After Eighty

As I explained in my previous essay, “Eighty: Age of Fulfillment,” once I reached the eagerly awaited age of eighty, I discovered that the primary objectives of my life—seen more clearly in retrospect, of course—had largely been achieved. I married the man I loved, raised two fine daughters, attained some small success as a fine art photographer, received a PhD when in my seventies, relished many loving friendships, watched five beloved grandchildren grow into young adulthood, looked after my husband through a decade of Alzheimer’s disease until death finally took him away, and wrote a book about my life as a gift and a legacy for my family. I felt loved and appreciated. My fundamental needs had been fulfilled, my modest ambitions satisfied, and my fondest dreams realized. I basked in an aura of contentment and completion.

As I began to relax into the self-satisfied daze brought on by this sense of accomplishment, a surprising thought occurred to me: If I were to drop dead at this very moment, all would be fine! I would have no regrets, no unfinished business, no pangs of guilt. At first that unexpected insight brought a feeling of utter relief, for in the past I had often obsessed over some lapse in judgment or failure in relationship, had repeatedly agonized over important and not-so-important decisions, and had frequently been burdened by guilt over what I perceived to be unforgivable mistakes or grinding stupidities. As all those real and imagined shortcomings faded into insignificance, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and a binding loosened from around my heart. I felt free, could breathe easily.

I had barely assimilated that feeling of freedom, however, when I was struck by another startling realization: Something profound had come to an end. My life of yearning and striving was over. A sense of finality loomed over me, casting a chilling shadow on my initial exhilaration. All those needs and desires in my early life had pushed me forward, provided me with motivation and purpose. If they are no longer present, what will give me incentive for my remaining time on this earth? Does the absence of want suggest I am finished with life? That possibility brought a flash of anxiety. On the one hand, it seemed unreasonable, for I am still in good health. On the other hand, I am entering what is certain to be the final stage of my life; I can sense the inevitable end approaching.

It was once thought that age sixty or sixty-five ushered us into our final years, but that no longer holds true. While by that time we have passed through middle-age, and may have retired from our jobs, we certainly are not yet really old. We have entered a phase that I refer to as the penultimate stage of life, the next to last. It is for many, as it was for me, a golden period of happiness and accomplishment. When we reach eighty to eighty-five, however, we move from the penultimate stage to the ultimate stage. These words have interesting etymologies. Penultimate comes from the Latin paenultimus, from paene, “almost,” from which flows its meaning “almost last” or “last but one.” The term ultimate carries the connotation not only of “final” or “last,” but also of “supreme” or “utmost” or “high point.”

According to those meanings, as we move from the penultimate period into the ultimate, we are entering not just our final years, but the crowning season of our lives, the peak of our existence, the high point of our time on this earth. These words may seem odd or inappropriate, since we have been conditioned by our youth-worshipping society to think of our last years solely in terms of decline, as going down. We also tend to equate aging with unavoidable loss. There are too many of us, young and old, who view old age almost exclusively as a time of debilitation, decrepitude, diminishment, and disease.

Chances are we will have to deal with one or more of those dreaded “d” words. I do not deny the difficulties we may face; they can be formidable, and may on occasion threaten to overwhelm us. We must endure the deaths of ones we love, and must face our own mortality. We must cope with likely physical limitations: ebbing energy, lessening strength and flexibility, questionable memory, and fading eyesight and hearing. We may suffer serious illness. We may have to accept assistance for personal care. In short, we may be required to change how we live our lives. Such changes can be challenging, even acutely painful, but they are not the whole story. I maintain that it is possible to acknowledge our losses, accept our infirmities, and face our failings without being defined by them. We are more than our deficiencies.

Persons over age eighty-five now constitute the largest-growing sector of our population. As a group we are healthier and wealthier than any previous older generation. Our decades of living, working, and learning have profited us in countless ways. As a result of our longevity we have broader experience, greater insight, enhanced awareness, superior knowledge, and better understanding than those who have not lived so long. Though we have made our share of mistakes, we have had the opportunity to learn from them. We have had to adjust to changing circumstances, personally, culturally, and economically, allowing us to develop flexibility. Many of us have lost good friends and/or spouses, imbuing us with a depth of feeling heretofore unexplored. We have maintained relationships in spite of differences and confrontations, teaching us the value of compromise. All these experiences have added to our store of worldly knowledge, have contributed to our emotional maturity, and have given us an opportunity to widen and deepen our outlook so that we might live into a more meaningful and satisfying old age.

Nevertheless, as I move from the penultimate stage of my life into the ultimate stage, I am puzzled. I still have an irresistible urge to live life fully as long as possible. But what am I to do now that the main goals of my life are realized? Many in my age group are facing this existential dilemma. We wish to continue to participate in the world around us, but we are not sure how best to do that. It seems apparent, however, that how we choose to use our residual energies and how we apportion our remaining resources will be determining factors in shaping not only our personal futures, but also in shaping the future of our nation. Perhaps the most crucial aspect is how we regard our roles, how we envision ourselves as we enter this final stage. We need to adopt an appropriate and meaningful paradigm of aging, so that as we move into our late years we can continue to bring enrichment into our own lives and to the lives of those around us.

Transitions from one stage of life to another can be difficult, filled with fear and uncertainty. And yet transitions are necessary; we go through many of them throughout the span of our lives. Without them we would remain stuck, unable to grow or change. Now that I have reached what seems to me the pinnacle of my life—age eighty—I find myself wandering and wondering. I know that I am crossing over from one way of life to another and that I must let go of many of my former patterns and perspectives. But I am not yet sure of what exactly it is that I must relinquish. And I certainly cannot see what lies ahead. I am in an in-between place, a liminal space, neither here nor there, a state that in mythological terms is thought of as Hekate’s crossroads.

These crossroads, shaped like a Y, demand a change in direction; there is no way to continue on the same path. It is the option given prominence by Robert Frost in his well-known poem “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s traveler contemplates a fork in the road, knowing he must choose one of the two paths. He takes “the one less traveled by,” and “that has made all the difference.” In the poem, the alternatives are equally apparent, so the decision can be made quickly, but sometimes the paths ahead cannot be clearly seen; the choices are obscured and the life-traveler is filled with confusion and doubt.

This is where I currently find myself. Which is the right way for me? Which fork in the road will be more serene, which less rocky? Which path will lead me to the high point of my life? How am I to live these last precious days, months, years? I feel I am not the same person I was before, but I do not yet recognize this new emerging woman. I am bewildered. I suffer the vacillations of ambiguity. I wish for clarity and understanding, but am filled with perplexity.

Having gone through painful periods of transition in the past, I know that there lies within my current chaotic state a promise of new order. In archetypal and psychological terms, chaos signifies not only confusion, but also void or emptiness, and thus allows space for new ways of thinking, provides opportunities for creative energies, and opens the way for new precedents. During this time of unease, outside my conscious awareness, a restructuring of the habits and patterns of my life is taking place, my identity is undergoing a subtle or not-so-subtle shift, my imagination is being stirred—all of which, I trust, will help me reach a new level of integration and meaning. In the world of physics, chaos implies process; it is dynamic, ever changing. In personal terms it is a becoming.

What I am surely becoming is a very old woman. Perhaps the role I am now living into makes me a true Crone, a woman who is well weathered, who is both tough and tender, who has survived many seasons, indulged in countless pleasures, and endured untold sorrows. What I hope is that I can infuse this new persona, this very old Crone woman, with intensity of feeling, with compassion for all, with acceptance of frailties, with deeper spiritual insights, and with a grand sense of humor. I hope that, having attained my main aims, I will savor these final years, remembering and honoring the past while reveling in the present as I live into the supreme, utmost, high point—the ultimate stage—of my long life.

Eighty: Age of Fulfillment

When I was asked not long ago to blow out the candles on my birthday cake—fortunately only eight, one for each decade of my life—I was quite unexpectedly rendered speechless. The tradition, of course, is to make a wish as the candles are extinguished, but after successfully blowing them out, it suddenly dawned on me that I had nothing to say. I could think of nothing to wish for! The realization struck me that I had everything I needed or wanted, was, in fact, completely satisfied.

The strangeness of that feeling of absence of want seeped into me slowly over the next few days and weeks, prompting me to examine its source and its meaning. For most of my life I have been governed, sometimes overwhelmed, by a vast array of needs. Even after I had an ample supply of material goods and plenty of loving support, I frequently pictured myself as one who continued to suffer from extreme deprivation. For a very long time, my sense of “not enough” seemed unshakable.

In my earliest years, the need was for the love and attention of a mother who was too depressed, too needy herself, to give me the kind of emotional nourishment that I so desperately craved. Having lost her mother at an early age, and not receiving any nurturance from step mothers, my mother had no capacity for offering that which she had never experienced herself. So I grew up feeling an emptiness which gave rise to an incessant hunger, for what? Love, acceptance, approval, recognition, reassurance—you name it, I needed it.

Though the dearth of maternal love was certainly central to my neediness, that was not the only thing I was missing. I also lacked intellectual stimulation. I lived in a household in which educational values—reading, learning, discussion—were not encouraged or respected. The neighbors and friends in the Southern rural community in which I grew up were unfailingly kind and generous, but they had little or no curiosity about the workings of the world. They had settled comfortably into a kind of all-knowing state of mind, so it never occurred to them to seek information or to ask questions. As a result of living in that kind of anti-intellectual atmosphere, it was not until much later that I became fully aware of how intensely I hungered for opportunities to express my inquisitiveness, to explore my intellectual capabilities, and to further develop my mind and my spirit.

