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!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
PRESENTATION OF MY BOOK TO MY FAMILY
When I was in my late seventies I decided to write a book about my life and have it ready to present to family and friends on the occasion of my eightieth birthday. Though I had allowed my daughters to read the text before publishing, no one had seen the completed book until the evening of August 22, 2008, when we gathered for a special family ritual honoring my birthday. I had sewed special cloth coverings for each book I handed out, so everyone waited until I had finished with my presentations to remove the casing. These are the remarks I made to my family:
This book is my gift to all of you. It is dedicated to my daughters, my grandchildren, and to all their children and grandchildren yet to be born, that they may know something of my life—my interests, my values, my beliefs, and my loves.
I have lived an extraordinary life, blessed and enriched in ways I never could have imagined as I grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in North Carolina. That poor, often sad and deprived, little farm girl still lives within me, but she now has the company of many other happier, more fulfilled, and more loved sisters in my psyche. The title, “Leafings and Branchings,” represents the abundant, spreading limbs on the tree of my life, and the subtitle, “Memories of My Many Lives,” reflects the multitude of sub-personalities that reside within this one bodily frame.
On this, a celebration of my eightieth birthday, I am especially grateful to all of you—my family—for you are, and have been, the central core of my life. When I ran away from home at age eighteen I essentially cut ties with my original family, losing touch for many years with my parents and my brothers, and never really feeling a part of their world again. In some ways, that was freeing, especially given my parents’ often hostile feelings toward Norm and me, but then I had to figure out how to create a proper emotional and caring environment for my own family. Since my mother did not provide me with a good role model for mothering or for family unity, I had to improvise, and although I had help from Norm, I often got it wrong. I made too many mistakes to enumerate, and for all my false ideas and faulty judgments over the years I ask your forgiveness. I must admit, however, that in spite of my frequent blunders, things have not turned out too badly! All of you instill in me a sense of deep pride and joy. I never imagined that I would be so fortunate or that I would end up with such an accomplished and loving family.
Before I address each of you, I wish us to take a moment to remember Norm. Needless to say, none of this could have happened without him. I wish he could be here with us in person, so I could express to him my appreciation for all he gave us. I have confidence that his spirit hovers around us this evening. To you, Norm. Thank you for helping guide and nurture this wonderful family of ours.
Laurie, since you were our first child, you were perhaps the one to suffer most from my lack of experience and expertise. It has been said that birth and death allow for no rehearsals, and I would say the same for motherhood. One enters into it with no prior knowledge, and since I did not have a mother to turn to for help, I was especially ignorant. I sought guidance from books, a rather poor alternative, especially since they offered little in terms of how to deal with such fundamental issues as how to provide love and comfort. I wanted desperately to be a good mother, different than my own, but too often I failed to meet my own standards. In spite of my failings, however, you have done extremely well. You are an educated and proficient woman, a loving and attentive mother, and a talented writer. You were a skilled lobbyist for charter schools, and continue to be a well-informed (though highly opinionated!) political junkie. You faced a serious illness with grit and courage. I am proud of all that you are and all that you have done. I especially wish to thank you for your patience with my missteps and for your kindness in including me in your life. This book is for you.
Jenny, you were next. There is an old joke that says if you want a perfect child, have three and throw the first two away, another illustration of how little we as new parents know and how much we learn from each child. You arrived so quickly after Laurie—less than two years—that I really did not have much time for developing great insights into child-rearing. But your placid nature helped make it easier and your entirely different way of being added to my learning curve. I was made aware of how each child has her own distinctive characteristics, from the day of birth onward. You too managed to overcome my shortcomings as a mother. You were determined from an early age to be independent, so you made your own way through graduate school, and made your own decisions with careful thought and planning. You arranged your career so you could be at home with your children. In your writing, you focused on your lifelong interest in family issues. Later, you created the nonprofit organization that represents much of your outlook on life—doing good for others. I congratulate you for your accomplishments and thank you for all you have given me and taught me. I also ask forgiveness for the times I have hurt you. This is for you.
