Musings of a Crone

MONK OR MONKEY?

2010-12-31T09:37:00.000-08:00

MONK OR MONKEY?

Would you rather be a monk or a monkey? That strange, boldly-voiced question rang in my ears as I awoke with a startle from a dream a few mornings ago. I could make no sense of it, yet could not erase it from my mind, so I began to explore this odd combination of terms, hoping to get some insight into its meaning.

In my dictionary the word monkey immediately follows monk. I note that not only does monk resides in monkey, but also the word key, perhaps an indication that there is some key that I must discover to use to unlock this mysterious communication from my unconscious.

The dictionary defines monk as “a member of a religious community living under certain vows especially of poverty, chastity, and obedience.” A monkey is “any of various mainly long-tailed agile tree-dwelling primates,” or perhaps more to the point, “a mischievous person, especially a child (young monkey).”

My mental image of a monk does not center on poverty, chastity, or obedience, but rather is of a man dressed in a long brown robe, walking, holding a book, thinking about serious and profound matters. He is serene, studious, pragmatic, has a good sense of humor, and is of course deeply religious. He spends a lot of time in silence.

As for monkeys, my first thought is that they are playful, like children. They are active, ebullient, and exhibit what might be called a child-like intelligence. They are particularly fascinating because so much of their behavior mimics our own. Another association is what some Buddhists call “monkey mind,” that restless mental chatter caused by our thoughts as they flit aimlessly from one thing to another. One purpose of meditation is to focus and calm this monkey mind in an effort to create a more serene state of being. In this sense, as I sit in meditation, my inner monkey is striving to be more monk-like.

Yet another association is with the image of three wise monkeys: one with ears covered, Hear no evil; one with eyes covered, See no evil; and the third with mouth covered, Speak no evil. This image is thought to have originated in Japan as part of an ancient folk religion and many versions of it can be seen throughout the Far East. In some cases there is a fourth monkey with his hands tied, meaning Do no evil. This conception of wise monkeys relates directly to the monk; both represent the goal of a life devoid of evil.

So, after these reflections, what am I to make of my strange dream query? Must I choose between the monk and the monkey? I am resistant to choosing, and instead hope to combine characteristics of both these archetypes into my thinking and in my behavior. I aspire to be serious, studious, spiritual, and serene, and continue to enjoy periods of silence, but I also wish to cultivate more of those wonderful child-like monkey qualities, such as playfulness, exuberance, and perhaps a bit of mischievousness. I also wish to be like the three (or four) wise monkeys in avoiding hearing, seeing, speaking, or doing evil.

My lesson from this puzzling but inspiring dream is my intention for the New Year—2011—and that is to live my life devoted to being a monk in monkey’s clothing!

AN ADDED BLESSING

2010-11-24T04:51:00.000-08:00

Last night, after I had posted my blog “Thanksgiving Blessings” and had gone to bed, I suddenly realized that I had failed to mention my most recent blessing—the birth of a great-grandchild. As I pondered this omission I realized that though I have seen baby Noah, it was only when he was still in the hospital incubator. I could not hold him or snuggle him or kiss him. He was tiny and frail and somnolent. So though I have followed his progress with great interest by reading the blog posted by his parents, he is still not quite real to me.

All that will change on December 18 when we come together as a family and I will conduct a ritual welcoming Noah into our family circle. We will talk about our new roles in relationship to him—as grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and in my case as great-grandmother. We will offer advice and support to his parents, Carolyn and Raven; we will express our fondest wishes for this child as he grows up, and then each of us will give our personal blessings to him and his parents.

On that day, in addition to the ceremony, I will finally get to hold Noah, to snuggle him, to press him against my chest, and to lovingly kiss him. On that day he will become real to me, and I can truly say that he is one of the greatest blessings of my old age.

THANKSGIVING BLESSINGS

2010-11-23T20:01:00.000-08:00

There are so many blessings in my life, it is difficult to know where to begin in enumerating them. It is interesting that in my old age I can acknowledge blessings, whereas when I was young, I could only see what was lacking, what deprivations I had endured and how much I suffered because of what I perceived as deficiencies in my upbringing. This is not to say that my childhood was ideal; it certainly was not. We were poor, my mother was terribly depressed because of the handicap (deafness) of my brother, born two years after me, and my father, though unfailingly kind and generous with me, was not able to give my mother the kind of support she needed. There was a lot of tension in the marriage.

And yet, I did well in school, stood out academically in my high school, though I admit there was little competition from my small rural community. Still, I felt proud of my level of accomplishment; being the smartest in the class is not bad, no matter the level of competition. I also took piano and voice lessons—skills which to this day provide me with great pleasure. So, it was not all deprivation. There was considerable substance to my growing up years that it has taken me some time to fully appreciate.

Then there was the blessing of coming to St. Louis, attending Washington University, meeting Norm. What had been up until then extremely limited horizons in my experience, suddenly expanded in amazing ways. Being in a city like St. Louis, away from the confines of a rural Southern Baptist environment was heady, liberating, uplifting. Norm was unlike any man I had ever met before—Jewish, intellectual, arrogant, and yet someone who seemed to find something in me that was appealing. We came from such totally different backgrounds, and yet there was a strong attraction. We almost made it to sixty years of marriage before he died.

Perhaps the greatest blessing of all is the birth of our two daughters. Born only 19 months apart, they grew up in some ways like twins—in the same grade from second grade on—but each found her own way, each developing her own talents and interests and each becoming excellent mothers as well as establishing expertise in a variety of fields. These two women are indeed persons who have developed their own strengths and yet have maintained strong family ties in the process. Jenny is the founder and director of a nonprofit organization, and Laurie has a background in politics and lobbying, and is now the author of a novel, based, of course, on a political theme. Who could have guessed that these two adorable little girls would become such accomplished women?

The men to whom my daughters are married are also great blessings in my life. Each treats me with respect and is unfailingly helpful and kind to me. I am deeply grateful for their attention, their assistance, and their friendship.

But most astonishing of all, perhaps, are my grandchildren. I still feel a large part of myself as a poor, sad little girl living on a farm in North Carolina. It boggles my mind to think that my grandchildren are graduates of prestigious universities, founders of nonprofits, students of art and social work, and all-around marvelous, beautiful, loving human beings. How did I get so blessed? I love each one with all my heart, and I feel lucky every day that I can find so much joy in spending time with each one of them.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the blessing of my friends. I am particularly fortunate in having friends from all age groups. Some are still in their twenties, several in their thirties, many inhabit those middle years of forties and fifties. Then there are those who are closer to my age, and a few who are my actual peers. It is a great privilege for me to have connections with women and men who span so many different age groups. I feel that my relationship with my grandchildren and my young friends infuses me with a kind of energy and vitality that I could not have otherwise. What a great gift they all are to me!

Last, I am blessed by the privilege of being old. I shall be eternally grateful for these later years when I have had the opportunity to look back and reflect on the myriad experiences and relationships that I have had over these eighty-plus years of my life. It has been a long, sometimes challenging journey, and I have had my share of missteps and detours along the way, but I do not, for a moment, regret the trajectory of my life. I rejoice in the years I have had on this earth.

Thank you to all those I love, especially my family: Laurie and Dan, Jenny and Rocky, Carolyn and Raven, Rebecca, Jessie, Rachel and Nick.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Mom/Leah/Gaga

TOMORROW BELONGS TO ME

2010-06-19T11:21:00.000-07:00

The sun on the meadow is summery warm,
The stag in the forest runs free;
The heart as a shelter defies the storm,
Tomorrow belongs to me.

The branch of the linden is leafy and green,
The rage has deserted the sea;
The world holds promise that shines unseen,
Tomorrow belongs to me.

The babe in his cradle is soundly asleep,
The blossom embraces the bee;
And love, like a valley, lies wide and deep,
Tomorrow belongs to me,
Tomorrow belongs to me.

The words of this song, Tomorrow Belongs to Me, written by Fred Ebb and John Kander for the musical Cabaret, have recently moved me like nothing else. Perhaps it is because I have, like so many, been deeply depressed about the situation in world, most especially about the appalling oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The permanently imprinted image of oil spewing endlessly into the habitat of one of our most biologically diverse bodies of water affects not just my visual sense, but also impacts my entire body. It makes me feel ill. I can hardly bare to watch it, though it is hard to avoid since it is shown continually on most news shows.