I also desired beautiful things. Like most young girls, I wanted pretty clothes and I certainly hoped to attract the boys with my appearance. In addition I longed for beauty in my surroundings. I seemed to have an acute visual sense in that I noticed my environment and was sensitive to its esthetic qualities. I envied those of my friends in whose homes the furniture was color coordinated and the walls hung with art. My own home, which had no sense of order or harmony, seemed always bleak and cold, for it was lacking any semblance of coziness or casual comfort. Though I was conscious of the natural splendor displayed in the woods and fields that surrounded our country home, I wished for more beauty—and warmth—inside our house.

There were, of course, other needs, but in retrospect I can see that these three—an insufficiency of mother love, a lack of intellectual stimulation, and the absence of an appreciation for esthetics—were perhaps the most powerful underlying motivational forces of my life. The effort to overcome what appeared to me to be crippling deficiencies in my upbringing determined many of my subsequent decisions and much of my behavior. Paradoxically, it was these very voids that gave shape to my future.

In order to compensate for the absence of mother love that wounded me so deeply, I vowed to be the very best mother I could possibly be for my two daughters. It was not always easy, and I admit to many mistakes and failings along the way, but I did manage to improve considerably on my own mother’s style of mothering. I did not succumb to fits of rage, as my mother frequently did, causing her to wield a nasty switch against my tender flesh. I tried never to diminish my daughters’ accomplishments but to offer encouragement and praise, whereas my own mother could not, out of envy or spite, find it in her heart to support me in my endeavors. I made every effort to champion my daughters in their choices in life whereas my mother refused for many years to acknowledge or accept my marriage to the man I loved, treating him with undeserved hostility and contempt. I am deeply proud of my daughters’ worldly achievements, but it is their own outstanding mothering skills that are most significant in what I view as the healing of our motherline.

Though I was a conscientious and loving mother, it is as a grandmother that I have most fully come to appreciate the kind of unconditional love that we long for and strive to embrace. I did not have a living grandmother, so I have tried to become the kind of grandmother I would have wanted. Being a generation removed from these young people has made it easier for me to be less judgmental, more accepting, more capable of the kind of detachment that is sometimes called for in order to see more clearly. I can watch with greater objectivity the paths my grandchildren choose to follow, can observe with absolute fascination as their lives unfold, and can offer unqualified support as long as they are not harming themselves or others. My love for these four young women and one young man is truly without reservations or conditions. They are a blessing in my life.

My yearning for learning has been another persistent presence in my long life. Even though we were married as undergraduates, my husband and I graduated together and then received our master’s degrees at the same time, for I insisted on equal educational opportunity. Following a brief time working, I became a stay-at-home mother and attended to domestic responsibilities as my daughters grew up. Though I read widely, took some non-credit classes, and worked part time in my profession, my need for something more challenging became increasingly insistent. I had a series of dreams in which I was going back to school, which led to my recognition of that long-suppressed desire for intellectual stimulation. So, following the unmistakable message being given me, at the age of sixty-nine I enrolled in a PhD program, truly the fulfillment of a dream. In 2002, at age seventy-three, exactly fifty years after my previous graduate degree, I received my doctorate in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. It was a deeply rewarding moment.

As for the desire for beauty in my life, I have found numerous modes of expression for satisfying that particular need. The first major item my husband and I purchased after our marriage was a sewing machine. When we finally found ourselves in a proper apartment (not a single room, not a trailer), I used it to make curtains—unbleached muslin trimmed with a figured fabric. I fashioned other household accessories, made all my own clothes, and as our daughters grew, I sewed their pretty little dresses as well. Later on, as our income grew, I purchased paintings and sculptures—largely from local artists whose work I admired—for our home and garden.

But my greatest esthetic accomplishment was in becoming a fine art photographer when I was in my fifties. I collected dried flowers, bones, feathers, old photographs—anything that caught my eye—and arranged the objects into still life compositions, made the exposures, then developed the negatives and processed the prints. My black and white photographs were well received at a number of exhibitions. The images often reflected the sorrows and losses of my life, giving them a haunting and evocative appearance. I had become an artist, capable of creating beautiful pictures, thus helping assuage my thirst for things that please the eye.

Now that I look back on all those wistful wants and nettling needs, I can see that, though they often caused me great anguish, they were at the same time formidable forces, pushing me relentlessly forward as I pursued my life’s goals. I can see now that those feelings of emptiness and barrenness instilled in me an intense, unyielding desire to fill up those huge holes in my psyche with something more caring, more meaningful, and more beautiful than I had known in my early years. The sense of deprivation that caused me so much suffering was also the fuel that fired my creativity, fed my ambition, and furthered my search for knowledge.

I am, therefore, beginning to see the value in those needs which I formerly feared and scorned, for without a hunger for mother-love I might not have sought nourishment in my own mothering and grandmothering; without a desire for knowledge I might never have had the courage to enter a graduate program at age sixty-nine; and without an awareness of the lack of beauty in my surroundings, I might never have known the delight found in providing an attractive living space for my family and in creating beautiful photographs. In other words, without the demands of deficiencies, I might never have known the pleasures of prevailing.

I am overcome with awe and gratitude in that I have—most amazingly—fulfilled my life-long wishes, satisfied my heart-wrenching hungers, and sated my most fervent desires. But perhaps the most important realization is that it was, in fact, my needs that made that fulfillment possible. My needs were the empty vessel that I have spent my life filling up. So, as I enter my ninth decade, I can say, with humility and pride: My cup runneth over.

THE ESSENCE OF EIGHTY

I am eighty years old. I am a widow. I live alone. My hair is gray, my face is lined, my breasts are sagging, my belly is bulging, my knees are creaky, my voice is croaky, my back is sore, my hands are covered with age spots, my fingers are gnarled, my energy and my hearing are fading, and my memory sometimes fails me. And yet, I can say without reservation that I have never been happier.

How can that be? Given the emphasis our culture places on the physical attributes of strength and beauty, I should be disheartened, even deeply depressed. But conventional wisdom, with its focus on old age as a time of decline and debility, misses much of the essence of what it means to grow old. As I said in the little talk I gave at the party celebrating my eightieth birthday, one of the gifts of age is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery. Though as elders we may suffer losses in vigor and in appearance, we stand to gain in the strength of our character and in the power of our capacity to face with calm endurance whatever life has to offer.

Those of us fortunate enough to live long have learned that we are best served when we can refrain from fighting the flow of life. We have learned that we may face bewildering burdens, unanticipated afflictions, unwanted encumbrances, or trying treacheries, but in spite of these trials, life goes on, so we might as well embrace our destiny with as much graciousness as we can muster. Many of us, by the time we reach our eighties, have learned to navigate the currents of life, giving ourselves over to the ebb and flow while still maintaining our buoyancy and our orientation. We have learned not to move too insistently upstream, against the current; we have learned not to allow ourselves to be pulled down by the undertow of discouraging events, but manage to keep our heads above water—at least most of the time. Throughout our lives we have been taught to swim ahead with determination, to steer our way courageously through rocky rapids, to thrash around vigorously when frightened or threatened. Later we discover that it is often to our advantage to let go, to just gently, fearlessly, float. The older we get, it seems, the easier the floating becomes. We have learned the importance of giving ourselves over to the natural flow of our lives.

One of my personal examples of this challenge was in dealing with Norm during his years of Alzheimer’s disease. During the early years of his illness there was a widely-accepted philosophy that those with dementia should be constantly brought back to the “real” world, that they should be corrected when making misstatements, admonished when forgetting personal information, or reminded to refrain from fantasy. I rejected that perspective, and instead accepted him wherever he was, did not correct his errors, did not admonish him for his forgetfulness, or disrespect his fantasy life. During one stage of his illness he daily reported overnight trips to China, Russia, England, and other exotic places that he took with a fellow resident, a woman whom he described as his companion and driver. (She of course was oblivious of her role in his imaginary travels.) I smiled when told of these excursions, and expressed my interest in his trips. My straightforward acceptance of his stories pleased him, made him less anxious, and made life better for me also. If he was happy in his imaginary world, why should I disturb that?

Another challenge for me was when my daughter Laura was ill with life-threatening cancer. She was near death on more than one occasion, and often seemed to have descended into a dark place of hopelessness and despair. Most persons wished me to emphasize the positive, to focus on her recovery, to insist that she look on the bright side, but I could see that that approach was not helpful to her or to me. I eventually came to believe, and accept, that whatever path she took, whatever her soul chose to do, whether it was life or death, would be all right. This radical, rather astonishing, acceptance actually brought me peace and comfort. Though that was more than five years ago, I was learning then to truly appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery—and I emphasize the mystery. Of course, I do not deny my joyful relief when she chose life.

Advancing age also allows us a sense of detachment that does not seem readily available when we are young. Perhaps it is due to the accumulation of experience, but we finally recognize that life is not made up of just blacks and whites, wrongs and rights, but that events and relationships are full of complexities and complications. I personally find it harder now to decisively place blame, for I can usually see the points of view of both sides of contentious issues. Recently my granddaughter’s engagement was broken, her wedding cancelled, a terribly traumatic happening in her young life. She feels betrayed, is heartbroken and angry, understandably so. My heart goes out to her. But, unlike many familiar with the circumstances, I admit to also having sympathy for the young man. I can also see his suffering. Had this been my daughter rather than my granddaughter, I doubt I could have brought this perspective of distance. It comes as a virtue of age.