Dan, though you arrived in our family relatively recently, you have surely become a most valued member of our little group. You faced some formidable challenges when you married Laura. Becoming an instant step father to two young women who already had their ideas about how to do things had to have been a confusing, demanding, and sometimes frustrating role for you. But you adjusted admirably, even, it seems, eagerly, and you have been accepting, accommodating, and generous in helping guide them during some of their most formative years. As if that weren’t enough, you were then faced with the trauma of Laura’s illness, a terrible time for all of us. We are all grateful for your professional advocacy and for the personal devotion you displayed during those difficult times. In addition, I wish to thank you for the expert advice and technical information, as well as the muscle power, you so kindly provide me when I need help. I am especially appreciative that you are willing to live only a few blocks away, for that gives me a great sense of security. This copy is for you.
Rocky, just as I can say of Dan, you have a special place in my heart because of your love of and devotion to my daughter and to my grandchildren. You have taught them skills and exposed them to experiences they would never have had without your interests and your guidance. That is especially true regarding sports, from ice skating to baseball to tennis to golf to water skiing. You were an excellent teacher and set a good example for them, not just in how to become good athletes, but also in how to be good sports. You also chose a life style that allowed you to spend valuable time with your family, a great gift to them as they were growing up. My one complaint is that you chose to settle in Minneapolis. It is indeed a beautiful city, and I realize it was always home for you, but had you lived closer I would have had more opportunities to take part in the lives of your family. I did not get to see all you as often as I would have liked. Still, I know that I can call on you when I am in need and for that I am grateful. This book is for you.
Now to the next generation.
Carolyn, we were thrilled when you arrived—our first grandchild. I remember going to Philadelphia to stay with your parents for a couple of weeks, helping reassure them, doing household chores so your Mom could get some rest, and also on occasion offering advice, though I tried hard to wait until I was asked. I also was then just getting involved with photography so you were a perfect subject. I thought your fingers and toes and belly button and bottom, not to mention your sweet face, were the most exquisite and perfect ones every to appear on this earth, and I wanted to capture every part of you on film. I was delighted when your Mom and Dad moved to St. Louis, for then I got to watch you grow into a highly intelligent, generous-hearted, loving, socially aware, gifted young woman—the latest achievement being a PhD from Harvard. Being witness to all that has given me great joy. Thank you for being such a beautiful soul. This book is yours.
Rebecca, luckily your parents lived in St. Louis when you were born, so you have been a part of my life from your first days. Your Mom was so exhausted after your birth—she did not remain in the hospital for some much needed rest—that I was the one to take you back there for something related to your bilirubin count, either testing or treatments, I’m not sure which. Anyway, we were bonded from the beginning. When you were little we had what you called our “dates,” when we would play or do special projects, and though of a different order now, I still treasure our times together. You have put your wide range of organizational talents, innovative energies, and aesthetic tastes into an extraordinary global endeavor—that of helping women in developing countries establish themselves in their own businesses. I applaud you for the hard work you have put into creating Nest. Thank you for your vision, for your dedication, and for your love. Here is your copy.
Jessica, I went to Chicago to help your parents when you were born. They lived in this bug-infested apartment, and I slept fitfully on a pull-out couch with the springs poking through, so I was a bit alarmed when your Mom said she would be happy to live there forever! Nevertheless, I loved getting acquainted with you, and by the end of my stay had taken you—at all of two weeks old—to the Greenhouse at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, thus introducing you to one of my favorite spots in Chicago. When, a couple of years ago, you went with me there—as well as to other top quality restaurants—you had developed a highly cultivated taste for wholesome food and good wine. That gastronomical interest is one you have pursued on many levels, including preparing some lovely meals for me, and most recently in your work with the slow food movement. You also have great artistic talent which you have demonstrated with your creative projects and with your book art. I am especially grateful for your help with my book. Your cover design is what makes it the beautiful volume it is. Thank you very much. This is yours.
Rachel, you were Minnesota born and Minnesota bred, and you certainly exhibit the values and training so lovingly given you by your parents. Having recently completed your undergraduate degree, you are now pausing before you take the next step into your adult life. What is obvious is that you have a highly developed social conscience, a love of children, and a deep empathy for those less fortunate than you. Your studies regarding women’s issues and your work with disadvantaged families demonstrate your dedication to causes that receive all too little attention in our culture. Though I have not seen nearly as much of you as I would like, the times we have spent together have been delightful. You are an excellent conversationalist, for you have not only the ability to ask good questions, but also the capacity for active listening, a rare skill. And you have that most welcome of gifts—a marvelous sense of humor. In that way you remind me of Papa. I look forward to seeing how your life continues to unfold. This copy is for you.
