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.

THREE GUYS AND A GAL

It is not often that a woman of my age is privileged to have dinner with three vibrant, intelligent, and charming young men. Last evening I was lucky enough to be so honored. One of the men, the same age as my daughter, has been a friend for a very long time—perhaps twenty-five years. We have a shared history of both joyful and sorrowful occasions and over the years we have developed a deep and abiding love for one another. He is a man who is unfailingly kind, enormously generous, and wise for his years.

Another I met when he was seated next to me on a recent plane trip to California. We chatted briefly near the end of the flight, just long enough to recognize a kinship of interests, outlook, and to discover that we had some mutual acquaintances. We exchanged email addresses and promised to get together when we returned home. The third person at the dinner was this man’s partner. All three of these men are gay.

When I returned home from my trip, I mentioned to some of my friends the unusual encounter on the plane. It is not often that a young man bothers to speak to—or even acknowledge—an old woman. I was struck by this man’s candor regarding his sexual orientation and by his extraordinary willingness to engage me in conversation. This ability to be comfortable with women of all ages seems to me to be a quality more commonly found in gay men than in straight men. Perhaps because they are so often marginalized by society at large, gay men seem to have a special empathy for others who are also frequently demeaned by our culture—such as old women.

The third man in our dinner group, and the youngest, was the most reserved of our talkative foursome, but I sensed a depth of feeling and intellect in him. He is a playwright who is currently in a graduate program for his Ph.D.; the other two men are settled firmly and successfully into their careers. This student/writer told of his grandmother’s upcoming eightieth birthday. So I was born the same year as his grandmother! Our small group represented three generations. This scholarly man could have been my own grandson.

What was so utterly delightful about the evening was that our differences in age, in gender, and in life circumstances seemed not to matter in the least. Our conversation was animated and flowed easily, with an unusual intimacy growing out of an immediate sense of trust and openness. The life stories each man told were deeply touching and often astounding. One is adopted, and has reconnected with his birth mother. But of course the most poignant narratives were those of what it means to be a homosexual in what is all too often a homophobic or hostile environment. The courage these men have displayed in their willingness to face and embrace their authentic selves is impressive. I am fortunate to count them as my friends.

MY NORTHWEST PASSAGE

I had long hoped to travel to the Northwest where I have a number of friends, but the circumstances of my life during the past few years always seemed to forestall any chance of getting away for an extended period of time. But finally, last fall, everything fell into place and I began to make plans for my trip. Though I was excited, the logistics of arranging visits to Seattle, Victoria, Olympia, Portland, and the San Juan Islands, all within a nine-day span, seemed daunting, and I was a bit nervous about having to do a lot of driving alone in strange territory. I also worried about my energy. At age seventy-nine I was more than a little concerned that I would become too tired to fully enjoy my long-delayed visit. Somewhat irrationally, I reassured myself that if I became exhausted, I would just rest when I got home.


Victoria, British Columbia

So, early on a Sunday morning in October, 2007, I took a plane from St. Louis to Seattle. Luckily, my flight arrived on time, the weather was fine, and I easily made my connecting flight to Victoria, where I was to visit Vera and Keith, whom I had not seen for at least twenty-five years. Keith was in graduate school at Washington University when Norm and I became friends with him and Vera. At that time they had two children, Kirsten and Paula, who were a few years younger than our two daughters. Keith grew up on the Isle of Man, and Vera was from Staffordshire, England. I have always been amazed that we should know someone from that small island in the middle of the Irish Sea which has a total population of only 80,000—plus or minus a few souls—or someone from Staffordshire for that matter.

Since we had not seen each other for such a long time, there was some trepidation for all of us on that sunny Sunday. Would we recognize each other? Would we still like each other? Would we find vast changes, or would we face familiar idiosyncrasies? We need not have worried, for I immediately saw my friends waiting for me as I emerged from the gate at the small airport in Victoria, and they greeted me with the kind of warmth and affection I remembered from our past encounters. On the drive to their home, as our conversation flowed easily, I found that Keith has retained his acerbic wit and Vera remains the gentle, soft-spoken woman I knew. Though I was in a different landscape, where the trees were ablaze with fall color and fields of bright orange pumpkins delighted my eyes, my friends were reliably still my friends.