Another advantage of increasing age is the development of patience. One of the things I am most proud of in my handling of Norm’s illness is that I quickly learned the necessity of remaining patient, regardless of his often frustrating behavior. Sometimes he repeated himself endlessly, telling the same stories over and over again. One example is when he told me dozens of times a day how important it was to have compassion, a situation in which my own compassion was sorely tried! Then there was the matter of getting dressed. During one period, it would take him several hours just to put his pants on. If I had a deadline or if I had other things to do, that was of no concern to him. Still, I rarely became irritated, but remained calm, gently prodding him to get on with the task at hand. I had always considered myself somewhat volatile and impatient, but I learned that patience is a quality with great advantages, for it avoids the wasteful expenditure of energy when demanding punctuality of things that cannot be scheduled or hurried.

Acceptance, detachment, and patience are related, as if tied together with one thread. One reinforces and strengthens the other. To have one is to make the other more accessible. They also seem to me to be qualities that are especially related to the ripeness of old age. For many of us who are fortunate enough to live into our eighth and ninth decades, a kind of mellowness permeates our being. In spite of the inevitable sorrows and serious setbacks we experience, we continue to savor those precious moments of serenity and simple satisfaction and our hearts are filled with gratitude.

Before I am misunderstood, I wish to point out that, of course, youth also has its virtues. The energy, enthusiasm, ambition, freshness, and beauty that young people possess invigorate and stimulate our lives and our culture. We absolutely need the qualities that youthfulness brings; we need that unsullied zeal, that exuberance, that eagerness, that passion, that keen desire for something new and exciting. Those characteristics are invaluable in producing inventive ideas and bringing about much needed change. But as we acknowledge the significance of the contributions of the early stages of life, let us not forget to value the gifts of old age, for these are all too often dismissed and denigrated. Old age has been badly misrepresented and is frequently underrated. I may not be the attractive young woman I once was, but I would not trade this stage of life for that earlier one. If satisfaction and contentment count for anything, then old age wins hands down.

A POEM FOR ME FROM JESSICA

To Gaga, a poem about your fire.

When I am an old woman I shall wear red
With fantastic jewelry
And painted pink toes
I will drive too fast
Grow beautiful gardens of flowers and herbs
I will drink bottles of wine
Eat fine cheese and nuts and fruit
I will have a family that adores me
And an array of lovely friends,
artists and priests, chefs and writers, teachers and scholars, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, old, young, here, there…
I will read books and write books
I will learn, I will go to school
And make art, take photos
I will give great hugs.
I will go to dinners,
I will cook,
And have parties
And sing and dance and travel
I will be wise, and have grey hair
And glasses and
Beautiful wrinkled hands.

When I am an old woman I will wear red, and black and gold and white and perhaps purple too,
When I am old I will be me.


I love all that you are.
Thank you for being born.

Happy Birthday.

Love, Jess

A TOAST BY LAURA AT MY 80TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

We are here to celebrate 80 birthdays and 59 anniversaries, 55 years of mothering, 28 years of grandmothering, and six months of great-grandmothering. These markings are the raw numbers of old age, but they don’t reflect the memories, stories, lessons and wisdom that come to us in snippets or snapshots or the fullness of a life lived with intensity and insight. That my mother has taken pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard—to share these is a gift to us and a bequest to future generations.

Each of us has entered my mother’s book in a different chapter—some long ago, some more recently—but we are, nevertheless, all part of a story that began in rural North Carolina and moved across the country to the suburbs of St. Louis. The end is not yet written, so we will refrain from speculation, but suffice it to say that we will be eagerly awaiting the sequel at her 90th birthday celebration. But as we reflect today upon the time we have been give with our mother, grandmother, confidant and friend, however long or short, we are reminded that our connections with one another constitute our greatest blessing and though we choose to celebrate the length of our lives, it is their essence that is more worthy of recognition. And so it is true here.

To that end, let us make a toast to times shared, advice given and sought, wisdom imparted, stories remembered and, of course, the joy of reading. Happy Birthday, Mom, and may there be many more chapters to come.

COMMENTS TO PARTY GUESTS: AUGUST 23, 2008

The evening after my grandchildren had planned a special dinner and ritual honoring my eightieth birthday, I had a large party here at my home. There were approximately sixty guests, nourished by the delicious food prepared by my good friend Tim Brennan and entertained by Kim Portnoy, an excellent jazz pianist. It was a fabulous party! The mood was one of joyful celebration—just as I had hoped. Between dinner and the cutting of my tiered birthday cake, which was decorated with fresh flowers and an abundant number of the numeral 80, I offered these remarks to my guests.

Thank you for being here and helping me celebrate my eightieth birthday! I was especially eager to reach this milestone because I wanted to tell you how wonderful it is and how lucky I am to have lived this long. We all know that growing old brings inevitable failings and losses, but it is important to remember that it also provides us with untold opportunities and rewards, even pleasures, among which is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery.

I also wanted this occasion in order to express my gratitude to all of you—my family and my friends—for all of you have contributed to the richness and fullness of my life. Many of you have been with me through both dark times and bright times. When I needed to talk, you listened to me; when I was confused, you helped straighten me out; when I was depressed, you cheered me up; when I was joyful, you laughed with me, and recently, when I was grieving Norm’s death, you comforted me. Throughout the years your love and support have sustained and nourished me. The little spider on my invitation suggested that I am still weaving the web of my life and I am incredibly blessed to have caught each one of you in that web!

As a token of my appreciation, I have a gift for you—my long-awaited book, Leafings and Branchings, which tells the story of my life. I have had many interesting experiences as I traveled from my childhood, raised during the Great Depression on a farm in North Carolina, in a house without electricity or running water, to the comfortable, privileged, and gratifying life I lead today. I hope you will get half as much pleasure in reading about my life’s journey as I did in writing about it. I would love to hear your impressions after you read it. There will be copies stacked on the table by the front door, so as you leave you may take a copy with you if you wish.

Perhaps you noticed that on my invitations the “eighties” were hanging from a tree like ripened fruit—just as are the ones on the tree in my garden. I would like to share with you a short poem, called Halcyon Days, written by Walt Whitman when in his seventies, for in many ways it reflects my own sentiments.

Not from successful love alone,
Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war;
But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passion calm,
As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,
As softness, fullness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,
As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last
hangs really finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree,
Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!
The brooding and blissful halcyon days!

So, here’s to being eighty—the brooding, blissful, happiest days of all!

PRESENTATION OF MY BOOK TO MY FAMILY

When I was in my late seventies I decided to write a book about my life and have it ready to present to family and friends on the occasion of my eightieth birthday. Though I had allowed my daughters to read the text before publishing, no one had seen the completed book until the evening of August 22, 2008, when we gathered for a special family ritual honoring my birthday. I had sewed special cloth coverings for each book I handed out, so everyone waited until I had finished with my presentations to remove the casing. These are the remarks I made to my family:

This book is my gift to all of you. It is dedicated to my daughters, my grandchildren, and to all their children and grandchildren yet to be born, that they may know something of my life—my interests, my values, my beliefs, and my loves.

I have lived an extraordinary life, blessed and enriched in ways I never could have imagined as I grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in North Carolina. That poor, often sad and deprived, little farm girl still lives within me, but she now has the company of many other happier, more fulfilled, and more loved sisters in my psyche. The title, “Leafings and Branchings,” represents the abundant, spreading limbs on the tree of my life, and the subtitle, “Memories of My Many Lives,” reflects the multitude of sub-personalities that reside within this one bodily frame.

On this, a celebration of my eightieth birthday, I am especially grateful to all of you—my family—for you are, and have been, the central core of my life. When I ran away from home at age eighteen I essentially cut ties with my original family, losing touch for many years with my parents and my brothers, and never really feeling a part of their world again. In some ways, that was freeing, especially given my parents’ often hostile feelings toward Norm and me, but then I had to figure out how to create a proper emotional and caring environment for my own family. Since my mother did not provide me with a good role model for mothering or for family unity, I had to improvise, and although I had help from Norm, I often got it wrong. I made too many mistakes to enumerate, and for all my false ideas and faulty judgments over the years I ask your forgiveness. I must admit, however, that in spite of my frequent blunders, things have not turned out too badly! All of you instill in me a sense of deep pride and joy. I never imagined that I would be so fortunate or that I would end up with such an accomplished and loving family.

Before I address each of you, I wish us to take a moment to remember Norm. Needless to say, none of this could have happened without him. I wish he could be here with us in person, so I could express to him my appreciation for all he gave us. I have confidence that his spirit hovers around us this evening. To you, Norm. Thank you for helping guide and nurture this wonderful family of ours.

Laurie, since you were our first child, you were perhaps the one to suffer most from my lack of experience and expertise. It has been said that birth and death allow for no rehearsals, and I would say the same for motherhood. One enters into it with no prior knowledge, and since I did not have a mother to turn to for help, I was especially ignorant. I sought guidance from books, a rather poor alternative, especially since they offered little in terms of how to deal with such fundamental issues as how to provide love and comfort. I wanted desperately to be a good mother, different than my own, but too often I failed to meet my own standards. In spite of my failings, however, you have done extremely well. You are an educated and proficient woman, a loving and attentive mother, and a talented writer. You were a skilled lobbyist for charter schools, and continue to be a well-informed (though highly opinionated!) political junkie. You faced a serious illness with grit and courage. I am proud of all that you are and all that you have done. I especially wish to thank you for your patience with my missteps and for your kindness in including me in your life. This book is for you.