This event has been called by our president (and others) “the worst environmental disaster America has ever faced,” though a recent story in the New York Times questions that pronouncement. There have been other horrendous happenings which we tend to forget. One is the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Just as this spill seems to have taken place because of a lack of proper safety procedures, the Dust Bowl occurred due to poor farming practices and lack of good stewardship over our earth. Farmers in the early 1900s heedlessly removed most of the prairie grasses which helped hold much needed moisture. When a severe drought occurred in the 1930s, the soil, with nothing to hold it down, swirled into massive storms, obliterating everything in its path, choking livestock, and causing serious respiratory illnesses in those exposed to the dust. It is reported that by 1940 more than two million people had left their homes in the Great Plains States. The effects of the Dust Bowl lasted for more than ten years.

We do not know yet the extent of the disaster in the Gulf region—how many humans and animals and how much aquatic life will be affected, either directly due to toxic exposure to the oil, or indirectly due to economic deprivation because of the destruction of fishing grounds and loss of income from tourist trade and other business failures. It seems certain that the effects of this monstrous spill will be around for a very long time.

And yet I find that putting this event into historic perspective gives me some hope. One advantage of living a long time—eighty-plus years in my case—is that one does get a deeper sense of the resiliency of our earth and its people. I do not mean to diminish the suffering of those individuals whose lives have been upended by this oil spill, any more than I deny the upheaval and misery of those families caught up in the Dust Bowl, but it is somehow reassuring to know that our country and our planet have endured countless disasters, and our species has demonstrated over and over again that we can survive seemingly overwhelming threats. Life does go on.

So, I find some comfort in the words of this song. I like the idea that tomorrow belongs to me, that I can find something of hope, and beauty, and love if I choose to focus on those thoughts. I am especially touched by the last verse of the song, since it refers to “the babe in his cradle.” As you all know, in the fall our family will welcome a new baby, my first great-grandchild. I wish to feel that this child—to be named Noah, like the Biblical Noah who saw a newly refreshed world after the flood—will be born into a world that, in spite of its catastrophes, finds a way to right itself—a world that “holds promise that shines unseen” and that he will find reason to embrace his life with joy and optimism. It is my hope that he will know “summery warm,” the “leafy and green” of the trees and many other pleasures of life, family, and nature. Of one thing I am absolutely certain: that our Noah will always be aware that from his family “love, like a valley, lies wide and deep.”

I WOULDN'T CHANGE A THING

2010-04-14T09:42:00.001-07:00

Last evening as I sat out in my garden reflecting on my life, an extraordinary thought popped into my head: If I had it all to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing. What?! After all the mistakes I have made, the hurts I have inflicted, the pain I have endured, the sorrows I have suffered, why would I not want to change any of that? The thought makes no logical sense. And yet, there it is, real and present and persistent. How can one explain such an irrational rumination?

Then another insight arose: All those experiences, whether good, bad, indifferent, remarkable, silly, smart, stupid, provocative, horrendous, marvelous, painful, joyful, or just plain satisfying, have made me who I am. So, I suppose one explanation is that I would not sacrifice my basic personality for one that might have been more perspicacious, more brilliant, or—and this is hard to admit—more caring. There is something odd, something absurd, about being so invested in the wholeness of who I am and the totality of the life I have led. And yet, again, there it is. Is this an overweening ego?

Perhaps it is not just a question of ego, but rather a sense of having lived out some kind of pre-ordained destiny. It is as if some seed within me knew just what kind of human being I would—or could—become. I do not know how that happened, but I do know that, raised on a farm in North Carolina, I somehow felt from an early age that my life would not be lived in that environment. I ended up in St. Louis, Missouri, married to a radical intellectual Jewish man—something about as far from my rural Southern Baptist roots as could be imagined.

How did that seed, which seems so alien to my background, get implanted? I have no idea, for it does not appear to have come from my parents, who were opposed to almost all my choices and my decisions. I had to leave my home so that kernel could germinate and grow into the person I have become. It has not always been an easy process—separating from my family at age eighteen was one of the early sacrifices. I see the arc of my life as a slow unfolding of my authentic personhood, and my behavior as an effort to nurture that often fragile, sometimes stunted, seedling self, a task that continues into my old age. I feel that I am still exploring and still learning from the course of my own maturation, with all its stops and starts, pains and pleasures. Just as a plant grows due to the nutrients in the soil, to water and available sunlight, so I have unfolded in response to all my life experiences and to all those who have been close to me.

I have the weird feeling that all along my future was pulling me forward, that there was some path already designated, or at least suggested, that I was destined to follow. If this seems to deny the feeling we all have of free will, then it occurs to me that perhaps I could have denied or ignored that pull, could have acquiesced to the wishes of my parents, could have remained within the confines of that life in North Carolina. But for some reason I did not. I shall be forever thankful that I chose otherwise, for my life has been richly satisfying.

So, at this late stage of my life, I have a deep sense of gratitude for whatever life force has guided me thus far. As I approach these final years of my life, I rejoice in the life I have lived.

I would not change a thing.

SINGING GOSPEL SONGS

2010-04-05T12:56:00.000-07:00

Recently I attended a performance by Harold Allen, who during the course of the evening told stories and sang songs demonstrating each stage of his musical education—from art songs to arias to numbers from musical theater. He then said that when he began composing and singing his own pieces, he found himself using the genre of country music. Allen did not explain what brought about this transition in his musical focus, but I would have been interested in hearing what he had to say, for I find myself in a somewhat similar situation. (Though I am not a performer; I sing only for my own personal enjoyment.) Now that I have begun singing again—more than sixty years since I last took voice lessons—I find myself mysteriously, but inexorably, drawn to gospel music. I wonder why this is so.

Gospel music is definitively Christian, but I am not a follower of that faith, even though I was brought up in a Southern Baptist family and regularly attended a small rural church in North Carolina. When I was in high school and was studying voice, I frequently sang in that church—sometimes as soloist, but often as a member of a trio formed with two other young girls. So I was steeped in the sounds and harmonies of gospel music from an early age. When I went away to college I left that life and that church behind. I married a non-religious Jewish man, and felt a strong affinity for the values articulated by my husband and his family. I also am interested in Buddhism and its precepts. However, I think of myself as an agnostic, forever questioning, always exploring, but never fully persuaded by the answers offered to ultimate religious queries.

I left high school a year early and attended a junior college where I continued my vocal studies. Most voice majors gave a recital at the end of their second year at the school, but since I would not be staying for that year, my teacher encouraged me to do a recital at the end of my one year at the school. I have lost all copies of the printed program for that recital, but it included several art songs, some in English, others in German, and at least one aria, “Connais-tu le pays” from Mignon by Ambroise Thomas. (I recently read that that song was at one time “done to death” here in the U.S, both by concert singers and amateurs, which perhaps explains why it was on my program.)

Later, long after I abandoned my musical studies and had started a family, I delighted in singing with my young daughters—wonderful, playful songs: Looby Lou, Little Red Wagon, Mulberry Bush, and many others. We sang wherever and whenever we happened to be—especially in the car on long trips. I borrowed records of Pete Seeger from the library and we sang along with him. Once the girls started school we purchased a piano and continued to sing folk songs, for they were growing up during the sixties—the era not only of the Beatles, but also of Theodore Bikel and the Weavers.

Once the children left home I mostly stopped singing. I turned my energies and interests in other directions; first teaching at a school for the deaf, then becoming a photographer and later at age sixty-nine going back to school for a Ph.D. These were deeply satisfying creative and intellectual endeavors, but recently I have begun singing again, and though I still love the old folk songs, it is gospel music that has captured my heart. This is true even though a part of me resists the beliefs and sentiments expressed by many of the lyrics. How can I, given my skeptic’s stance, find emotional resonance with such profoundly professed love of Jesus? How can I not only tolerate, but actually connect with, the worshipful attitude that is an essential aspect of these tunes? How can I reconcile my fundamental agnosticism with my great pleasure in singing these fundamentally Christian songs? Why am I so drawn to them? They are, most obviously, simple melodies often based on old folk tunes, with a chorus repeated after each verse, and with a limited vocal range, all of which make them easy to remember and easy to sing. They are accessible to anyone who has a musical ear; no training is necessary. Still, I could have decided to return to my study of art songs, or other classical pieces, instead of to these hymns and spirituals. To help find an answer to these questions, I began a careful examination of the lyrics to see what they might reveal.