After Keith received his Ph.D. in English, he accepted a position at the University of Saskatchewan in Regina, where Norm and I visited him and his family a few times. One particular visit stands out, for it was in the middle of winter, and I experienced cold such as I had never known. The temperature dropped to forty degrees below zero, and one morning we awoke to see outside our hotel room an enchanting spectacle. It looked as if there were millions of twinkling stars hanging above the roofs and treetops. The cause of this fantastic display was an ice fog, meaning that every drop of moisture in the air above the city was crystallized, each particle reflecting the light of the sun. It was an unforgettable sight.

At some point our friends decided to add to their family by adopting a native Canadian child whom they named Anya. As our families grew and our lives became consumed with more pressing demands, we did not see our Canadian friends as often, though Keith was always diligent about sending his annual Christmas letters, which were unfailingly funny and entertaining. Keith is a gifted writer. Vera in the meantime went back to school and got a degree in Social Work, a field for which she has great innate ability, for she is the very essence of caring concern, compassion, and empathy.

When Keith retired from his teaching position at the university in Regina, he and Vera moved to Victoria which has a milder climate and where many of their friends and colleagues have also retired. Their oldest daughter Kirsten married a Norwegian and currently lives near Oslo with her husband and their three children. Paula became an actor and lives in Montreal. Anya married and lives in Regina.

Several years ago I began a correspondence with Kirsten and our email friendship has flourished as we have shared ideas and exchanged reflections on such topics as complementary medicine and indigenous healing techniques. This past summer Anya gave birth to a baby girl. I was deeply touched when I learned that she named the baby Leah, after me. Anya wrote that I was always good to her and was special in her heart. I do not remember being especially good to this child (she was still a child when I last saw her), but I am reminded that we never know what mark we are leaving on the life of another human being, so it behooves us to always be kind and loving. I am honored to know that I have a namesake growing up in Saskatchewan. Perhaps some day I shall get to meet her.

Keith and Vera are much the same as when I knew them in St. Louis, and they remarked that I also seemed to them basically the person they recalled from our earlier years of friendship. Perhaps our fundamental personalities do not to change, though I admit I had harbored the illusion that somehow I had learned and grown in many ways since I last saw them. I felt that surely my increased knowledge and maturity would be apparent. Not so, at least not in any immediately discernible manner. I must be content with my own sense that some inner spiritual growth has taken place, but must also accept the fact that there is some part of me—just as for Vera and Keith—that remains forever the same.

After two delightful, nostalgic days and nights in the charming city of Victoria, I flew back to Seattle where I rented a car and headed south to my next destination.


Olympia, Washington

There were two persons I wished to see and spend some time with in Olympia. One is a young man who is a professor of physics at Evergreen State College. I know Don because of his friendship with Norm. I am not sure when the two of them met, but Don shared Norm’s interest in the Seth material and he also understood (to an extent many of us could not) the scientific concepts in Norm’s book Bridging Science and Spirit. On a number of occasions Don invited Norm to speak to his class at Evergreen on the philosophical views expounded in his book. When Norm developed Alzheimer’s disease and was no longer able to travel or lecture, Don visited us whenever he was in St. Louis. (His mother lived here until her death.) His continued kindness and tenderness towards Norm demonstrates what a good-hearted person he is.

Don keeps in touch with me periodically, and when he learned of my trip to the Northwest he invited me to be a guest at his home which he recently completed building. Though I appreciated his offer, I decided that I preferred to stay at a hotel, so when I got into Olympia in mid-afternoon on that Tuesday, I checked into the Red Lion Inn, Olympia’s finest, though far from elegant, hotel.

Don invited me for dinner at his home, and offered to include my other Olympia friend, Denis. He picked up both of us at the hotel, stopped by the local grocery where he bought some fresh salmon, and then drove us out to his home. He owns about forty acres of land that he has planted with thousands of seedling trees. His home is both esthetically pleasing and a marvel of environmentally sound principles. He is also a lover of wild life, so birds, raccoons and other creatures are frequent visitors. While preparing our dinner, and later as we enjoyed indulging in it, Don regaled us with stories of the design and construction of his home and also talked about his remembrances of Norm. He was an extremely gracious host.

After being dropped off at my hotel, Denis and I sat and talked for another hour or so. Denis is a graduate of Pacifica Graduate Institute, where I did my late life study, and we received our doctor’s degrees the same year. On the occasion of being hooded and at another Pacifica gathering we found that we held many common views and interests, both taking special pleasure in drinking good wine and in sharing serious conversation. We exchanged dissertations and in the years since leaving school we have continued communicating via email and telephone. An unusual, soulful friendship has developed between me and this man who is at least fifteen years my junior.