Jenny, you were next. There is an old joke that says if you want a perfect child, have three and throw the first two away, another illustration of how little we as new parents know and how much we learn from each child. You arrived so quickly after Laurie—less than two years—that I really did not have much time for developing great insights into child-rearing. But your placid nature helped make it easier and your entirely different way of being added to my learning curve. I was made aware of how each child has her own distinctive characteristics, from the day of birth onward. You too managed to overcome my shortcomings as a mother. You were determined from an early age to be independent, so you made your own way through graduate school, and made your own decisions with careful thought and planning. You arranged your career so you could be at home with your children. In your writing, you focused on your lifelong interest in family issues. Later, you created the nonprofit organization that represents much of your outlook on life—doing good for others. I congratulate you for your accomplishments and thank you for all you have given me and taught me. I also ask forgiveness for the times I have hurt you. This is for you.

Dan, though you arrived in our family relatively recently, you have surely become a most valued member of our little group. You faced some formidable challenges when you married Laura. Becoming an instant step father to two young women who already had their ideas about how to do things had to have been a confusing, demanding, and sometimes frustrating role for you. But you adjusted admirably, even, it seems, eagerly, and you have been accepting, accommodating, and generous in helping guide them during some of their most formative years. As if that weren’t enough, you were then faced with the trauma of Laura’s illness, a terrible time for all of us. We are all grateful for your professional advocacy and for the personal devotion you displayed during those difficult times. In addition, I wish to thank you for the expert advice and technical information, as well as the muscle power, you so kindly provide me when I need help. I am especially appreciative that you are willing to live only a few blocks away, for that gives me a great sense of security. This copy is for you.

Rocky, just as I can say of Dan, you have a special place in my heart because of your love of and devotion to my daughter and to my grandchildren. You have taught them skills and exposed them to experiences they would never have had without your interests and your guidance. That is especially true regarding sports, from ice skating to baseball to tennis to golf to water skiing. You were an excellent teacher and set a good example for them, not just in how to become good athletes, but also in how to be good sports. You also chose a life style that allowed you to spend valuable time with your family, a great gift to them as they were growing up. My one complaint is that you chose to settle in Minneapolis. It is indeed a beautiful city, and I realize it was always home for you, but had you lived closer I would have had more opportunities to take part in the lives of your family. I did not get to see all you as often as I would have liked. Still, I know that I can call on you when I am in need and for that I am grateful. This book is for you.

Now to the next generation.

Carolyn, we were thrilled when you arrived—our first grandchild. I remember going to Philadelphia to stay with your parents for a couple of weeks, helping reassure them, doing household chores so your Mom could get some rest, and also on occasion offering advice, though I tried hard to wait until I was asked. I also was then just getting involved with photography so you were a perfect subject. I thought your fingers and toes and belly button and bottom, not to mention your sweet face, were the most exquisite and perfect ones every to appear on this earth, and I wanted to capture every part of you on film. I was delighted when your Mom and Dad moved to St. Louis, for then I got to watch you grow into a highly intelligent, generous-hearted, loving, socially aware, gifted young woman—the latest achievement being a PhD from Harvard. Being witness to all that has given me great joy. Thank you for being such a beautiful soul. This book is yours.

Rebecca, luckily your parents lived in St. Louis when you were born, so you have been a part of my life from your first days. Your Mom was so exhausted after your birth—she did not remain in the hospital for some much needed rest—that I was the one to take you back there for something related to your bilirubin count, either testing or treatments, I’m not sure which. Anyway, we were bonded from the beginning. When you were little we had what you called our “dates,” when we would play or do special projects, and though of a different order now, I still treasure our times together. You have put your wide range of organizational talents, innovative energies, and aesthetic tastes into an extraordinary global endeavor—that of helping women in developing countries establish themselves in their own businesses. I applaud you for the hard work you have put into creating Nest. Thank you for your vision, for your dedication, and for your love. Here is your copy.

Jessica, I went to Chicago to help your parents when you were born. They lived in this bug-infested apartment, and I slept fitfully on a pull-out couch with the springs poking through, so I was a bit alarmed when your Mom said she would be happy to live there forever! Nevertheless, I loved getting acquainted with you, and by the end of my stay had taken you—at all of two weeks old—to the Greenhouse at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, thus introducing you to one of my favorite spots in Chicago. When, a couple of years ago, you went with me there—as well as to other top quality restaurants—you had developed a highly cultivated taste for wholesome food and good wine. That gastronomical interest is one you have pursued on many levels, including preparing some lovely meals for me, and most recently in your work with the slow food movement. You also have great artistic talent which you have demonstrated with your creative projects and with your book art. I am especially grateful for your help with my book. Your cover design is what makes it the beautiful volume it is. Thank you very much. This is yours.

Rachel, you were Minnesota born and Minnesota bred, and you certainly exhibit the values and training so lovingly given you by your parents. Having recently completed your undergraduate degree, you are now pausing before you take the next step into your adult life. What is obvious is that you have a highly developed social conscience, a love of children, and a deep empathy for those less fortunate than you. Your studies regarding women’s issues and your work with disadvantaged families demonstrate your dedication to causes that receive all too little attention in our culture. Though I have not seen nearly as much of you as I would like, the times we have spent together have been delightful. You are an excellent conversationalist, for you have not only the ability to ask good questions, but also the capacity for active listening, a rare skill. And you have that most welcome of gifts—a marvelous sense of humor. In that way you remind me of Papa. I look forward to seeing how your life continues to unfold. This copy is for you.

Nick, being the youngest grandchild and the only boy gives you a special place in our family. But, since those were not conditions chosen by you, they are not really the reasons that make you special as a human being. During this past academic year, while you were a student at Washington U., I had the joy of getting to know you much better and of observing your interaction with others. I was greatly impressed—with your maturity, with your discipline, with your intelligence, and with your integrity. Unlike many young persons, you are able to transcend barriers, relating with ease to others regardless of age, or gender, or social standing, or outlook. Having you here in St. Louis last year was not only an enormous blessing for me but also for Norm in the last months of his life. He had a strong connection with you, and I hope that will always remain in your memories and in your heart. I know that whatever your future holds, he would have been proud. This book is yours.

Raven, I do not have quite the same history with you that I have with my grandchildren, since I did not know you from your early childhood, and yet you are firmly ensconced in our family circle. We love you of course because of your love for Carolyn, but you have also brought us other gifts. I especially appreciate that you have widened my literary horizons with your writing and your poetry. I also find your playfulness a marvelous attribute—one that counters my own more serious nature. The time we had together traveling through Italy, and the visits I have had with you and Carolyn provide me with many wonderful memories, of which some of the greatest are our engaging and stimulating conversations. I feel privileged to benefit from your wide-ranging knowledge and interests. I also am deeply impressed with your courage and tenacity in overcoming a potentially destructive addiction. You deserve enormous credit for that, and I salute you. With my love and respect, this book is for you.

In closing, I wish to thank all of you for this special occasion. You have warmed my heart, made me proud, replenished my soul, and filled me with joy. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

AT AGE EIGHTY: SOME INSIGHTS

At a recent family celebration of my eightieth birthday (which was August 20), I was asked to impart some “words of wisdom” to my grandchildren. I found that daunting, so decided instead to share a few experiences and some of the insights I have acquired in my long life. During the recent Summer Olympics held in Beijing, we learned that, for the Chinese at least, eight is a lucky number. So, since I have now lived for eight decades, am eighty years old, and August is the eighth month, I talked about eight events or pursuits that were especially significant for me. Of course, there are many more, for life is one continuous learning experience, but here are a few of the highlights.

1. First, running away from home at age eighteen—another eight!—because of my love for my husband Norm was probably the single most crucial event of my life, and was perhaps the most risky, for I was completely without any financial or family resources and faced a very uncertain future. Looking back on it, I can see that I had a lot of what might be called foolish courage, but that audacity altered the course of my life, even though I paid a high price—separation from my family, which brought me considerable anguish. Still, I’m thankful I took that leap into the unknown, for I cannot imagine what my life might have been had I not done so. Could I have remained in Smithfield, North Carolina? I don’t think so! Sometimes it’s smart to follow your heart.

2. After we married and graduated from Washington U, Norm and I went to graduate school at the University of Iowa where we got masters degrees. Following that I worked as director of a preschool for handicapped children for a couple of years before I got pregnant. It did not occur to me to continue working, for at that time being full-time wife and mother seemed my only choice. While I knew next to nothing about mothering, I worked at it and was happy having children to love and nurture. And I was good at being a homemaker; I enjoyed the creative aspects of cooking and sewing and gardening and entertaining. I was, of course, not totally fulfilled with having only domestic chores to occupy me, so later I taught part time at St. Joseph Institute for the Deaf, but there is much to be said for the pleasures found in making a comfortable and attractive environment for one’s family. I was, and am, a natural Hestia, a woman of the hearth and home.

3. Having said that, I decided after my daughters Laurie and Jenny left for college to develop some non-domestic interests. Discovering the artistic possibilities of photography was a huge step for me. I developed an eye for composition, mastered technical procedures, and learned to express my emotions in a visual medium. In short, I became an artist. The years I devoted to photography were both productive and profoundly meaningful. Without any conscious awareness of what I was doing, I explored some of my deepest feelings, conflicts, and sorrows, and thereby produced some photographs that were both psychologically evocative and esthetically pleasing. This work also gave me an identity beyond that of mother and homemaker, an important step for me.