The first thing I noticed is that many of the songs are about love. Take, for example, the chorus of In the Garden: “And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known.” Those words could be about any loving couple meeting for a tryst, even though the verse tells us “I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses…” I find this imagery quite beautiful and decidedly romantic.

Here is another example: What Wondrous Love Is This, the beginning words of which are “What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul! What wondrous love is this, O my soul!” And this from O, How I love Jesus: “There is a name I love to hear, I love to sing its worth; It sounds like music in my ear, The sweetest name on earth. O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus—Because he first loved me.” I could imagine singing that to a lover, substituting his name for that of Jesus. Passionately proclaimed love is something I can certainly relate to.

There is another theme frequently found in gospel music—that of sin and suffering. I am not sure what constitutes sin (in my youth it was, among other things, cursing or drinking alcohol), but I do know what it is to make mistakes and to do harm, and I also know something about sorrow and suffering, so some of these lyrics strike a chord within me. Take this one: Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy, which begins with the words “Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, Weak and wounded, sick and sore; Jesus ready stands to save you, Full of pity, love, and pow’r.” And we all know the beloved lyrics, “Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.”

Then there are the songs of hope, most notably Whispering Hope, which does not mention Jesus or God in its first stanza or in the chorus, but does offer solace and optimism: “Soft as the voice of an angel, Breathing a lesson unheard, Hope with a gentle persuasion Whispers her comforting word: Wait till the darkness is over, Wait till the tempest is done, Hope for the sunshine tomorrow, After the shower is gone. Whispering hope, Oh how welcome thy voice. Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.” Who among us cannot relate to such soothing and reassuring words?

Here are some other lyrics that are inspiring and uplifting in their affirmation of life: “Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of Life; Let me more of their beauty see, Wonderful words of Life. Words of life and beauty, Teach me faith and duty: Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life. Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life.” Then this reminder to be thankful from the chorus of Count Your Blessings: “Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done. Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”

There are other themes as well, such as redemption (Saved! Saved!), the importance of prayer (Sweet Hour of Prayer), praise (Glory to His Name), the significance of the cross (Near the Cross) plus the fascinating and frequent use of water metaphors: There Is a Fountain; Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing; Are You Washed in the Blood? and Shall We Gather at the River. (I am tempted to write an entire essay on the mythical and religious significance of water.)

There must be a reason beyond their literal messages and musical simplicity that makes these songs so captivating for someone like me. Perhaps it is that in calling on Jesus, I am, in a sense, addressing the higher self that resides within my own psyche. The Jesus who receives, welcomes, embraces, redeems, shelters, cleanses, blesses, and also forgives our gravest transgressions might represent that part of us which embodies our highest aspirations and yearnings, that aspect which characterizes the best of who we are or wish to be. As I sing these tunes with sincere and soulful fervor, perhaps I am expressing a desire to find, recognize, and honor those qualities of love and acceptance and forgiveness that I strive to develop within myself. If so, I can understand why these simple songs give me such great pleasure.

C. G. Jung, in Memories, Dreams, Reflections, describes the self as being “the principle and archetype of orientation and meaning,” and goes on to say that “Therein lies its healing function.” He illustrates the self as both the center point and the outer circle which contains all aspects of the personality. According to Jung, we are driven by this central core of our being to become who we truly are. In other places I have written about the trauma of my baptism at age nine, how fraudulent and disillusioned I felt as a result of that experience. It occurs to me that in returning to the music I encountered in my formative years, I am bringing back into the circle of my life some psychological meaning that I had discarded or ignored. Perhaps in opening my heart to these old melodies, I am healing some of the wounds from my childhood. And that is a good thing.

Note: With the exception of In the Garden, which is from The Broadman Hymnal, all songs mentioned are from Smoky Mountain Sunday: 40 Favorite Hymns and Gospel Songs, Nashville, TN: Shawnee Press, Inc. 2008.

AN ANNIVERSARY

2010-03-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

Today marks the second anniversary of Norm’s death. Last night I lay thinking of that night two years ago when we surrounded his bed, hands joined, speaking to him of our love, singing to him, and bidding him goodbye. Those thoughts crowded out any hope of immediate sleep. Finally, though, I drifted off, hoping for a dream visit, but none came. This morning my heart lies heavy in my chest, my breathing is labored and uneven, and my eyes threaten to spill tears. Before breakfast I lit a memorial candle, which will burn for 24 hours, a flame to remind me of the passion we shared during our six decades together, a passion that was often a blessing, but, I must admit, was also occasionally a curse. Our relationship was complex and intense.

My sorrow seems greater now than it did a year ago. I am not sure why that should be. Perhaps then I was still immersed in the mental fog and fatigue that is characteristic of grief and only now am emerging into a full realization of my status as widow. As with most situations, this new role has both positive and negative aspects. The negatives are perhaps most obvious. I must make all household decisions, though I had to do that for many years before he died since his mental faculties had slowly slipped away, and I do not find those decisions difficult.

Of more consequence is that I do not have a companion for cultural and social events. Going to a museum or a movie or a concert is not nearly as much fun when done alone. I am blessed to have Laura and Dan with whom I share theater tickets, and am grateful to my neighbors the Zuckers with whom I go to productions of the St. Louis Opera Theater, but I probably would take advantage of more events if Norm were still alive. Now that I have said that, however, I am not sure it is correct. Norm was not really interested in art or music; he was a man of ideas and intellect. And that brings up another, deeper sorrow: I cannot truly remember what Norm was like. It breaks my heart to admit that, but it is true. He faded away over so many years—a full decade before his death—that I have lost any reliable memory of who that pre-Alzheimer’s person was. But whoever he was, I shared my entire adult life with him, and I miss him.

Though it seems appropriate to focus on loss, there are also gains that need to be acknowledged as a result of his passing. One great gift of this past year is that my granddaughter Rebecca moved in with me, something that probably would not have happened if Norm were still alive and at home. Though she travels a great deal, having her here at least some of the time fills this usually empty house with youthful enthusiasm and activity. I am grateful that this arrangement seems to suit both our needs at the moment.

Over the past two years I also have discovered new strengths and have returned to old interests. I have traveled widely—twice to Europe last year—and that is something Norm would not have enjoyed, whereas I loved sharing those adventures with my family. I found that my energy for walking and climbing far exceeded my expectations, a delightful discovery! I also have traveled within the U.S., visiting grandchildren and friends whenever the mood arose, the most recent trip being a spa vacation with granddaughter Jessica. Next month I shall visit grandson Nicholas in New York City where I shall be joined by all my other grandchildren (except for Rachel who has other commitments). These occasions fill my heart with joy, and being in the presence of these young people rejuvenates me, as if I have been given a shot of adrenaline.

I have returned to my love of singing, and am enjoying studying voice. I find time each day to sit down at the piano—mostly when I am in the house alone, for I still do not feel comfortable having others around—to belt out my favorite folk and gospel tunes. These times give me great pleasure, for they are a reminder of the days when I used to sing with my children.

So, my life is full in ways I could not have dreamed of when Norm died. I feel as if I am awakening, stretching, unfolding, emerging into a whole new stage of life as I grow further into my eighties. The past two years have been, in one strange sense, a liberation. Freed of my caregiving responsibilities, I have had the opportunity to explore new ways of being. I have been able to recognize, or develop, other roles, some of which might not have occurred to me earlier. I have lectured, I have written essays, and as a result I have a deeper sense of my own intellectual ability. No longer a wife, I am more secure in my separate identity. I have even opened my own page on Facebook.

There is one new role for which I am now most happily preparing—that of great-grandmother. My granddaughter Carolyn and her husband Raven are expecting a baby in early fall, and needless to say, we are all thrilled. As I have mentioned in my writings, I did not have a grandmother as I was growing up, and certainly not a great-grandmother, so once again I must invent how I am to live into this most awe-inspiring position. What a glorious challenge that will be! I hope to be around enough years to watch this child grow and develop as a fourth generation is added to our family.

So, today is a day of mixed emotions: sadness for what has been lost, pleasure for what has been gained, and great happiness for what is to be.

HOW WOMEN WILL SAVE THE WORLD

2010-03-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

Note: About once a month a group of friends comes together at my house for a potluck dinner and discussion. Recently I presented this essay to the group and also emailed it to some other persons that I thought might find it of interest. Here is a copy of the essay and following the text are comments by two men whose observations I feel are especially thoughtful and offer a slightly different, or enlarged, perspective on my topic. Peter was the youngest person in my class at Pacifica, and I was the oldest, so he calls me “Grandmother.” Rev. Ted is an interfaith minister and is a member of our discussion group. Additional remarks by anyone reading this piece are always welcome.

