed, eventually, to move forward, certainly with some scars, but together.

These past months, however, I find myself grinding my teeth at night, frequently feeling my stomach in knots, fighting back tears of frustration, cursing at the TV, shaking my head in disbelief at what I see and hear in the news, in threads of conversations and shares on Facebook.  Language to convey hurt, worry, outrage, resentment and fear.  Language to cajole, ingratiate, humiliate, threaten, belittle, manipulate.  Language designed to distort, distract, deny.   Perceptions shaped by rigid cultural norms, strong religious influences and carefully crafted political propaganda.  Our behaviors defended by history and habit.  Emotion and belief superseding thinking and reason.  Negotiation and compromise becoming dirty words. And the result - more divisiveness, a rise in bullying and hate crimes, cynicism and distrust.  Lying called fake news.  Threats called bluffing.  All exacerbated by our sheer numbers, the speed with which information - true, false or mixed - can be spread to a population too often unable or unwilling to sort it out.  

What's a person to do?  Well, this is what this person is doing, for what it's worth.  Because I have no idea if we, as a country, will weather this toxicity, but I suspect I won't unless I -

• limit my time on Facebook and with the news,
• confine my energy and attention to a few FB sites I trust, preferably those with moderators who help to insure a modicum of civility,
• subscribe to Snopes daily debrief to help sort the wheat from the chaff,
• insert a question or comment where I think it might make a difference, but only where it might,
• call and write my Congressmen to voice my opinions and concerns,
• monitor my own language, particularly when I'm angry or afraid,
• make sure I find a way to laugh in the morning and record gratitudes before I go to bed,
• spend some enjoyable time with John and connect with a friend every day,
• learn more about how to discuss issues more effectively across the chasms of religious and political differences, and
• populate my world with others who want to help bridge these chasms rather than widen them.

For, what else is a person to do? 

Rules for an Old Woman Thriving

A good friend called recently to share news of the wonderful celebration her family surprised her with for her 90th birthday.  A well deserved celebration for a life well lived.  For a woman who continues to live enthusiastically. One of my role models.

Our conversation got me questioning how I am living today, whether I live with the same zest I so respect in my friend.   And it sent me back to a remarkable book I have read twice now.  Rules for Old Men Waiting, by Peter Pouncey, is the fictional story of an old historian and recent widower, who realizing that he is dying, compiles 10 rules by which to live his final days with as much dignity and intention as he can. 

Pouncey's old man, MacIver, is living alone in a cabin that has fallen into disarray and disrepair, as he himself has, while in the midst of overwhelming grief.  So his rules, are, of necessity, very basic.  "Keep personally clean.  Make the bed every morning, and clean house twice a week.  Dress warmly and light fire when necessary, burning least important things first.  Eat regularly.  Play music and read.  Work every morning.  Nap in the afternoon if needed."  Eventually he refines his Rules for Winter Watch/Rules for the Inside Game and settles on writing a novel as his last piece of "work."  And the result, a moving novel within a moving novel.

I am not ill, not dying.  But I am now 76, in the midst of the Age of Distinction as Michael Gurian describes this stage of life in The Wonder of Aging. ( I much prefer his term to "the old old" that many gerontologists now employ for my age group.)  I want to live the rest of my life with as much dignity and intention as I can for as long as I can.  If I make it to 90, I would like to be a role model for someone else behind me in the stream.  I want to thrive, not merely survive, with "passion and compassion and humor and style and generosity and kindness."

Therefore, my "rules", for now, a work in progress:

• Learn something every day - how to use the computer more effectively, something about aging, something about another country, current events (within mental health boundaries) - something.
• Simplify our home or life style in some way - reduce, reorganize, recycle, restrain.
• Prepare one vegetarian meal each day - alright, it's one step in the right direction.
• Read good literature every day.
• Spend at least 30 minutes outdoors each day.
• Do something special and enjoyable with John every day and make contact with one friend  - thank heaven for e-mail.
• Move - as in walk.
• Find a way to laugh - laugh out loud.
• Spend at least 30 minutes a day on an activity that requires creative expression - writing, drawing, decorating. 
• My work - to engage in an activity that contributes to someone other than myself - right now, that's this blog (hopefully this contributes to some folks), coaching, and some day, my own book.

Now, I realize in reviewing this list that there are some things here that I already do with great regularity.  I realize that there will be always be days I don't do all of these things, can't do all these things.  There will be naps and movies and lunch with friends and catchup telephone calls.  There will be doctors' visits and emergencies.  There will be other options, others opportunities.  In six months or a year, I may add something, delete something, or expand something.  But for now, this feels appropriate, and doable and satisfying, a structure for thriving.