4. During those years taking, processing, and showing my photographs, I cultivated other interests as well. For one, I became fascinated with ritual, and began doing ceremonies with a group of women. Soon I also shared this activity with the family when we got together for Thanksgiving holidays at Webb Lake, at spring-times down in Sanibel, and on other important occasions. I loved those gatherings, when my grandchildren played dress-up, did craft projects, found examples of the elements, and entered into discussions of our chosen topic. I feel those rituals strengthened our family ties, helped us think more deeply, gave us a chance to explore metaphorical language, and encouraged creativity. I especially relished the coming-of-age rituals when we focused on each child, celebrating his or her uniqueness, and recognizing the important transition from childhood to adulthood. For me these were powerful times and I treasure those memories.

5. During the early and middle years of my marriage I suffered terribly from depression. Those periods of despair and sorrow depleted my energy and drained joy from my life, so I finally decided to address some of my own psychological issues. Much of my sadness had to do with unresolved problems with my parents, especially my mother, but I also was not happy with the relationship I had with Norm. I wanted to be treated with more respect and equality. Entering analysis with Lucy Klein, a Jungian analyst in Chicago, when I was in my early sixties was one of the best decisions I ever made. Though the sessions were often distressing and sometimes discouraging, I learned to face some of my demons, my fears, my conflicts, and my insecurities. Of course I continue to strive to be a better person, for we are never finished with our inner work, but slowly I was able to accept my failures, forgive my parents for theirs, and come to terms with the puzzles, pain, and pleasures of a good, but imperfect, marriage. I strongly believe that doing inner work by bringing awareness to our innermost feelings contributes to a happy and fulfilling life.

6. This leads me to the subject of relationships. Learning to live harmoniously with another human being from a different background, with a different life history, and with different needs is one of our greatest challenges, for it requires continuous communication, sustained negotiation, constant compromise, and a willingness to forgive past hurts. While building a strong, enduring relationship is not easy—it takes real work—it is enormously rewarding, for we can then reach beyond ourselves, broaden our horizons, and deepen our understanding of what love and commitment are about. There were times—even after forty-five years of marriage—when I thought I might leave Norm, but I am really glad that both of us made the effort to work through many of our differences and decided to overlook or live with those we could not resolve. I know that sometimes this is not possible and that it is wise to move on if there are basic incompatibilities and differences in outlook, but we should remember to value and to work at our relationships.

7. In order to build relationships that are lasting and loving, it is helpful to determine who we truly are. It sometimes takes courage to stand up to family expectations and cultural conventions, to follow our intuitions, and to accept our own special, maybe even peculiar, characteristics. As for me, it was not until I worked with Lucy that I began to get in touch with my own strengths, as well as weaknesses, and it was not until I was sixty-nine years old and entered a PhD program that I began to fully explore my intellectual capacities. I am not suggesting that you wait as long as I did, but it’s good to know that it is never too late to learn! Once we connect with our own authenticity and recognize our true character, then we are free to examine all possibilities and can lovingly acknowledge all our faults, all our idiosyncrasies, and all our gifts. We are also then able to accept the diverse characteristics of others and to have compassion for all human beings.

8. This brings me to number eight. As you know, I am not a follower of any particular religion, but I do feel that a spiritual outlook has added important dimensions to my life. Quite frankly, I am not sure exactly what I mean by that, except that having a sense of wonder and curiosity, asking questions and examining the deeper meaning of life, and looking within to ascertain how we are connected to others, to the world, and to the universe, all seem to be worthwhile pursuits. As we delve into the mysteries of life and death, we open our hearts and minds, and in some strange way that makes us better human beings. Though we cannot find definitive answers to the big questions, we can remember to treat each other with consideration, with compassion, with simple kindness. It is especially important to treat ourselves with the same respect and kindness we offer others, for we are just as deserving. Remember that each one of us is a vibrant, gifted, glorious, and lovable human being.

Thanks for listening. I love you all!

ELDER WISDOM

I love synchronicities. A few days ago I decided to try and write something about wisdom and old age, a topic that has interested me for some time. I hesitated, however, because for an old person like me to talk about wisdom carries some hazards, such as appearing to be self-serving, or sappy and sentimental, or overly optimistic about the aging process. Yet surely, I thought, there must be something to the widely held belief that some special astuteness can, and often does, grow out of an accumulation of life experience.

The morning following my decision to explore this subject, I was looking through the science section of The New York Times (May 20, 2008) when—to my surprise and delight—this headline caught my eye: Older Brain Really May Be a Wiser Brain. The fortuitous, synchronistic appearance of that article provided just the nudge I needed to proceed with my reflections.

The Times article was based on a book on neurology titled Progress in Brain Research which analyzed a number of studies on the aging brain. Recent advances in brain imaging techniques have made possible observing areas of the brain that correlate to various abilities, emotions, or states of mind. The findings of this research suggest that though it is true that older adults often have difficulty remembering specific bits of information, this is due largely to “a gradually widening focus of attention” that can diminish the ability to recall something like a name or a telephone number. This broadening of focus does not mean a decline in brainpower, but rather indicates that more information is being taken in, and is processed in a way that makes it available later, therefore contributing to problem solving in a variety of circumstances. One professor is quoted as saying that “there [is] a word for what results when the mind is able to assimilate data and put it in its proper place—wisdom.”

Elkhonon Goldberg, neuroscientist and author of The Wisdom Paradox: How Your Mind Can Grow Stronger as Your Brain Grows Older, explains that the aging brain displays certain changes that are advantageous to the elderly. He writes about the development over our life times of what he calls pattern-recognition, a facility which, despite some neurological decline, enables older adults to approach a broad range of unusual circumstances, issues, problems, and challenges, as if they were familiar. They can do this because of their ability to recognize and utilize patterns similar to ones encountered in the past.

Gene Cohen, another neuroscientist (The Mature Mind: The Positive Power of the Aging Brain), points out that older brains process information in a dramatically different way than younger brains. His research suggests that old people use both sides of the brain in an integrative manner to solve problems whereas young people tend to use only one side to accomplish their tasks. He also says that making wise choices or making wise decisions requires using both the logical and the intuitive, drawing on both the right and left hemispheres, acknowledging the contributions of both the head and the heart.

Cohen emphasizes that continual personal development is another important key to cultivating wisdom. In fact, he says that wisdom may be a synonym for what he calls developmental intelligence, which “reflects the maturing synergy of cognition, emotional intelligence, judgment, social skills, life experience, and consciousness.” He also describes wisdom as “deep knowledge used for the highest good,” thus adding to the word a moral component.

Ram Dass, author of Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing, and Dying and well-known American guru, insists that wisdom requires a spiritual dimension: “the emptying and quieting of the mind, the application of the heart, and the alchemy of reason and feeling. In the wisdom mode, we’re not processing information, analytically or sequentially. We’re standing back and viewing the whole, discerning what matters and what does not, weighing the meaning and depth of things.”

Though we seem to know it when we encounter it, wisdom is difficult to define. Experience and knowledge are certainly necessary, but it is the manner in which these qualities are integrated and applied that is of primary importance. When we meet someone of an advanced age who has intelligence, depth, compassion, a strong sense of self, an aura of calm and confidence, and who has not only benefited and learned from their own life’s experiences, but also has the motivation to share their insights with others, then we feel in the presence of wisdom. There is also implicit in the concept a sense of fairness, a lack of harsh judgment, an emotional balance, and a genuine concern for others. Wisdom integrates all aspects of the self, and requires an ability to be still, to be reflective, to stand back and look at the whole without being caught up in the minutiae of everyday events. Wisdom is as much a way of being as a way of thinking or behaving.

As I embrace my own old age, I hope to continue to develop those perspectives and characteristics that contribute to my intellectual growth, enhance my emotional stability, enrich my creativity, and foster my relationships. Some of the qualities that I particularly seek to expand and nourish are authenticity, patience, compassion, kindness, humility, humor, playfulness, confidence, acceptance, awareness, serenity, and optimism. To the degree I am successful they will surely add to my store of wisdom.

The last piece I posted on my blog had to do with grief. Interestingly, Ram Dass offers a connection between grief and wisdom: “When we cease to resist our grief … we learn that, painful though it may be, grief is an integral part of elder wisdom, a force that humbles and deepens our hearts, connects us to the grief of the world, and enables us to be of help.”

It has been said that wisdom is one of the few things in human life that does not diminish with age. I have often maintained that there are many unrecognized and unacknowledged advantages to being old. Perhaps the possibility of attaining wisdom is one of the greatest gifts of all.

GRIEF

When Norm died, now over a month ago, I had no idea how his death would affect me, for I felt I had been continuously grieving during all those years as he gradually fell away. I say “fell away” but that is not exactly right. It is true that his intellect dissolved, his anger disappeared, his anxiety abated, and his memory vanished into the mysterious vacuities that began to fill his brain. But he stayed close in the sense that he continued to show his love for me and for everyone in our family. If anything, he seemed more devoted than earlier in his life, perhaps because there were no longer any distractions, no longer a business to run, no philosophical quandaries to resolve, no scientific riddles to unravel, no books to write. Finally, when he was unable to read or to carry on an intelligible conversation, it was as if a simple expression of love was the only meaningful thing left. That seemed to be enough, for he was sublimely happy.