Perhaps like me, many of you have become deeply discouraged about the state of the world. Conditions like climate change, widespread poverty, population pressures, war, and terrorism can seem overwhelming, creating a sense of despair and hopelessness. Many observers of economic and social trends see Western civilization and our country, especially, in a downward spiral, destined to lose its position of power and influence. I agree that there are many seemingly insurmountable problems and I cannot refute many of the negative indicators, but I wish to look at some other, more positive indications that a possible paradigm shift is taking place that might help save the world from some of the worst prognostications.

My title—How Women Will Save the World—is not altogether accurate in that it is not, of course, women alone who will bring about this change. However, there is increasing evidence that when women are empowered—or when so-called feminine principles and qualities are engaged—positive effects are set in motion. Recently I have come upon, rather by chance, a number of writers and thinkers who present surprisingly similar ideas about how we might view, and hopefully defuse, some of the perils facing our planet. This confluence of perspectives gives me hope that we may look forward to a greater possibility of cooperation and peace in our world.

One of the most important books on this topic is Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide, written by Nicholas Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn, correspondents for The New York Times and the first married couple to win a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. They describe—often in horrible detail—the brutal treatment of women and girls in developing countries and provide an inspiring portrait of the courage and resilience these women display in the face of great injustice. They point out that whereas in the nineteenth century the challenge was slavery and in the twentieth century the battle against totalitarianism, the primary moral challenge facing the world today is the struggle for gender equality in the developing world.

As we know, many undeveloped countries (and many developed ones as well) are largely patriarchal, and some of the tribal societies within these countries, such as the Taliban, even refuse to allow their female children to attend school. Kristof and WuDunn point out that by bringing women and girls into schools, the workplace, government, and business, not only is the economy boosted but also conflict is reduced, because the influence of women tends to diminish the testosterone-laden values of these countries. With greater participation of women in the society at large, there is apt to be less violence, making for more stable governments and a safer world. They see a profound shift taking place as these women find their rightful place in society.

Environmental issues such as climate change would not seem to be directly affected by the education or participation of women in positions of influence. However, we know that more educated women have fewer children, and that the best way to cut down on population growth in a society is to educate girls and give them job opportunities. So, to the extent that population pressures play a role in environmental strains, providing schooling and work for women will indeed ease some environmental threats.

One recent innovation helping women in developing countries is microfinance. Professor Muhammad Yunus, who founded the Grameen Bank Project in Bangladesh, and was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2006 for his work, developed a method of credit in which micro-loans are made to small entrpreneurs who would not ordinarily be eligible for loans. One distinctive feature of the bank's credit program is that a significant majority of its borrowers are women. Women, it seems, are more reliable recipients than men.

As most of you know, my granddaughter has founded her own microfinance nonprofit organization called Nest (www.buildanest.com) which makes loans to women artisans in developing countries. Her approach is different in that rather than being repaid with money, women repay their loans in products which she then markets and sells in the United States. She also has artists in the U.S. who mentor and train the women in modern techniques and designs so their goods will be more appealing to an international clientele. This is how she explains why her loans go exclusively to women:

Women are more likely to both repay their loans and devote their earnings to assisting the family. Furthermore, when women are given the opportunity to create their own businesses and earn a stable income, their social standing in the family and in the community improves. By giving women the tools they need to provide for their families, micro-credit loans give stability and hope to families and communities.

Empowered and economically independent women have resources to help educate their children and are much more likely to create healthier, happier homes. Perhaps some of you heard that during the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake, some agencies handing out desperately needed water and food gave it only to women, for that way they felt reasonably assured it would go to those in need and not be sold on the black market. Women almost always put the needs of children and family first. This attitude makes for a more stable environment in the midst of chaos.

Now I would like to leave the issue of women per se for a moment and talk about another interesting perspective regarding future trends. Daniel H. Pink is the author of a book titled A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future. Pink points out that for almost a century the prevailing philosophy of Western society and the United States in particular has been based on linear, reductive thinking and analytical approaches to problems. The resulting technological innovations created the Information Age, in which well-educated persons utilize and manipulate information, an ability which depends largely on the left hemisphere of the brain.

Pink maintains that due to a number of factors, among which he says are “material abundance that is deepening our nonmaterial yearnings, globalization that is shipping white-collar work overseas, and powerful technologies that are eliminating certain kinds of work altogether,” we are now entering a new age. This new era, which he calls The Conceptual Age, requires a greater utilization of our right brain. Accordingly, he suggests that rather than lawyers, accountants, and computer programmers, the future belongs to artists, inventors, and storytellers, persons with creative and holistic abilities.

According to Pink, the future will be “animated by a different form of thinking and a new approach to life”—one that “involves the capacity to detect patterns and opportunities, to create artistic and emotional beauty, to craft a satisfying narrative, and to combine seemingly unrelated ideas into something new.” In addition, this shift will involve “the ability to empathize, to understand the subtleties of human interaction, to find joy in one’s self and to elicit it in others, and to stretch beyond the quotidian in pursuit of purpose and meaning.”
Pink lists six essential aptitudes on which professional success and personal fulfillment now depend. These “senses,” as he calls them—Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play, and Meaning—are more dependent on the right brain, and are not usually thought of as strongly masculine traits.

Perhaps some of you have read the book A Stroke of Insight in which Jill Bolte Taylor, a scientist involved in studying the brain, describes in great detail her experience of having a stroke. The stroke damaged her left hemisphere, while the right hemisphere remained intact, a condition that—being the scientist she is—allowed her to clearly observe and differentiate what each had to offer. When she entered the consciousness of her right brain, she felt at one with all the energy of the universe, was overcome with beauty, peacefulness, and compassion, an experience she called nirvana. When her linear, left brain reasserted itself she felt the presence of her ego, her separateness, and instead of being in the moment she was concerned about the past or the future. She maintains that we can choose which world we wish to live in and says that when we step from the consciousness of our left brain to that of our right, we can find more peace in the world. This is another example of how we may learn to value the strengths of our right brains and as a result develop a gentler outlook on life.

Both men and women use both sides of their brains, of course, but some studies indicate that there are distinct differences in the ways that women’s and men’s minds operate. Simon Baron-Cohen, a Professor of Developmental Psychopathology at Trinity College of Cambridge, posits that the female brain is hard-wired for empathizing, whereas the male brain is hard-wired for systemizing. He defines empathizing as “the drive to identify another person’s emotions and thoughts and to respond with an appropriate emotion.” He says that empathy helps us “to understand another person, to predict their behavior, and to connect or resonate with them emotionally. “Systemizing,” on the other hand, “is the drive to analyze, explore, and construct a system. The systemizer intuitively figures out how things work and extracts the underlying rules that govern the behavior of the system. This is done to understand and predict the system, or to invent a new one.” So it seems that right brain thinking, such as that of women, leads to greater empathy.

Now I will take what might seem like a major detour, but one that eventually will bring us back to my theme of the emergence of feminine influence on world problems. Perhaps many of you are aware of the fairly recent discovery of an ancient manuscript titled The Gospel of Judas. This controversial document upends the traditional New Testament version of Judas’s relationship with Jesus. As you recall, in the canonical gospels Judas is described as a traitor, the most despised and vilified of the disciples, the one who betrayed his master for 30 pieces of silver. In this document, Judas is seen not as a traitor, but as the disciple closest to Jesus, and the one chosen to act as his agent in helping carry out a series of events that ended Jesus’ life, just as had been planned—the only one of the twelve who was privileged with this secret information and the only one who truly understood Jesus’ mission.

Gottfried Heuer, a European Jungian analyst, sees this new understanding of the relationship between Jesus and Judas as a hopeful sign, suggesting in the title of an article he wrote, that it is “An Emerging Potential for World Peace.” Heuer reminds us of Jung’s reaction when the Catholic church proclaimed the Assumption of Mary—the bodily ascension of Mary to Heaven—as dogma, an act that Jung understood as an integration of the feminine principle into the Christian conception of the Godhead: the Trinity was now a Quaternity. Heuer links this with the extraordinary surge of feminism that occurred in the following decade.