Denis came by the hotel the next morning and took me on a tour of the city and its environs. We visited the campus of Evergreen, a place I especially wanted to see since my grandson-in-law, Raven, graduated from there, and also because Norm had been a guest of Don’s at the school. It is a beautiful place, as is the entire area. Again, as in Victoria, the fall colors were spectacular, the brilliant colors of the deciduous trees contrasting strikingly with the dark green of the evergreens.

Denis and I had lunch at a small café which caters to left-wing political activists and folk artists. It had a charming, though somewhat hap-hazard, ambience and the food served was unquestionably organic and wholesome. Afterwards we did more sight-seeing before going to Denis’ house for further conversation and for dinner. Denis lives alone in a lovely split-level home with a particularly lush, well-designed and well-cared-for yard and garden. His son and young grandson live not far away. We talked and talked and talked—about our families, about politics, about religion, about our beliefs and backgrounds. Sometimes we cried as we spoke about matters close to our hearts. Denis is a man unafraid of tears.

At five o’clock, Denis offered cocktails, and we agreed that a good martini would be ideal. He carefully measured Tanqueray gin and the requisite splash of dry vermouth into a shaker with ice. After expertly shaking the container just the right number of times, he poured the liquor into our glasses, which were generously garnished with both a lemon twist and an olive. The chilled warmth of the gin combined with the geniality generated by our shared stories turned an ordinary martini into a magical elixir. It was a drink unlike any other I have known.

After we finished the final drops of our pre-dinner cocktail, Denis went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, leaving me alone to relax and enjoy some moments of silent contemplation. The martini left me feeling calm and mellow, and made me aware of how grateful I was to have found a friend with whom I could talk about such a broad range of topics and ideas—from the personal to the political to the philosophical to the archetypal.
I felt then, and still feel, greatly blessed by this friendship.

Dinner was marvelous—lamb cooked on the grill, salad, vegetables, good bread, and an excellent red wine. After a dessert of ice cream and raspberries, and a bit more after-dinner conversation, Denis drove me back to my hotel. I needed to get an early start the next morning for my drive to Portland.


Portland, Oregon

At about 8:30 AM, I headed south on Interstate Highway 5. I wanted to arrive in plenty of time to accompany my friend Dianne to a gallery lecture she was giving at noon. Dianne is a fine art photographer and she was speaking at a gallery that was showing a retrospective of her work. I wanted very much to see this show, for I have long been an admirer of Dianne’s photographs.

I met Dianne in the 1980s at an Ansel Adams workshop in California where she was one of the faculty members. I was becoming more serious about my own venture into photography and wished to get some feedback on my work and to learn some new techniques. On the first night of the workshop there was a showing of photographs taken by staff members. When I saw Dianne’s photographs, I knew we were kindred spirits, at least artistically speaking. I bought one of her pictures that night (which is still one of my favorites), and asked if I might make an appointment with her. She was already fully booked, but agreed to see me at midnight! We found we had more in common than just our photographic interests. Thus began our friendship, which has endured to this day.

As with my friends in Victoria, I had not seen Dianne for a very long time—perhaps ten or fifteen years. We had kept in touch sporadically, but though I eventually phased out of photography and moved in other directions, Dianne remained dedicated to her work as both photographer and teacher. She is unusual in that she has an artist’s vision and a scientist’s affinities, as demonstrated both in her complete mastery of photographic techniques (now including digital) and in her photographs which are largely of the preserved remains of animal and plant life. As one observer put it, she is fascinated by “the mysterious beauty of bones, the delicacy of preserved insects, dried algae, pressed plants, and other elements of the natural world.” That first photograph I purchased at the Ansel Adams workshop was of a collection of dragon flies impaled on long pins; it was delicate and mysteriously beautiful.

I arrived in Portland in ample time to accompany Dianne and her husband Jack to the gallery for her lecture. I delighted in seeing so many of her works on the walls, some of which I was familiar with, but many of which were new to me. One room was filled with her recent work, luminous color images of algae and botanical specimens. I stood in this room, enthralled and entranced by the sheer beauty of the images. There was an uplifting energy in the room which seemed to emanate directly from the photographs, all lovingly and meticulously framed by Jack.

