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?

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.

https://plus.google.com/117024839728380171054

LOL

"the most wasted of all days is one without laughter"

~ ee cummings

As someone who can be too serious and thus, tend to worry and fret, laughter, even a simple smile, is a lifeline to a modicum of serenity.  Especially these days in this world with the health challenges we are facing. Laughter brings me back to center.  It reminds me to be grateful for what I have.  Who I have in my life.

I thank my lucky stars that I married a man who values humor and sends me laugh out loud e-mails almost every day.  And I thank my lucky stars that I have friends who share silly FB posts that always bring a smile if not an outright belly laugh.  (Pat, that's for you!) I'm so grateful for the late night comics who can find or create humor from a situation that otherwise stirs up angst and anger.  And special thanks to all my friends and my brother and sister who, when we speak, manage to get me to laugh at something, anything.  My days would be darker without all of you.

So, I conclude this brief post with one man's witty observations on aging.  Hope you get a laugh or two, or at least an occasional smile.

https://www.youtube.com/embed/LR2qZ0A8vic?rel=0