Heuer claims that analysis, politics, and spirituality are deeply intertwined and that each embraces the other two in such a way that enhances the other. In this sense he explores, from an analytical point of view, some of the wider sociopolitical implications of what he calls “the current enantiodromia regarding the Judas figure in Christianity.” For those of you not familiar with that term, it means the transformation of a concept into its opposite.

The Gospel of Judas presents a radically different kind of Jesus than the one in the canonical gospels, a more joyful figure who laughs and jokes with his followers. Rather than a tragic figure who will soon die in agony on the cross, we see him as a friendly and benevolent teacher blessed with a sense of humor. Furthermore, Heuer interprets the kiss that Judas plants on Jesus as a sign of devotion and relationship, not an act of deception and betrayal. He suggests that if we could replace the cross as the pre-eminent Christian symbol with that of a loving embrace, then we might find a new Christian paradigm for the new millennium, one that is far more relational—as well as being truly healing. And since the disciplines of analysis, politics, and spirituality are intimately connected, all would benefit from the revised image.

Perhaps Heuer reads too much into this new gospel, and perhaps he expects too much when he sees its publication as “an important step towards reconciliation, and ultimately, world peace,” but there are some profound implications here. If we could, indeed, shift our basic world view from a focus on suffering and pathology—in our psychological as well as our spiritual and political outlooks—to one which focuses on relationship and healing, then surely that would make a huge difference in our culture and in our lives.

Now I would like to look again at some changes in women’s status, particularly here in the United States. The Pew Research Center recently released some very interesting data on salaries and employment. One part of the report, titled “The Rise of Wives,” found that in nearly a third of couples the wife is better educated than her husband, and that though men still earn more than women, women are now the primary breadwinners in 22 percent of households, up from 7 percent in 1970. These changes have had a positive effect, contributing to lower divorce rates and happier marriages. The statistics indicate that the more education and the more economic independence a woman has, the more likely she is to stay married.

Stephanie Coontz, a professor at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington, and research director for the Council on Contemporary Families, says that “We’ve known for some time that men need marriage more than women from the standpoint of physical and mental well-being. Now it is becoming increasingly important to their economic well-being as well.” According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, at age 22, 185 women have graduated from college for every 100 men who have done so. According to other studies, men suffer most in the recent recession in that more of them have lost their jobs. For the first time ever, more women than men are employed. These social changes will surely result in women having more power and women’s values having a greater influence in all aspects of our society.

Another factor in this possible paradigm shift is social networking. We are now, due to major technological innovations, more connected than ever, in fact, some contend we are hyperconnected—far beyond our usual boundaries. A recent book called Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives by Nicholas A. Christakis and James N. Fowler is a fascinating account of just how prevalent social networks are and how they form. When the connections are plotted, they show a variety of configurations depending on just what binds the individuals together.

The authors contend that we are affected in mysterious ways by those in our networks—even those we do not know personally, but who might know those we know. They show, for example, that if a friend of a friend—someone we have never met—gains weight, we are more likely to gain weight. These networks exhibit a kind of independent intelligence that augments or complements individual intelligence, such as establishing norms of trust, determining what products to buy, deciding which political parties to support, or, indeed, who might get a sexually transmitted disease. The networks to which we belong help shape our beliefs and our behavior.

Christakis and Fowler see much good emerging from this phenomenon, and say that “Some degree of altruism and reciprocity, and indeed some degree of positive emotions such as love and happiness, are therefore crucial for the emergence and endurance of social networks.” By recognizing and maintaining these interconnections, we are acknowledging how important relationships are. In fact, our connections and their resultant communities are fundamental to our humanity.

As I mentioned, this vision of an upcoming major shift in our way of looking at the world, based on books and articles I have read, has been incubating in my mind for almost a year, but it was not until quite recently that I discovered a book that explores in great depth most of what I have discussed here in a more cursory manner. The book is a 700 page tome called The Empathic Civilization: The Race to Global Consciousness in a World in Crisis by Jeremy Rifkin. Rifkin is an economist, who draws on multiple disciplines as he examines what he sees as the end of the modern era, largely brought about by the dangers of climate change due to our dependence on fossil fuels, a situation which threatens the survival of our species. The change required to avoid catastrophe is, in Rifkin’s opinion, a drastic change in how we view human nature.

Rifkin traces our current crisis back to the rise of the modern market economy and the emergence of nation states. The philosophical underpinnings come from the notion that humans are “rational, detached, autonomous, acquisitive, and utilitarian,” and that we are engaged in a fierce competitive battle over resources and material gain. We are beginning to see the fallacies in our assumption that material progress is natural and is unlimited.

Rifkin reviews recent discoveries in brain science and in child development that challenge these old suppositions. He cites the discovery by neuroscientists of mirror-neurons—sometimes called empathy neurons—that light up when we observe someone who is exhibiting signs of stress or of joy. They demonstrate our neurological capacity to feel and understand the emotions and situations of others. He also cites child development psychologists who argue the primacy of relationship and who see empathy as the means through which a sense of selfhood and self-awareness is developed in children. He sees our deepening awareness of empathy as an evolutionary trend that has been, up until now, overlooked by social scientists and historians. He feels that the rich diversity of our exposure through our broader access to social networks and improved communication will help extend our empathic awareness, and he sees its development in all of us as crucial to saving the world.

I personally have begun to notice some of the benefits of these networks. Recently I received an email from a woman in Australia who had read my blog and found it helpful because her father was turning eighty. That astounds me, but probably seems routine to many of today’s youngsters. However, I am not naïve enough to believe that this kind of drastic upheaval of long-held beliefs and assumptions about human nature will be easily overturned. I rather suspect that we will go through a period of deep confusion and frightening chaos, and undoubtedly will experience considerable backlash from those most fearful of change, and especially from those who feel threatened by a loss of power and status.

Elisabet Sahtouris, an evolution biologist and futurist and member of the consciousness group that my husband and I attended for many years, recently sent me a draft copy of a chapter she is writing for a book titled Crisis as Opportunity. Sahtouris acknowledges that there are three major crises facing the world today—in energy, economy, and climate—but she says that these are challenges that we should celebrate. Why? “Because,” she says, “nothing short of a fundamental review, revisioning and revising our entire way of life on planet Earth is required to face these three interrelated challenges successfully. That makes this an amazing time of opportunity to create the world we all deeply want!”

Sahtouris points out that “Humans dreamed up and then realized our economic systems, including our technological path via the exploitation of nature and our grand focus on consumerism.” We are now beginning to realize how unsustainable our current systems are and that insight provides an unparalleled opportunity to utilize the creativity and resourcefulness of our species to find new ways of thinking and doing that can bring about the changes so desperately needed.

Sahtouris calls on her expertise as an evolution biologist to remind us of the many crises that have challenged our planet in the past and how each time “life responded with a stunning new lifestyle invention.” She focuses on what can survive under extreme conditions, and concludes that “sustainability of any entity depends on its coming into harmony with whatever surrounds it in a mutual give and take that makes it more or less indispensable to the whole in which it is embedded.” To me this sounds like a variation of what might be called relationship and empathy.

I find it fascinating that my limited reading suggests a common theme, that of the huge role relationship and empathy must play in shaping our future. I am impressed with the fact that there are journalists, psychologists, neuroscientists, evolution biologists, and economists, all recognizing the importance of these qualities that were once thought to belong largely to women.

Perhaps this signifies that we are shifting away from a predominantly patriarchal world into one that can approximate a more balanced sharing between women and men. Perhaps more nations can become partnership societies, symbolized, as Riane Eisler put it in her book The Chalice and the Blade published in the mid-1980s, by the life-sustaining and enhancing Chalice rather than the lethal and destructive Blade.

Perhaps, we are, as Jeremy Rifkin puts it, “an affectionate species that continuously seeks to broaden and deepen our relationships and connections to others”, and that “It is the empathetic moments in one’s life that are the most powerful memories and the experiences that comfort and give a sense of connection, participation, and meaning to one’s sojourn.”

Let’s hope that he is right.

References:

Baron-Cohen, Simon. The Essential Difference: Male and Female Brains and the Truth about Autism. New York: Basic Books, 2003.

Brooks, David. “The Lean Years.” The New York Times 16 Feb. 2010, natl. ed.: A23.

- - -. “The Power Elite.” The New York Times 19 Feb. 2010, natl. ed.: A21

Christakis, Nicholas. A. and James H. Fowler. Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2009.