Jack and Dianne have both retired from their teaching positions and have purchased a home on Obstruction Island in the San Juans where they will move in the spring. (They have placed their home in Portland on the market.) Dianne was eager to show me their new home and the studio they have built for her not far from the house. So the next morning we got up early and headed north to Anacortes, where we left the car and took a water taxi out to the island, which can only be reached by boat.

The San Juan Islands, nestled off the shore of Washington State, are gems of natural beauty. The terrain varies from fairly flat land to low mountains, and the landscape appears to be densely wooded. Some of the larger islands, such as San Juan and Orcas, have urban centers and sizable permanent populations, but Obstruction has only residential sites, and very few full time residents. (The 2000 year census said there were eight, but Dianne could only think of five.) Most families leave during the winter months when the winds can be strong and the weather cold. Dianne and Jack will soon become permanent residents, living full time in this exquisite, quiet, but remote place.

My visit was magical. The house is not large, but is designed such that each window provides its own spectacular view—either of the magnificent trees or of the tranquil water. Soon after our arrival I lay for awhile, somnolent, on a hammock they have hung between two trees near the edge of the water. The sun was setting and its rays sparkled across the water. All outer concerns dropped away as I marveled at my good fortune in being in the presence of good friends and benefiting from their kindness in sharing with me this place of great natural beauty.

After dinner and when darkness had descended, Dianne suggested that we take a walk. She brought along a flashlight and I stumbled my way behind her sure-footed guidance. Soon we found our way to a pier, and walked out on it to better see the night sky. We lay down on the bare boards and looked up at a canopy of stars, including that great swath of light, the Milky Way. I could hardly believe my eyes, for I had not seen the Milky Way since I was a child, living on a farm in North Carolina. What a thrilling experience it was to once again gaze at the mystery of the cosmos.

The next day we walked some more around this island, which felt like a mythical paradise, filled as it was with grottos (which surely were hiding places for fairies and other woodland creatures), stones, fallen trees, hollowed out stumps, and deep green moss. Many of these places looked like naturally formed altars, and their appearance engendered a reverence and awe which made me feel worshipful. And, perhaps most miraculously, we found some chanterelle mushrooms which we carefully picked and had for dinner.

All too soon my visit came to an end. On Sunday I took the water taxi back to Anacortes where I found my car and drove back to Seattle. I spent the night at a hotel that Norm and I had visited many, many years earlier. It looked much the same, but this time I was alone. After a restful night’s sleep, I drove to the Seattle airport for my flight home.


Reflections

To my great astonishment, not only did I not return home exhausted, but I seem to have gained in energy as I moved from friend to friend and place to place. I actually came home feeling younger and stronger than when I left! Each encounter, each conversation, each new experience, seemed to add vitality to my body and to my spirit.

As I began to reflect on this strange phenomenon, I was surprised to realize how much my confidence had eroded in the past few years, and how much the trip helped to restore my sense of self-reliance. Though my energy is certainly not what it was twenty years ago, I found that I still have sufficient stamina to handle this kind of travel. But it wasn’t just physical energy that had come into question. I had allowed other certainties to fade away, to be replaced by subtle doubts and reservations regarding my ability to function. The fact is (I am somewhat embarrassed to admit), I had begun to take on some of my culture’s disparaging notions of what it means to be old instead of insisting on assessing my own individual strengths.

My first sense of reappraisal came on the very first night of my journey. I had awakened early on that Sunday morning in order to make my flight to Seattle. By the time I had dinner with Vera and Keith at my hotel in Victoria it was already past my usual bedtime. But the excitement of seeing old friends and the stimulation of being in a new environment must have given me an infusion of adrenaline, for I did not feel at all tired. After our plentiful and pleasant dinner, even lingering over dessert and wine, I went to bed, very late by Central time, but slept well, and awoke the next morning completely adjusted to the Western time zone.

Another of my worries had been about driving long distances alone in a strange area. This concern is especially odd, for, though I am often accused of driving too fast, I am a competent and careful driver. I have driven alone the 300 miles from my home to Chicago innumerable times over the past twenty years. I have also driven dozens of times in the last decade on the incredibly crowded, fast-moving California freeways from Los Angeles south to San Diego and north to Santa Barbara. After those challenging roadways, why should I be afraid? And, as it happened, I was not. I found my way without difficulty. I did, however, get my first ever speeding ticket as I drove from Olympia to Portland. When I told my family, they said was long overdue! I claim it was a speed trap set up along a stretch of highway that was not clearly marked. Every car in the left lane was being pulled over.