  

The Sounds of Silence

Silence has not always been comfortable or comforting for me.  Silence - not merely not talking or being alone, but true silence, no music, no TV.  No computer, no digital reader, no background noise, no distraction.  Just me, my thoughts, my surroundings.  Quiet, stillness. Quiet enough to hear my breathing, to feel what I'm really feeling, to hear the inner dialogue that I would rather ignore.  Silence for a great part of my life was disquieting.

I have a long history with trying to cultivate a friendship with silence. I cannot count the times I tried to meditate and gave up, unable to still what Buddhists aptly call my "monkey mind" for even a nanosecond, unable to resist rebuking myself for my inability. It was challenging 40 years ago when I first tried, virtually impossible, even without the many distractions available today.  I was newly divorced , living alone for the first time, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions and an uncertain future.  So I turned to journaling.  To slow down the chatter, to capture it on paper so I could see what I could not bear to hear.  

Over the decades now, I've written on loose leaf paper, in college composition books, in Italian leather journals with gilded leaf edges.  I've written snuggled into the corner of a couch or a favorite comfy chair.  On airplanes, in hotels, late at night when I couldn't sleep, in the middle of the day when I found myself obsessing with an idea for a project or a problem that needed resolution.  Initially I had to have background noise, other people nearby, the TV, eventually soothing music.  

But I wrote almost every day.  I wrote when I didn't have anything special to say.  I wrote when I thought I had something profound to say (on rereading some of it, I only thought so.) I wrote when I had cancer and I wrote volumes when John had cancer.

Along the way, journaling evolved from habit to routine to cherished ritual and without realizing it, I learned to slow down the chatter, turn down the volume.  I became comfortable with discomfort.  I turned off the TV,  turned off the music.  I remained quiet after I stopped reading or writing.  I discovered solace in the sound of a distant mourning dove.  Came to hear the breeze in the trees outside our home before I could feel them.  Began to listen for the spaces between sounds.

Maybe I assign too much credit for this to journaling.  Maybe this comes naturally with age, with weathering personal loss, with being unwilling or unable to endure the assault of modern technology, the incessant noise.  Maybe I would be welcoming silence without all those composition books and gilded journals.  Or maybe it's that the distractions have become something to distract myself from?  But I look at the folks with their earbuds, and phones and tablets and wonder if/when they will make friends with silence. 

Sometimes, in the total silence of the night, when John reaches out to take my hand, or I reach out to reassure myself that he is still there,  the sudden thought that I might face this silence alone can take my breath away.  But now, more often that not, I reassure myself that I can.

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As Good As It Gets

"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so let us all be thankful."

~ Buddha

We returned last night from John's six month checkup at MD Anderson in Houston, on the brink of being too tired to go to sleep, on a high from having had better news than we had feared we might receive.  

It was a quick turn-around trip, there and home again in three days. It requires a shuttle drive of a couple hours to Vegas, using a wheelchair to navigate the airport, a three hour flight to Houston, another wheelchair, and then a long taxi ride to the hotel, a stressful trip under any conditions, anxiety laden under present conditions.  Prior to the trip, John had experienced a sudden drop in his white blood cell count and I had read that such a drop could indicate progression in the disease, even indicate the onset of leukemia.  

John was to receive a bone marrow biopsy to determine how well his current chemotherapy plan has been working and whether he would need a more aggressive chemo as suggested by his St. George hematologist, a treatment plan that would require stronger medication that carries possible serious side effects.  Treatment we were hoping to avoid, nevertheless treatment we feared we might be returning to St. George to initiate.  

Following the biopsy, we were scheduled to meet with the hematologist who is consulting with us, Dr. K, a Russian-trained, rather austere, cool and contained woman who had been almost two hours late for our initial consultation in September, known for her tardiness, but thankfully also known for her expertise.  Thursday, she was on time, greeted us warmly, reassured us that John's blood work looked good, that the white blood cell drop was a minor glitch, and that she did not feel the aggressive chemo was necessary.  Just like that, in 20 minutes, the air in the balloons of our anxiety was released.

Relieved, we recognized that John was stronger this trip than our initial visit six months ago. We recognized that we had managed the trip with grace and competency.  We recounted, once again, how grateful we are to have access to this wonderful organization, to another fine doctor, to the collaboration our health care team is exhibiting, to having one another.

We learned a lot in that 20 minute consultation, not the least is that I should not be doing my own research.  I don't know enough to make distinctions about the information.  I don't have the necessary training to understand all the vocabulary.  I am too close to the situation to take in the information neutrally,  too quick to jump to the worst conclusions.  Almost as valuable a learning as what Dr. K shared with us.  Almost.

This is as good as it gets...and that's pretty good.  We are grateful.

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