Eisler, Riane. The Chalice & the Blade: Our History, Our Future. New York: HarperCollins, 1987.

Heuer, Gottfried. “For ‘A New Heaven and a New Earth:’ The Gospel of Judas—An Emerging Potential for World Peace? A Jungian Perspective.” Spring Journal, Spring, 2009, Vol. 81. The Psychology of Violence.

Kousky, Rebecca. Mission Statement. www.buildanest.com.

Kristof, Nicholas D. and Sheryl WuDunn. Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide. New York: Alfred A Knopf, 2009.

Parker-Pope, Tara. “She Works, They Are Happy.” The New York Times 24 Jan. 2010, natl. ed.: STl.

Pink, Daniel H. A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future. New York: Riverhead Books, 2006.

Rifkin, Jeremy. The Empathic Civilization: The Race to Global Consciousness in a World in Crisis. New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher, 2010.

Roberts, Sam. “More Men Marrying Better Educated, Wealthier Wives.” The New York Times 19 Jan. 2010, natl. ed.: A20.

Sahtouris, Elisabet. “Celebrating Crisis,” Crisis as Opportunity. Edinburgh: Floris Books, 2010.

Leah Friedman
February, 2010

Grandmother:
I have read your essay, "How Women Will Save the World" and I found it masterfully written and full of great connections bringing various discipline threads and weaving them into a well crafted work. I am so glad you are continuing to listen to your voice and it is prompting you to write for the community at large (who ever that may be). I am glad that you are continuing your "studies" and that it is producing written work. We never really graduate do we!

I appreciate that you acknowledge that it is not women alone who will bring about this change; for I believe that there is no difference between one pole to the other in fundamentalism: i.e. a patriarchal society to a matriarchal one, fundamentalism is fundamentalism, at either end of the spectrum.

I printed out your essay so I can read it with pen in hand to jot down my comments: take them as you wish.

I wanted to know your thoughts on birth control in the empowerment and equalization of women in the world. I think this is a fascinating and crucial component to the evolution of our societies. I believe the power of women's choice to have (or control) children is a viable way to "save the world." (As a side note: Ginette Paris wrote a great essay on abortion that is published by Spring that I think you would find very interesting and powerful--it is used in abortion clinics in Canada--focusing on Artemis).

I liked your look at the Gospel of Judas as a reexamination of the Christ story and challenging us to change our mythos on the subject from suffering to healing. I think this is a crucial understanding of the "Christ" as a metaphoric myth to our current consciousness. I know that the holy rollers would never go for this they have made too much money on the cross to ever change their paradigm. I equally understand that it is helpful to have a "suffering" god as a model for people's own suffering but perhaps it is not that useful anymore when we have our modernity, science and technology to relieve us from our suffering! In truth I am a big fan about changing the whole Christ story. 2000 years is enough for any myth!

I was not surprised by the research about men and marriage and how it was beneficial for them. Is that because they cannot function on their own in regards to feeding, clothing, and sustaining themselves? Or is it because the "system" is set up that way so that women or "wives" help sustain them and prop them up for "success"?

I also like how you connected "social networks" as a function of interconnectedness and as a function of one's well being. As we are more inter-connected we can empathize with our various differences and connect with our various similar human conditions. This helps elevate some of the "us" vs. "them" mentality that we have been living off of for many years. Suddenly time and space have become instantaneous and that has reshaped our beliefs and our conceptualization of the "other".

I agree that despite our connectedness there will be a backlash of chaos and destruction from those who are fearful of this coming age of interconnectedness (or Age of Aquarius). The old ways will demand a return to its former existence, that of the clinched fist.

The only overall comment I want to pose to you as a "gay man" is the role of gender in your discussion. I know your title is "How Women Will Change the World" but as a man, who has "feminine aspects" of empathy, compassion, understanding and interrelatedness, I wanted to question the defining factors of man vs. woman. Could we say, or extrapolate, that it is traditionally feminine aspects, (and name them as qualities much like archetypes) as a way to "change the world," instead of having them solidified in one gender versus the other? Not that I disagree with your assessment as overall the analysis is probably true. But being one on the fringe, or the in-between I think there is an opportunity to look beyond gender as a qualifying factor and an opportunity to get out of binary opposites. To be honest I know many women who have masculine attributes and do not exemplify the feminine principles that you bring to light. I also similarly know many men who have (myself included--though you can decide!) "feminine principles" that would bring about change in our current paradigm. I offer this as another avenue of thought, not as a criticism.

I really enjoyed reading your essay. At Pacifica I realized we don't always get to hear each other's ideas, and connections, nor each other's papers. I think we really missed out on what we each had to say, especially how we write! I hope this is helpful. I look forward to more essays! Thank you for sharing. I think this can go on your blog!

Be well Grandmother. Thanks again!

Love, Peter (Plessas)

Leah:
Some additional thoughts that I couldn't as easily articulate in the group:

1. I think it's not a good sign that the number of male college graduates is falling. I take this to be a failure of the educational system, especially for younger boys, when the different learning styles between the genders is so pronounced. I hate to pin the future of life on earth on the failure of men to be as highly educated as women.

2. I too am optimistic about the Third World through the empowerment of women. However, I'm more likely to ascribe the success of making micro-loans to women to their traditional roles as home-makers and child-caregivers, not to an innate advantage in empathic capability. While there may be profound differences between male and female neurophysiology, the mind is very plastic and can be adapted to almost any role the society makes available. Witness male nurses and stay-at-home dads; female astronauts, CEO's, lawyers and scientists / mathematicians.

3. There is a new book out called "The Evolution of God" by an agnostic journalist who argues that the Abrahamic religions have encouraged a fitful but real journey toward better moral behavior in human relationships. Using game theory, he characterizes this journey as moving from reliance on win-lose models (I kill your tribe or am killed) to win-win models (I empower women in third-world countries thus making myself and family safer). I think this is an interesting hypothesis, and explains the situation as well as a systematize / empathize dialectic. [One might claim that win-win models are more "feminine", but I wouldn't.]

4. As I feebly attempted to advance during the meeting, dismantling the structures of patriarchy (if that's the main culprit) -- it's laws, institutions, and rewards systems -- is a big challenge, and has no real scaled-up models in the modern world to use as patterns. Whether the vestiges of patriarchy can be expunged from the US Constitution and etc without revolution or catastrophe is anyone's guess. Nevertheless, I applaud your hopefulness, and believe that hope is essential to our survival as a species. While many (such as J. Hillman, R. Niebuhr) have argued that hope is not warranted, neither can we make the hard decisions and sustain a movement for change without hope. And a hopeful vision is needed to mobilize the masses. So if patriarchy cannot be dismantled without a belief in the ascendancy of the feminine brain hemisphere, then count me in. And I will continue to celebrate the return of "the goddess" to the religious traditions of which I am a leader.

Thanks for sharing and including me in your company.

Yours, Rev. Ted (Lau)

SPACIOUSNESS

2010-02-08T14:14:00.000-08:00

Last night at a gathering of our Pacifica group, each of us lit a candle for some current issue or goal that we wished to focus on. For me it was spaciousness. I have been thinking about that term since my friend Susan K. introduced it to me some time ago, so I decided to share some of my reflections with you.

The usual expectation as we grow old is that our world will shrink, that we will limit our contacts, restrict our activities, and narrow our horizons, that we will largely withdraw from society and will focus more deeply inward. That prospect makes a lot of sense, and I will probably be inclined to do that at some point. But right now I feel an urge to expand my horizons, to reach out for new experiences, to enlarge my outlook, to encompass more people and incorporate more projects into my life. I yearn for more spaciousness.

In my yoga class I do these gentle stretches, thus creating more space in my joints and between my vertebrae (at least that is the way I picture it), and this increased space allows for greater flexibility. Once there is a bit more room between my bones and muscle fibers, it is possible to bend this way and that with much more gracefulness and ease. Having this additional elasticity also makes it less likely that I will fall and injure myself, for I can adjust more quickly to missteps. I feel safer.

I have recently returned to playing the piano, something I had abandoned for years, feeling my fingers were too stiff to perform well. I am now playing, even doing scales, stretching my gnarled and arthritic fingers, giving them much needed exercise, and in the process rediscovering the pleasure of making music. The same principle applies to the voice lessons I have started. By vocalizing, I am exercising my stiffened and thickened vocal chords, and in doing so I hope to elongate them and make them more pliable which will in turn make my singing easier and more pleasing to the ear.