But there was yet another misgiving that I had not been aware of until near the end of my trip. It is sobering to acknowledge that I had (unconsciously) feared engaging in intellectual exchanges, feeling that perhaps I had lost my ability to think clearly and rationally. I’m not sure why I had begun to question my mental readiness; perhaps it is that since Norm developed Alzheimer’s I no longer have anyone here at home with whom I can engage in daily discussions, no one to ask my opinion or argue with me, no one to keep me sharp.

The friends I visited on this trip are highly educated, knowledgeable, articulate people. Several are, or have been, college professors. All are marvelous conversationalists, interested in a wide range of topics—politics, religion, art, the environment, personal relationships, whatever might come to mind. I enjoyed my exchanges with them immensely and found I could participate easily, on occasion could even add an insight or a bit of information that I had retained from my reading. I came home reassured that at least some of my brain cells are still active.

There was another interesting component to my visit, which I did not fully understand except in retrospect. I had not been aware of how much I hungered not only for intellectual stimulation, but also for the kind of nourishment that comes from being with old friends—that is, persons with whom I have shared meaningful experiences in the past. I knew that I felt a strong bond with these individuals, and that I treasured their friendship, but I was surprised and deeply touched by how much I felt valued by them. It was that sense of loving and being loved in return that provided the greatest boost to my energy and to my morale.

Each visit along the way had its own essence and flavor. With Vera and Keith it was the comfort of learning that there is continuity to deep friendship, and that these bonds extend into succeeding generations. With Don it was witnessing once again his generosity of spirit and being reminded of his connection to Norm. With Denis it was savoring the companionship of an unusually witty, erudite, and sensitive man. With Dianne and Jack it was being immersed in the world of intellect, art, nature, and spirit. One could hardly ask for more.

Since I am nearing my eightieth birthday, I am acutely interested in how I and others respond to encroaching age. (See I Am an Old Woman on my blog.) I have come to understand that a key element in retaining our sense of vitality as we grow old is an ability to maintain a feeling of self confidence. Before my trip I was suffering a crisis of confidence. I had apprehensions regarding my ability to withstand the demands of travel. I had begun to question my energy, my competence, and my mental functioning. Had I persisted in this loss of belief in myself, I would then have become the very things I feared. Instead, my experiences on the trip revived my waning energy, renewed my feelings of competence, and restored my sense of self. For that I shall always be grateful.

Now my challenge is to maintain that level of confidence, regardless of the challenges I may face. If I can hold on to that, then My Northwest Passage will have been a truly transforming passage. I will have moved from debilitating self-doubt to the certainty that I am an old woman still capable of living life fully—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

GRANDCHILDREN

My grandchildren...

I AM AN OLD WOMAN

In a recent conversation with a friend I casually referred to myself as an old woman. I am, after all, nearly eighty years old and by almost anyone’s reckoning would be deemed old. She admonished me: “It seems strange to hear you put yourself in the category of old woman. I think of you as young, sharp as a tack, and with-it.” While her response was flattering in that she thinks I am “sharp as a tack,” I could not help but wonder why she considered the words “old woman” pejorative rather than merely descriptive. Why is being an old woman something to be denied, as if shameful? Is it not possible to be “old, sharp as a tack, and with-it”? Why must I refrain from claiming the years I have lived, the things I have learned, the activities I have enjoyed or, in some cases, the suffering I have endured or the actions I regret?

An old woman is what I am; I was a young woman once, and then a middle-aged one, but I am finished with those stages of my life, and shall soon enter--joyfully, gratefully--my ninth decade on this earth. I have a sense of satisfaction when I look back at all those years of experiences, and am aware of how fortunate I am to have lived this long. As my friend’s comment suggests, however, many of us have a hopelessly disparaging view of aging; we think of old age as disagreeable, or deplorable, though I would argue that the alternative—never being old—is certainly not more desirable.

As we grow old, we have been conditioned to expect our brains to shrink, our bodies to wither, our appetites to dwindle, and our capacity for pleasure to disappear. Too many of us accept the paradigm of old age almost exclusively as a time of decrepitude, diminishment, and disease. That needs to change if we are to take full advantage of our late-life years. It is possible to acknowledge our losses, endure our illnesses, and face our failings without being defined by them. It is also advisable to embrace our aging, to appreciate its potential for healing, its opportunity for adventure, its gift of liberation, and its promise of wisdom.