But once he was really, totally, physically gone, how was I to react? What was I to feel? In the days immediately following his death I relied on a huge rush of adrenaline. I called people, I sent emails, I got in supplies, I arranged for a memorial service, I spent time with family and friends. Later I wrote thank-you notes. I hardly cried at all. I became anxious about whether I was grieving properly (whatever that is), that maybe I was unfeeling and cold. I talked with my friend Sara who assured me that I should not hold myself to cultural attitudes and expectations, that I should find my own way to acknowledge my loss.

I began to understand that each death is in a sense unique and therefore each one creates its own sort of sorrow. A parent who faces the untimely death of a child surely has a vastly different kind of grief than an individual whose elderly, ill, and failing parent finally passes away. To lose a spouse is yet another kind of experience, but again the circumstances vary widely. If a husband or wife is suddenly killed in an accident, the shock of such an unexpected event sets off enormous psychic and somatic waves; merely grasping the sudden absence of a loved one is a challenge of inestimable magnitude. If, on the other hand, a mate is lost to a long illness and the surviving one is left with the overwhelming responsibilities of making a living and raising a family, extra burdens are added to the weight of grief.

My situation had its own particularities. Beginning a few days before his death Norm refused food or water, and as he slowly and peacefully slipped into a coma we as a family had ample time to say our good-byes. I knew he was dying, and I felt confident that somehow he had made that choice. So Norm’s death was not unexpected, nor untimely, nor painful. In many ways it was a beautiful, profound experience. I am not plagued with feelings of guilt or regret. I cared for him the best I could, visited him frequently once he was in residential care, and demonstrated my love with cheerful talk, gentle touching, and sweet kisses. In some ways, the sense of rightness that I have regarding his passing has eased my sorrow. But still, I am often awash with sadness. My eyes fill with tears when someone mentions his name. I have difficulty concentrating. I forget things. I tire more easily. I get impatient. My friend Susanna, who is a facilitator of grief groups, recently pointed out to me that these are all symptoms of grief.

Susanna gave me a copy of a poem by Denise Levertov titled Talking to Grief in which the poet likens grief to a homeless dog that is denied entrance into the house and is kept hidden under the porch. The poem ends with the lines “You need your name,/ your collar and tag./ You need the right to warn off intruders,/ to consider/ my house your own/ and me your person/ and yourself my own dog.” Something in that poem resonated with me, for in my desire to appear strong and in my recognition of the many positive aspects of Norm’s passage, I have in some ways attempted to banish grief from my house. I need to allow the dog of grief its place on my hearth.

Since I have long lamented the loss of the companionship and intellectual stimulation that I once shared with Norm, I wondered what it was exactly that I was freshly grieving. As I sat looking out on my garden last evening in the soft glow of twilight, I suddenly realized what it is. What I miss and mourn most is that there is no one now who loves me the way he did, no one who looks at me with such absolute adoration. I shall never again experience those deep, soul-filled, loving eyes fixed on mine, and that is a terrible loss.

I open my heart to grief.

KINDNESS

Last New Year’s Eve I wrote (and posted on my blog) a reflection about intentions. I said that my intention for 2008 is this: I shall always endeavor to be kind. Though I have made a real effort to live up to my intention, I have not always been successful. What I have experienced in full measure over the past few weeks following my husband’s death, however, is the kindness of others. It has been humbling for me to be the recipient of so many expressions and acts of thoughtfulness, compassion, and generosity.

I can offer many examples, but perhaps none so compelling as the care that was given Norm during the course of his illness by the staff at the residential facility where he lived for almost three years. I cannot think of many jobs that require the patience, understanding, and acceptance that these caregivers must possess. Dealing with patients who have dementia involves providing for the most intimate personal needs—bathing, feeding, dressing, and changing diapers. But it also requires a sense of humor and a quick mind, an ability to respond appropriately to sometimes extreme and absurd demands. Some patients can be agitated, hostile, or paranoid. Handling these irrational, sometimes threatening, behaviors is a huge challenge. Luckily, Norm remained sweet and happy and did not exhibit some of the more troubling symptoms that can afflict persons with Alzheimer’s disease, but during my frequent visits I observed endless acts of kindness by the staff toward patients who were confused, upset, angry, or often just depressed. These caregivers lavished their affection, even love, upon those they looked after, regardless of the severity of their condition. These remarkable women—and they were largely women—earned my unending respect and gratitude.

Then there were the volunteers and hospice workers. One volunteer came every week for months to visit with Norm, presenting him with small gifts, homemade cookies, occasionally even bringing her little dog for him to pet. One day she brought a book of Yiddish expressions which we read to Norm and which made him smile as he recalled the language his parents spoke as he was growing up. The hospice nurses, who made every effort to keep Norm comfortable during his final days, were unfailingly gentle, sweet, and loving. They also were responsive to our questions and sensitive to our needs as a family. They helped provide an atmosphere in which Norm’s death could take place painlessly and peacefully. They are a dedicated and devoted group.

The memorial service for Norm provided other examples of kindness. One of the sorrows we as a family have endured is the protracted loss of Norm as the person he once was. Over the decade of his illness, as we tried to be with him wherever and however he was at the moment, we slowly lost contact with the man he once had been. The trip our family made to La Jolla in November (see “A Fantasy Realized” on my blog) helped us recall many of his qualities, but the tributes read by family members and friends at the memorial service provided us with many more examples of the old Norm. We were reminded of his intelligence, his humor, his generosity, and the guidance and love he offered so many.

And the people who came! I had expected a small group, and had reserved what I considered an adequate space for the service. I obviously underestimated the impact my husband had on the lives of those who knew him. Not only did relatives and close friends come to honor his memory, but also former employees, business associates, professional contacts, neighbors, caregivers, hospice workers, and many others. There were not enough chairs. People had to stand in the back of the room; some could not get in at all and had to wait out in the hall. I am embarrassed not to have been aware of how much he was loved and respected by so many. I shall not forget the kindness of those who came to express their condolences.

The cards, the notes, the donations given in his memory, all have warmed my heart. The time and care so many have taken in writing of their memories and of their personal relationship with Norm is impressive. I had not known how meaningful these messages would be, but they have given me great comfort and have revived many of my own remembrances of our past together. It is a blessing to read such comments as: “I love Norm because of his ability to move from a rationalist viewpoint to a profoundly spiritual way of looking at the world”; “Norm was a ‘mensch’ and a profound thinker”; “How lucky we are to know his influence every day”; “Norman was one of the greatest human beings I’ve ever been lucky enough to know”; “His warmth, wit, intellect, and the twinkle in his eye will be missed by so many”; “Norm has had a profound impact on our lives”; “Norm achieved what we all pray for in this life, which is to leave a special mark upon this earth and to somehow make it better for having been here”; and on and on. I had not really appreciated how much positive influence he had on others, so I am grateful to have all these thoughts written down. They help keep alive the memory of the man I was married to for so long.

There are still other examples of kindness and generosity. There were fruit and cheese baskets delivered to us. There were beautiful flower arrangements that graced our home. One friend, a massage therapist, gave me a massage in the week following Norm’s death—a most welcome time of relaxation. The eulogies written and read at the service were especially moving, and the absolutely spectacular meal enjoyed by family and friends at our home after the memorial service was prepared, served, and donated by our very dear friend Tim—an extraordinarily generous gift.

So, a time of sorrow and loss has also been a time of healing, of rejoicing, of sharing memories, of renewing old friendships, and a time of realizing once again the power of simple kindness. I am encouraged by the examples of others to rekindle my determination to follow my stated intention, to always endeavor to be kind.

NORM'S DEATH

My husband Norman Friedman died early in the morning of March 29, 2008. In many respects he had been leaving us for a decade, his formidable intellect slowly consumed by the mysterious plaques and tangles that clutter the brains of those with Alzheimer’s disease. In the beginning we noticed occasional bizarre behavior, small memory lapses, endless repetitions, and a loss of appropriate affect. As the disease progressed, he experienced greater cognitive failures, was unable to make decisions, could not drive or dress himself. In time it became necessary to place him in a residential facility so he could get the care I could no longer provide at home. In spite of these fearsome losses, however, something of Norm’s true essence remained until the very end of his life.

Through the long years of his illness, he retained his sense of humor, his gentleness, his basic kindness, his concern for others, his generous heart, and most of all, his love of family. His eyes always lit up and he smiled his friendly smile when any of us entered the room. He began to say “I love you,” to me, words he had rarely spoken earlier in our marriage. On those occasions when he could not speak, he stared intensely into my eyes, wordlessly communicating his inexpressible love. When I frequently asked if he had any complaints, he always assured me that no, no complaints, that everyone was always good to him, and that furthermore, he was the “luckiest man in the world.” I also often asked what made him so happy. Sometimes it was because I was there with him, or because he had such a wonderful family, but other times he would just smile and say, “I’m breathing.” Though seriously impaired from an intellectual standpoint, Norm obviously found great joy in the ordinary pleasures of his life. Simply breathing was enough.

Toward the end Norm rarely uttered any sentences that made sense, but on the Sunday before he died, he startled me by giving a lucid response to a question that I posed when I noticed that he did not look well. I asked, “What is happening with you, Norm?” He answered firmly and distinctly, “It’s better you don’t know.” In retrospect it seems clear that he was aware that he was nearing the end of his life and wished to protect me from that knowledge. From that day forward, until the early morning hours of the following Saturday, when he drew his last breath, he refused further food or drink and slowly sank into a coma. His soul apparently had made a certain decision to pass on to another reality.