It occurs to me that just as I create a sense of spaciousness in my body, my fingers, and my vocal chords through these gentle exercises, I must also stretch my mind, thus making more room for unfamiliar concepts, for different ways of looking at life, as well as for improved skills in handling all the new technological devices that are currently so popular. In other words, I wish to find greater spaciousness in my thinking. I hope to learn to understand and accept a broader range of perspectives and ways of being in the world. This is not simple, for I live a very protected and insulated life, surrounded by material abundance and immersed in the love of family and friends. For the most part I share common political views and spiritual values with those close to me, a sharing which offers me constant comfort and support, and for that I am deeply grateful. So learning new skills and listening to new and challenging—and admittedly, sometimes distasteful—views requires a definite spaciousness of mind, one that I hope to acquire.

I am reminded of yet another area where spaciousness seems significant, and that is in the heart. When we hear that someone has a “big heart” we assume that person has room for kindness and love for a wide spectrum of humanity. Just as I feel my lungs expanding, making way for more air as I take in deep breaths during my yoga class (and in my voice exercises at home), so I can sense my heart expanding when I open it to feelings of compassion for others, especially for those unlike me—strangers or adversaries. Like yoga, this takes practice, so I am working towards developing a greater ability to open my heart to those I know, to those I don’t know, and to those with whom I have difficulties. This openness holds the rewards of reciprocity, but also involves the chance of occasional rejection and pain.

So, I must be open to all promises and possibilities as I aim for spaciousness—in my body, in my mind, and in my heart. It is a risk I am willing to take.

USEFUL GUIDELINES

2010-01-11T13:13:00.001-08:00

As those of you who know me are aware, I am deeply interested in the concept of religion and spirituality. Though brought up in the Southern Baptist tradition, I long ago recognized that I could not fit into that that system of beliefs. In fact, I find it difficult to subscribe to any dogma, and cannot join any institution that requires certainty of belief in something that in my view is unknowable. (I therefore am particularly impressed with the vow in item two below.) There is a vastness and a mystery regarding ultimate purpose and meaning that is beyond our human understanding. Furthermore, I do not like the term “commandments.” It implies that some religious authority is “in command” and that I must adhere to whatever is being ordered. In contrast, I see spirituality as an ongoing practice; I continually strive to behave in ways that are constructive to my own development and that do no harm to others. As in all human endeavors, sometimes I fail, but that does not negate the effort.

Anyway, though I do not like the term, and though I do not understand the meaning of the initial statement “God is the source of liberation,” I find these ten “commandments” written by a rabbi influenced by a Buddhist to be useful guidelines as I try to live a life of psychological health and spiritual fulfillment. In that sense I am sharing them with all of you.

The Ten Commandments
By Rabbi Rami Shapiro as inspired by Thich Nhat Hahn

1. God is the source of liberation. Aware of the suffering caused by enslavement to things and ideas, I vow to free myself from all addictions and compulsive behaviors, both material and spiritual.

2. God cannot be named. Aware of the suffering caused by gods created in our own image for our own profit, I vow to recognize all ideas about God as products of human beings, bound by history and circumstance and forever incapable of defining the Reality Beyond Naming.

3. God cannot be owned. Aware of the suffering caused by the misuse of God and religion in the quest of power, I vow to liberate myself from all ideologies that demonize others, and to honor only those teachings that uphold the freedom and dignity of woman, man, and nature.

4. Remember the Sabbath. Aware of the suffering caused by slavish attachment to work, consumption, and technology, I vow to set aside the Sabbath as a day of personal freedom, creativity, and play.

5. Honor your parents. Aware of the suffering caused by old age, I vow to care for my parents to the best of my ability and to promote the dignity and well-being of all elderly people.

6. Do not murder. Aware of the suffering caused by the wanton destruction of life, I vow to cultivate respect and gentleness toward all beings.

7. Avoid sexual misconduct. Aware of the suffering caused by sexual irresponsibility, I vow to honor human sexuality and never degrade it through violence, ignorance, selfishness, or deceit.

8. Do not steal. Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, injustice, theft, and oppression, I vow to respect the property of others, to work for the just sharing of resources, and to cultivate generosity in myself and my community.

9. Do not lie. Aware of the suffering caused by harmful speech, I vow to speak truthfully and with compassion, to avoid gossip and slander, and to refrain from uttering words that cause needless division or discord.

10. Do not covet. Aware of the suffering caused by endless desire, I vow to live simply and avoid debt, to enjoy what I have before seeking to have more, and to labor for what I desire, honestly and justly.

Looking Back at 2009

2010-01-01T08:01:00.000-08:00

It was in January a year ago that I posted my last blog. I am not sure why I have been so negligent, but perhaps it is because I had an unusual period of illness which made me feel as if I was living through a haze of malaise and lethargy, though actually, now that I look back, it was an eventful and rewarding year, filled with travel, visits from grandchildren, preparation and presentation of a lecture and workshop, and the establishment of new routines. Somehow things look different in retrospect.

It was, most significantly, a year of travel. I was in California four times—twice in San Francisco, once in San Diego and once in Santa Barbara—and also in Washington, D.C. But the most exciting trips were to Europe—twice! I had never imagined I would go abroad again, thinking I am much too old, but when the circumstances arose, how could I refuse? The first occasion was in June when Laura and Dan most generously invited me to accompany them and their family to the south of France.

I was concerned that I might be a hindrance in that my energy would not be sufficient to keep up with my younger travel companions. But I was amazed—and pleased—to find that I could climb up those steep hills in Provence and neighboring regions without too much huffing. We drove through beautiful countryside, saw impressive art, and ate fabulous food. Coming home after each day’s outing to a lovely villa overlooking the Mediterranean was an additional pleasure. It was an absolutely wonderful trip. I was in such a calm and centered mood that my family began referring to me as a “Zen traveler.” I am not sure I deserved the title, but it is true that I was never rattled or impatient. I felt blessed to be alive and to be with those I love. Finding such serenity in the midst of the inevitable challenges of travel was a gift of lasting value.

The second European trip was in late October when I accompanied Jenny, Rocky, and Rebecca to Italy where Nick was studying for a semester at New York University’s campus in Florence. We stayed in a lovely, spacious apartment, conveniently located near the center of the city, though it was on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Again I was worried, wondering whether my eighty-one-year-old legs could carry me up all those steps, but again was pleased to learn that I could walk miles each day through the beautiful streets of Florence and still make it up those flights of stairs. (I guess it is time to face the fact that I have far more stamina than I had thought.) In addition to visiting with Nick and seeing his campus, we took in many of the historical and esthetic sights of Florence, traveled into the lovely Tuscan countryside, ate fantastic meals and drank copious amounts of good Italian wine. Again, sharing this experience with members of my family was deeply gratifying.

Another highlight for me this year past was when I was asked by the St. Louis Jung Society to give a weekend lecture and workshop on aging. This is a topic that I have done considerable thinking about (and experienced) so I welcomed the chance to present some of my ideas to an audience. The energy reflected back to me the night of the lecture wiped away all my nervousness and made my presentation seem effortless. The attendance was much better than anticipated: the largest number of persons attended the evening lecture than any previously given at the society, indicating that this is indeed a timely subject. On Saturday there was a smaller group of enthusiastic, engaged, and responsive women who participated in the workshop. The entire weekend was an intensely satisfying experience.

Throughout the year I was blessed with visits from my grandchildren. Each one has managed to spend some time with me—a great blessing in my life. I suppose every grandmother thinks her grandchildren are exceptional, but I have good reason to make that claim! Each one—Carolyn, Rebecca, Jessica, Rachel, Nick, and you too Raven—is interesting and thoughtful; each has good, fundamental ethical and moral values; and each possesses a distinctive outlook enriched with special talents. They are still finding their way in the world so I am privileged to watch and participate in their lives as they grow into full adulthood. I enjoy their company and learn from my conversations and interactions with them. They make me very happy.

In contrast to these uplifting occasions, in February I came down with a rather severe case of flu—fever, congestion, gastro-intestinal upset, and general fatigue which lasted for days. I slowly recovered from most of the symptoms, but the gastro-intestinal difficulties persisted for months, until finally in August I consented to a colonoscopy (a rather traumatic event, but that is another story). The resulting biopsies indicated that I had microscopic colitis, a condition that has slowly improved and now—finally!—seems to be healed. In some strange way, this illness was a valuable lesson, helping prepare me for the inevitability of physical decline as I grow older, and also allowing me to practice acceptance. One effect of the illness, and an unexpected benefit, was a diminishment of appetite, causing me to lose about twenty pounds, so I am now at a healthier weight, one I shall try to maintain.