Recently I came across this poem which reflects many of my feelings about being old. It is interesting that the poet's year of birth is 1927, one year before mine.

DON'T CALL ME A YOUNG WOMAN

Don’t call me a young woman.
I was a young woman for years
but that was then and this is now.
I was a mid life woman for a time
and I celebrated that good span.
Now I am somebody magnificent, new,
a seer, wise woman, old proud crone,
and example and mentor to the young
who need to learn old women wisdom.
I look back on jobs well done
and learn to do different tasks now.
I think great thoughts and share them.

Don’t call me a young woman.
You reveal your own fears of aging.
Maybe you’d better come learn from
all of us wonderful old women
how to take the sum of your life
with all its experience and knowledge
and show how a fully developed life
can know the joy of a past well done
and the joy of life left to live.

Don’t call me a young woman;
it’s not a compliment or courtesy
but rather a grating discourtesy.
Being old is a hard won achievement
not something to be brushed aside
treated as infirmity or ugliness
or apologized away by “young woman.”
I am an old woman, a long liver.
I’m proud of it. I revel in it.
I wear my grey hair and wrinkles
as badges of triumphant survival
and I intend to grow even older.

---Ruth Harriet Jacobs

(American, b. 1927)

( written in 1991)

JARRING THOUGHTS

One of my granddaughters recently published a prose poem on her blog which begins with this paragraph:

I want to jar my life. It is keeping me up in the night, glaring and burning in my mind brighter than that streetlight right outside my window. I don't desire to jar my organs, my brain or liver or pieces of fingernails. I must jar moments, smells, people I have met, time we spent, ways I felt, the feeling of no feeling at all. I want to jar things I have read, things I have written, paintings I have seen, tastes of things I couldn't have, nights I haven't slept.

Jessica expresses a hunger for life experiences and wishes to hold on to them, to "jar" them. It is a beautiful and compelling image. One can picture an array of jars lined up on a shelf, neatly labeled and carefully arranged, ready to be opened, allowing the moments preserved therein to be experienced all over again, whenever the whim might strike. But there is something about the use of the word jar that I find oddly disturbing--jarring, in fact. I keep wanting to substitute another word, like vessel, which would probably not at all fit her intent. One couldn't say, for example, "I want to vessel my life." No clear image comes to mind with this word.

Thinking about these terms and their different visual and imaginative impact aroused my interest in how I view a jar as compared with a vessel. Both are containers; a jar is also a vessel. But I think of a jar as having a lid or being stoppered in some way. A vessel also can fit this description, but for some reason I think of a vessel as having a wide opening, like a cup or a bowl. Jessie is right in that a jar is a more appropriate container for holding on to something; we use jars when we preserve or can our food. A vessel, such as a goblet or a bowl, (in my conception at least) is for presenting, for offering, perhaps for sharing. I see a jar as being closed and constricting, a vessel as being open and releasing. These are two very different concepts, psychologically speaking, and perhaps therein lies a clue regarding my own particular interpretation of these two words.

One of the four suits of the Tarot is called Vessels or sometimes Cups. This suit has to do with Water, which is thought to allude to our emotions and is symbolic of the unconscious mind and our instincts. Frequently water imagery suggests movement and flow, or even turbulence. Images of vessels on Tarot cards often are of pools, or rivers, but also can be of jars holding water.

The large jars used in past times for storing both water and olive oil remind me of the story of Pandora. Though today we refer to Pandora's box, it was originally not a box at all, but a jar. In 1500 Erasmus mistakenly (it is assumed) wrote the word pyxis (box) instead of pithos (jar) when recording the myth. Some scholars think he was confusing Psyche, whose story does contain a box, with Pandora. In any case, the mistake has remained in our common usage ever since. Pandora, according to the Greek myth, was, like the Biblical Eve, the first woman on earth. Both were created by male deities, and both were said to be the origin of sickness and death--Eve because of her curiosity and willfulness and Pandora because she opened the jar which released into the world all manner of trouble and sorrow. Imagine! Women, those who give life, were chosen by Zeus and Yahweh as the vehicles for delivering evil into the world of humankind. And yet, Hope was left in the jar.

Pandora means "gifted" or "allgift." So I am brought back to thoughts of my gifted granddaughter who is writing about jars. I see her life as a jar filled with hope and promise and I imagine her as being a vessel, offering all manner of good and beautiful gifts to humankind.