Those of you who have read Norm’s book Bridging Science and Spirit, or who have discussed the topic with him, are aware that he had a belief, based on his readings in physics and mysticism and the Seth material, that consciousness survives the death of the physical body. He particularly admired the work of the physicist David Bohm, who described two basic levels of reality. As Norm writes: The first level is the explicate order: our everyday world, where physics normally plies its trade. …The second level, the implicate order, contains all possibilities and probabilities. In this region, consciousness takes the form of waves rather than particles. The implicate order is whole, seamless, unbroken. To use a musical analogy, the implicate order contains all the possible music to be played. It was Norm’s conviction that each individual consciousness returns to the great ocean of possibilities and probabilities as described by Bohm. The implicate order is not heaven in the traditional sense, of course, but is a hidden domain where all things are possible. We who loved Norm fantasize that he can now enjoy endless conversations with his idol David Bohm.

Following that Sunday when Norm hinted at his impending death, my family and I sat by his bed each day. Though barely responsive, during the first days he would smile weakly when I sang to him, and would attempt to pucker his lips each time I leaned over to kiss him. By Friday his breathing was accelerating and his fever was rising, so we knew the end was near. That evening we gathered in his room, our daughter Laura on one side of his bed and daughter Jenny on the other, all of us joining hands, completing our circle. We told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us; we sang Amazing Grace and also sang the song he had whistled incessantly during the past few years (for reasons we never understood), Battle Hymn of the Republic. We said goodbye.

Just before leaving the room I leaned over his bed, placed my cheek against his, and sang: Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me call you sweetheart, for you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing, in your eyes so true. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. That, plus a gentle kiss on his lips, was my final declaration of love to the man who was my husband for almost sixty years.

Two years ago, when Norm appeared to be dying (he was in hospice twice before this final time), I had made funeral arrangements, engaged interfaith minister Ted Lau to officiate at a memorial service, and indicated some writings I wished to include. So everything was in place for this inevitable event. All the grandchildren and in-laws came into town for the ceremony which was held on Tuesday, April 1, 2008, at Lupton Chapel.

The service was everything I had hoped it would be—warm, intimate, and true to Norm’s fullness as a human being. Ted Lau has read Norm’s books and therefore understands and appreciates Norm’s philosophical outlook, which he summarized in comprehensible terms. Other family members and friends read tributes, offering stories and sharing memories. He was a mentor and a role model to many young men and women who spoke lovingly of his influence in their lives. The result was a reflection of the many aspects of Norm’s intelligence and his multi-faceted personality. As I said in my tribute, Norm was a man who accomplished much and was loved by many.

My reaction to Norm’s death is one I have described as “joyful sorrow.” It is a strange, paradoxical term, but my emotions are anything but simple. I have been grieving the slow, inexorable loss of Norm for ten years. I cannot count the days I cried copious tears, wondering what was happening to the man I had loved for so long. Sometimes I was frustrated in having to deal with his failing mental and physical capacities. I was often overwhelmed with all the financial and household responsibilities thrust upon me. I was alone, and sometimes lonely. I became a virtual widow, though I still had a husband. So, in many ways, I was prepared for this final loss.

Still, I do not have a feeling of relief at Norm’s death as some have suggested. It is rather that I have a profound sense of the rightness of all that happened. The days we had with him before he died were precious, filled with love and gratitude. The testimonies of his family and friends at the memorial service were deeply moving, and the meal we shared afterwards was one he would have enjoyed. I believe that Norm had a purpose in living the final years of his life in the way he did and that his death came at a time of his choosing. In his years of dementia, though he lost his intellect, he reached a kind of purity of joy, love, acceptance, and peace that few achieve. I sometimes felt he was in a state of nirvana, or of grace. He was supremely happy, perhaps the happiest he had been in his entire life, completely free of fear, worry, or anxiety.

Knowing that Norm had developed a transcendent outlook on life brings comfort to me and my family. We feel blessed to have been a part of his life’s journey. I cannot help, therefore, but feel joyful, though naturally there is a tinge of sorrow coloring my mood and my memories. We had almost sixty years together, a good, though not perfect, marriage. I shall miss him, especially his twinkling eyes and his loving smile.

MY iPOD

See that smiling, gray-haired woman with the tiny earplugs? That’s me, listening to my iPod! Over the past few years, I have become increasingly aware of how out of touch I am with much of popular culture, particularly with today’s music. So it occurred to me that one way to become more informed was to get an iPod and have each of my grandchildren prepare for me a mix of their favorite songs. That way I could learn something about current music and also get to know their tastes.

What a great idea! I now am enjoying hearing selections from most of the youngsters, plus some from the in-between generation. My knowledge of contemporary popular music is being broadened, and I am beginning to recognize the differences—and similarities—among the musical preferences of my family members. For example, I have discovered, to my delight, that my granddaughters and I all like folk music and ballads. As a result, it has been easy to attune my ears to their choices, such as The Be Good Tanyas, especially as they render sweet tunes like The Littlest Birds. The same is true of many of the songs of Sarah McLachlan, Alison Krauss, Lucinda Williams, the Indigo Girls, The Great Unknowns, the Dixie Chicks, Beth Orton, Madeleine Peyroux, Norah Jones, and others of their kind. The soft, gentle music of these artists is deeply appealing.

But I was apprehensive about my grandson’s fascination with Hip Hop. How could I possibly embrace that? It seemed foreign and a bit weird to me. But I am learning, even though sometimes I must listen a number of times, or get a copy of the lyrics, before I can understand the words that are spoken so rapidly, frequently with a heavy accent. And, I must admit, quite often I do not like what I hear! The lyrics—a kind of poetry spoken over a strong background beat—are commonly borne out of experiences of violence, gangs, drugs, and abusive relationships.

These sometimes disturbing words reflect the lives of poor, desperate, angry people residing in neglected neighborhoods, a segment of society that I do not know, living as I do an extremely comfortable and protected life. Though I find the language and some of the attitudes, especially toward women, deeply offensive, I also try to keep in mind how different the circumstances of my life have been; I really cannot know what it is to walk in their shoes.

In spite of some of the more objectionable aspects of Hip Hop, however, I am intrigued by the remarkable rhythms and touched by the messages in some of the songs. One, for example, titled Faheem, by the rapper Brother Ali, (one of Nick’s favorite artists) speaks of his deep love for his young son. Here are some of his words:

Faheem…
I was right there for your first breath
I used to lay you on my chest when you slept
I fed, changed, you, read to you, bathed you,
I’m not trying to hold that over your head,
I’m saying thank you.
God put you into my arms for me to teach you…
I tell you these things because I believe in you
Respect, patience, excellence, and truth

And this sad passage:

We live, learn, and figure it out
I just pray that you don’t remember us sleepin’ on the floor
And me cleanin’ mouse droppings out of your toys
It took a lot of hard work for us to get where we at…

And at the end:

I watch you and wonder if I was ever like you
It’s me and you, brother, for life
So when you put me in the ground, look for me in the clouds
You make me the definition of proud
You taught me what this life is really about.
Faheem…

This song is a beautiful testimony of a father’s devotion to his child, whom he raised under obviously difficult conditions. Lyrics such as these have helped me overcome my resistance to Hip Hop, and have made me more open to listening to each work rather than judging the entire genre. Though I probably can never fully grasp this type of music, nor completely understand the circumstances out of which it was generated, I am pleased that I have a greater appreciation of its wide-ranging possibilities.

As for keeping up with popular culture in general, I can only do so much at my age and stage of life. There comes a time, as we grow old, when we begin to withdraw, feeling less urge to participate in the kinds of activities and interests that engaged us earlier in our lives. It is a natural aspect of the aging process. We must weigh our priorities carefully and use our time and energies in ways that are most satisfying and most suitable. Since listening to music is calming and appropriate for a more sedentary life, however, the iPod seems an especially good device for us elders. I heartily recommend it.

A FANTASY REALIZED

The call I got from our daughter Laura one day last spring (2007) was alarming. She was by Norm’s side and said he was unresponsive and was having difficulty breathing. I hurried out to the residential center where he is being cared for, sat by his bed, held his hand, stroked his head, and talked to him. He told me, between labored breaths and with barely intelligible slurred speech, that he was surrounded by many people who loved him. I felt reassured by his words, for it seemed that he might be dying, and the thought of his being assisted in his passage by loved ones was comforting.

Norm has largely recovered from the more severe physical symptoms he showed at that time, but the episode triggered thoughts in my mind of what his death might mean to us as a family. Since he has now been suffering from Alzheimer’s disease for almost ten years, I became acutely and painfully aware that our grandchildren would never know the person their grandfather once was. They grew up with a sweet, kind, and loving man who nevertheless was (and is) a diminished, shadow-like version of his formerly dynamic self. The notion that they would never wholly grasp Norm in his fuller dimensions grieved me deeply, though at first I was not sure what I could do about it.

But then I had an exciting fantasy: that I might bring my entire family to La Jolla, California, where there gathers twice each year a group of individuals who both knew and loved Norm as the vibrant human being he was and who understand and appreciate the philosophic outlook he represented. I felt they would be uniquely qualified to bring to life the man I wanted my grandchildren to learn about. So, I wrote the members of the group and asked if they would be willing to indulge my fantasy by spending one of their meetings talking about Norm and sharing their memories of him with my family. Their answer was a decisive Yes!