In keeping with my resolve to remain healthy, I have undertaken a daily regimen of at least twenty minutes each of meditation, yoga, and time on my elliptical machine. The discipline is good for me, helps sustain my strength and flexibility, and allows me to cultivate a more relaxed, but energized, outlook on life. Recently I have added to that daily schedule practice time at the piano. One of my intentions for the coming year, in addition to writing more frequently on my blog, is to begin taking piano and voice lessons—a renewal of old interests and skills that had fallen into disuse. I find that making music is good for the soul.

As this New Year begins, I overflow with gratitude, for I am extraordinarily blessed with abundance—of experiences, of pleasures, of family, of friends, of life. Here is a passage from the Jewish Gates of Prayer, one that seems especially appropriate as I move further into the ultimate stage of my life:

Let us treasure the time we have, and resolve to use it well,
counting each moment precious—a chance to apprehend some truth,
to experience some beauty, to conquer some evil,
to relieve some suffering, to love and be loved,
to achieve something of lasting worth.

TO GO ON

2009-01-03T10:00:00.001-08:00

Why is it that I suddenly feel so, well, old? Is it because my knees are stiff and sore, is it because I get tired more easily, is it because others treat me with a certain solicitousness not offered before, or is it because I am truly entering a new stage of life that I have not yet fully embraced? In the past I have had no difficulty accepting shortcomings regarding my age, so it is somewhat surprising to find myself experiencing a vague discomfort in acknowledging my current limitations and in allowing the caring attention of others.

There is a balance to be found here—as in so many areas of life. I am eighty years old, so cannot expect to maintain the same level of flexibility and vigor that I enjoyed earlier. And yet I do not wish to surrender too soon to feelings of incapacity. Is it rude to reject offers of unneeded help? Or is it more polite to accept such offers, even knowing that I am perfectly capable of doing the task myself? Perhaps there is a middle way, a gracious way of acknowledging the kindness without accepting the implied inability. I also know it is important to learn to accept offers, or to seek help, when I have a genuine need. It is not wise to be too stubborn or too proud.

In an earlier blog, I wrote about the gifts of age, among which were the qualities of patience, acceptance, and detachment. As I try to come to terms with the diminishment of my physical strength and energy and yet honor my concurrent desire for self-sufficiency, it is apparent that these three traits are fundamental to finding the balance I seek. As I live into this ultimate stage of life, patience will be required—from and for myself as well as from those who genuinely care for me. I am, after all, learning a new way of living, which takes time. In addition, realistic acceptance of my present physical status is essential if I am to avoid being in complete denial regarding the conditions of advanced age. Detachment also provides a valuable perspective. When I can stand back and look with some measure of objectivity I can see more clearly my circumstances, and, I must admit, they are not bad!

Which brings me to a final important point, and that is a reminder to myself to be grateful for all I have, especially for my basically good health. My complaints are minor and manageable; while my blessings are major and contribute mightily to my well-being—in spite of feeling, well, old.

P.S. I just came across a poem by Liz Waldner in The New Yorker the final lines of which seem strangely appropriate, perhaps qualifying as a synchronicity:

I am old enough to understand
being willing

to go on is a great gift.

HOPE AND FEAR

2009-01-01T13:56:00.000-08:00

January 1, 2009: the beginning of a new year, a time when my heart is filled with equal parts of hope and fear for our country. The hope springs from what will take place on January 20, when Barack Obama is to be inaugurated. This historic occasion brings forth an enormous sense of pride and joy, for having been brought up in the segregated South, I am especially moved—and astonished—that I should live to see an African-American become president of the United States. It is my deepest desire that he and his administration succeed in changing the direction and the agenda of our nation quickly and decisively. We are all aware of how desperately we need that shift, for the past eight years have been disastrous—politically, militarily, economically, and perhaps most significantly, morally.

My fear is that the magnitude of the problems facing our new president will be overwhelming, that the deepening economic recession will reach catastrophic proportions, that we will be drawn into more wars, that our moral leadership on the world stage has been damaged permanently and irreparably. It is my fear that we as a people will become impatient with the inevitable slow pace of change and that we will succumb to hopelessness and despair.

I am struck by parallel feelings regarding my own life. As I enter my ninth decade, both hope and fear reside within me, in almost equivalent shares. This new stage offers changes and challenges, and it is my hope I can face them with courage and good humor, and that I can apply my own recommended measures of acceptance, patience, and detachment. My fear is that, without the specific events, deadlines, or goals such as I had last year, I shall fall into lethargy or ennui, failing to find the kind of stimulation and motivation I seem to need. I too fear falling into hopelessness and despair.

This past year was a momentous one for me. Norm died in March, making me a widow. Had he made it a few more months—until September—we would have been married for sixty years. His death, though not totally unexpected, still left a big vacancy in my life and in my heart. In August I celebrated my eightieth birthday with a glorious party. I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment when I presented my book, Leafings and Branchings, to my family and friends. At present I have no similar projects to complete nor do I anticipate such significant landmarks this coming year. (Though we never know, do we?)

Last year at this time, I wrote that my intention for the coming year was to be kind. I have tried mightily to fulfill that intention, though I certainly have had some lapses. This year I wish to focus on maintaining hope, on not allowing fear to overcome my natural optimism regarding both the future of our country and my own personal fate. Since it is my belief that our thoughts have power, I intend to make every effort to think hopeful thoughts and thus add to the possibility of a kindler, gentler world and a full, satisfying experience as I continue to live into this late stage of my life.

I close with a quote from one of Norm’s heroes, Albert Einstein: “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”

After Eighty

2008-11-12T06:44:00.001-08:00

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

2008-10-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T12:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T12:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T12:30:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-10T12:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T09:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-21T19:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-04T07:26:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-16T16:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-08T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-02-21T16:35:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-29T06:58:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-17T19:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-16T07:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-09T17:47:00.001-08:00

My grandchildren...

I AM AN OLD WOMAN

2008-01-05T21:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

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.

INTENTIONS

2007-12-31T07:25:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of the year 2007. Ten years ago, in 1997 at age 69, I entered graduate school at Pacifica Graduate Institute in a program called Mythological Studies (with an emphasis in Depth Psychology). Five years later, in 2002, I was awarded a PhD. Those were extremely rewarding and enriching years, and I have benefited from my studies at Pacifica enormously, though not in any perceivable outward way. I did not launch myself into a new career, nor have I produced any scholarly works. I have, however, attempted (though sometimes failed spectacularly) to integrate my knowledge and my insights into my everyday life.

As the past ten years have been for me a trajectory of learning and growing intellectually and spiritually, for my husband of 59 years, the past decade has marked a decline into dementia. It seems a cruel irony that just as I began my exploration of academic fields such as mythology, anthropology, comparative religion, and depth psychology, Norm began to lose his memory and his cognitive abilities. I was sadly deprived of an opportunity to share with my mate the excitement of my studies. Instead I have had to draw on my inner strength, my love, and my patience, in ways I could never have imagined.

So, how do I greet this next decade, or--more realistically--this next year? New Year's Eve celebrations have always seemed to me to be occasions of forced gaiety, whereas this time of year might more appropriately be used as a time for quiet reflection and contemplation and as an opportunity to look back with the wisdom of hindsight and forward with a measure of hope. I no longer compose a list of resolutions, for too often they only remind me of my inability to fulfill them over a sustained period of time. But what I think is appropriate on this last day of 2007 is to state a simple intention, which is this: I shall endeavor to always be kind. If each of us could remember this simple rule, surely the world would be a better place.

I am reminded of a poem by the ancient Persian poet Hafiz, which addresses this very point:

It happens all the time in heaven,

And some day

It will begin to happen

Again on earth--

That men and women who are married,

And men and men who are

Lovers

And women and women

Who give each other

Light

Often will get down on their knees

And while so tenderly

Holding their lover's hand,

With tears in their eyes,

Will sincerely speak, saying,

"My dear,

How can I be more loving to you;

How can I be more

Kind?"

HALCYON DAYS

2007-12-30T18:46:00.000-08:00

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!

---Walt Whitman (at age seventy)