That group—dubbed The Consciousness Group—is a diverse collection of scientists, professors, Seth readers, as well as a few of us who have no apparent relevant credentials but are fascinated by the discussions that take place at the gatherings. Molly had met Norm when he talked about his book Bridging Science and Spirit: Common Elements in David Bohm’s Physics, The Perennial Philosophy and Seth at a conference. She told Walter, a scientist at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, about Norm and they decided to invite him and a few other like-minded souls to come together and explore some of the ideas put forth in the book. These individuals (with some variation in numbers) have been meeting ever since.

Over the years those of us involved in this group not only talked about such arcane subjects as the meaning of reality, the origins of consciousness, and the parameters of the paranormal, but we also shared our personal stories and struggles. We became a family. Norm and I looked forward to the meetings which took place at Walter’s home and at the spectacular Salk Institute overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Until, that is, Norm was no longer able to participate. Still, I kept the group informed regarding his condition and occasionally attended the gatherings alone.

My fantasy was realized on a weekend last November when almost all members of our family (only granddaughter Carolyn and her husband Raven could not attend) gathered at a hotel in La Jolla. When we arrived at Walter and Karen’s house on Friday evening, members of the group were standing at the door with big smiles and open arms. All ten of us—I (the proud matriarch), our two daughters and their husbands, four of our five grandchildren, and a serious boyfriend of one—were immediately folded into their loving embrace. The evening was informal, providing an opportunity for everyone to get acquainted.

The next morning we convened at the Salk Institute. I had brought a digital recorder, for I wanted Carolyn and Raven to also hear what was said. Walter started and then passed the recorder around the group, each speaking about Norm and his ideas, and telling stories about their personal relationship with him. These comments can be found on my website www.leahsbook.com. Just click on Recordings. The day was deeply moving and stimulating for our entire family.

Though I had planned the visit largely for the grandchildren, it turned out to be just as meaningful and beneficial for the rest of us. We too had begun to lose track of the man Norm once was. Our daughter Laura stated it very well:

I look back on our trip as a time of great comfort. For me, the words of the Salk group participants reminded me of the father I knew, before he became ill. They also helped me to better understand his life's journey today and why he might have chosen to let go of the intellectual pursuits that defined most of his life. Most important, though, everyone there was loving, kind, nurturing and accepting. It was clear how much they loved him and it was a tremendous blessing that the love they had for him extended to all of us.

Jenny, our other daughter, was reminded of the discussions she had with Norm before he became ill, and mentioned how her interest in these topics has been revitalized by her visit. She made these observations:

It was not only the clearly deep affection they had for you [Leah/Mom] and Papa that was so touching, but how they embraced all of us so quickly and completely. Of course, the most poignant part was hearing the kind and loving words about Papa. Here are people that not only knew what a wonderful man he was, but understood and deeply respected the contribution he made to the study of consciousness. Especially considering how much of that part of who he was has faded now, I loved hearing again what a creative and vibrant mind he had. (Otherwise I remember by keeping his book nearby and reading passages now and then.)

Jenny’s husband Rocky added his reflections on the trip:

I loved the trip to San Diego! It was wonderful to be together with almost all of the family in an incredible location. The Salk group is an impressive group of people and it was an honor to meet all of them. I was amazed at how open they were with their ideas and experiences. But most impressive was how warm and welcoming everyone was to our family. And, of course, it was incredibly touching and heartwarming to see and hear how much they respect and love Norm. I know all of the kids really appreciated the experience—especially the interest the Salk folks had in them and their thoughts about things. I left San Diego on a high from all the warmth, intellectual stimulation and "good vibrations" (Beach Boys)!

Our grandchildren did indeed see their grandfather in a new light, but they also, as Rocky mentions, were touched by the respect they were shown. They were captivated and inspired by the novel concepts revealed to them. Rachel, for one, was moved to explore some of the new ideas. This is what she wrote about our time there:

I had rarely even considered attempting to understand Papa’s philosophical outlook because I believed it was not something I could ever understand. However, I was pleasantly surprised by how well each person at the Salk explained their own, as well as Papa’s, ideas. Their attitudes were very unassuming considering what I know of their intelligence and experience. The atmosphere and discussion was kept casual and lively which also made me so much more at ease. I happily realized that I was actually excited and fascinated about what they had to say -- and was inspired to learn more and try and gain a greater comprehension. As soon as I returned home I checked out the first Seth book and A Holographic Universe from the library. They both sat by my bed for two weeks unread – but that is not to say I have given up.

Nick, our only grandson and the youngest of the bunch, was especially enthralled by some of the uncommon views and experiences shared by the members of this unusual group. He wrote:

The people who were there have many unique ideas that you do not (at least if you are me) get to encounter on an every day basis, and certainly not discuss. Whether it was the Talking Board or the bending of spoons, it was definitely a weekend in which our everyday beliefs had to be put aside. This is not to say that what was happening was not very real, only that in our every day lives it is hard to find a place for it. (I am sure the highly regarded scientists performing these acts would agree.) While I certainly did not always understand and agree with the discussions that were taking place, I was very inspired the entire time. All together these people were very smart, and were also some of the kindest people you would ever meet. While their intellects could have been potentially intimidating, there was not a point when I didn‘t feel welcomed.

Granddaughter Jessica recalled the weekend, writing in her style of prose poetry:

When we used to sit in the chairs in the living room, Papa and I, he would talk about metaphysics and Seth and time and it slid through me, it was a detail of him just like his smell, or his bathrobe, like his endless teasing and his ear hairs, but the words didnt take the jump from simple sounds into thoughts. then all these beautiful people loved his thoughts and put them back into words sitting around the table and toying with magic and doing this they created another person that I had seen but never known, making the rest of us all a little different too.

Luis, Rebecca’s boyfriend, is relatively new to our family and therefore did not know Norm before his illness, so for him the visit was a way of learning something about Rebecca’s grandfather and the kind of person he was:

As I walked into the Salk Institute, I had a strong feeling this was not just a meeting of great minds, it was a meeting of people deeply connected to each other in both spirit and mind. As I sat in the room listening to the conversation, I was intrigued with the energy and how everyone talked about Norm Friedman. It was almost as if Norm was in the room the entire time. Everyone was kind to one another and listened with respect to each person's great ideas. It reminded me how important it is to reflect on life and take a moment to enjoy one another: friends, family, and all those with similar spirits. I live for my new friends and family and I thank you for an experience I will never forget.

On Saturday evening we gathered once again at Walter and Karen’s home. The atmosphere was festive and joyful, fueled by good food, plentiful amounts of wine and beer, animated conversation, and a warm sense of shared community. The ambience was extraordinary—accepting, uplifting, and caring. The evening ended with the group singing together as Karen played the piano. As we left, we were wrapped in a glowing aura of contentment and love. It was indeed, as the old song goes, one enchanted evening.

The next day at lunch those of us still in La Jolla met with three other women who had been especially close to Norm. They also spoke lovingly of him and told of the times they had been together—often at Seth conferences where they had shared the platform. It was touching to hear the deep affection and respect they expressed for him. They told funny stories, making us laugh, but just as often causing our eyes to fill with tears as they recalled some special personal exchange with Norm. We came away with our hearts full.

The trip accomplished far more than my fantasy had envisioned. Not only was our family exposed to new experiences, but our sharing of those experiences brought us closer in unexpected ways. Several members of the family commented on that aspect of our visit. Our granddaughter Rebecca wrote:

Our post-meeting conversations in the hotel bar over warm glasses of red wine reminded me of how blessed I am to have a family that is both academically and spiritually inclined. And, all while maintaining humbleness, gratitude and appreciation of others. Amazing is not quite a strong enough word….

Nick was particularly pleased by the closeness that he felt was engendered among family members:

While getting together for Thanksgiving and Christmas is nice, traveling as a family has a different sort of effect. Perhaps it is something about needing to move together as a pack that brings people closer. In any case, I am not sure whether it was our new closeness that impressed the people there, which then inspired everyone else to take a closer look and agree, or if it was just being so close together for three days, but I am sure that everyone left San Diego feeling closer to everyone else in the family.

This account of those extraordinary few days last November in La Jolla is not only for the members of our family, in order to help them fix that precious time in their memories, but is also for Walter, Karen, Molly, Herb, Peter, Ellen, Sandy, Lena, Andy, and Elisabet, all of whom were exceptionally gracious to me and my family during that unforgettable weekend. Your gentle ways with my grandchildren is something that I shall always remember and appreciate. They came away in awe of all of you—not because of your intelligence and knowledge, though they certainly were impressed with those qualities—but because of your genuine kindness toward and acceptance of them. We are immensely grateful to all of you for sharing with us your memories of Norm. It was a time we shall always cherish.

I also want to thank Lynda, Bettie, and Nancy. Though we were not a full group and did not have as much time with these three beautiful, warm, and intelligent women, those of us fortunate enough to meet with these old friends were touched by their stories and expressions of love and appreciation for Norm.

We are a family blessed in countless ways, not least by the gift of these people that we would not have known had it not been for Norm and his interest in the philosophy of physics and his openness to such esoteric topics as the meaning of reality and how matter originates from consciousness. His humor, his gentleness, and his loving nature are still intact, and though his former intellect is no longer available to us, we do have his books. In the introduction to Bridging Science and Spirit he says that he hopes to present “images of reality that are both illuminated by spirit and grounded in science.” I think that could serve as a summary of his life, for he was surely in love with science, but was, and is, illuminated by spirit.