Nick, being the youngest grandchild and the only boy gives you a special place in our family. But, since those were not conditions chosen by you, they are not really the reasons that make you special as a human being. During this past academic year, while you were a student at Washington U., I had the joy of getting to know you much better and of observing your interaction with others. I was greatly impressed—with your maturity, with your discipline, with your intelligence, and with your integrity. Unlike many young persons, you are able to transcend barriers, relating with ease to others regardless of age, or gender, or social standing, or outlook. Having you here in St. Louis last year was not only an enormous blessing for me but also for Norm in the last months of his life. He had a strong connection with you, and I hope that will always remain in your memories and in your heart. I know that whatever your future holds, he would have been proud. This book is yours.
Raven, I do not have quite the same history with you that I have with my grandchildren, since I did not know you from your early childhood, and yet you are firmly ensconced in our family circle. We love you of course because of your love for Carolyn, but you have also brought us other gifts. I especially appreciate that you have widened my literary horizons with your writing and your poetry. I also find your playfulness a marvelous attribute—one that counters my own more serious nature. The time we had together traveling through Italy, and the visits I have had with you and Carolyn provide me with many wonderful memories, of which some of the greatest are our engaging and stimulating conversations. I feel privileged to benefit from your wide-ranging knowledge and interests. I also am deeply impressed with your courage and tenacity in overcoming a potentially destructive addiction. You deserve enormous credit for that, and I salute you. With my love and respect, this book is for you.
In closing, I wish to thank all of you for this special occasion. You have warmed my heart, made me proud, replenished my soul, and filled me with joy. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
This book is my gift to all of you. It is dedicated to my daughters, my grandchildren, and to all their children and grandchildren yet to be born, that they may know something of my life—my interests, my values, my beliefs, and my loves.
I have lived an extraordinary life, blessed and enriched in ways I never could have imagined as I grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in North Carolina. That poor, often sad and deprived, little farm girl still lives within me, but she now has the company of many other happier, more fulfilled, and more loved sisters in my psyche. The title, “Leafings and Branchings,” represents the abundant, spreading limbs on the tree of my life, and the subtitle, “Memories of My Many Lives,” reflects the multitude of sub-personalities that reside within this one bodily frame.
On this, a celebration of my eightieth birthday, I am especially grateful to all of you—my family—for you are, and have been, the central core of my life. When I ran away from home at age eighteen I essentially cut ties with my original family, losing touch for many years with my parents and my brothers, and never really feeling a part of their world again. In some ways, that was freeing, especially given my parents’ often hostile feelings toward Norm and me, but then I had to figure out how to create a proper emotional and caring environment for my own family. Since my mother did not provide me with a good role model for mothering or for family unity, I had to improvise, and although I had help from Norm, I often got it wrong. I made too many mistakes to enumerate, and for all my false ideas and faulty judgments over the years I ask your forgiveness. I must admit, however, that in spite of my frequent blunders, things have not turned out too badly! All of you instill in me a sense of deep pride and joy. I never imagined that I would be so fortunate or that I would end up with such an accomplished and loving family.
Before I address each of you, I wish us to take a moment to remember Norm. Needless to say, none of this could have happened without him. I wish he could be here with us in person, so I could express to him my appreciation for all he gave us. I have confidence that his spirit hovers around us this evening. To you, Norm. Thank you for helping guide and nurture this wonderful family of ours.
Laurie, since you were our first child, you were perhaps the one to suffer most from my lack of experience and expertise. It has been said that birth and death allow for no rehearsals, and I would say the same for motherhood. One enters into it with no prior knowledge, and since I did not have a mother to turn to for help, I was especially ignorant. I sought guidance from books, a rather poor alternative, especially since they offered little in terms of how to deal with such fundamental issues as how to provide love and comfort. I wanted desperately to be a good mother, different than my own, but too often I failed to meet my own standards. In spite of my failings, however, you have done extremely well. You are an educated and proficient woman, a loving and attentive mother, and a talented writer. You were a skilled lobbyist for charter schools, and continue to be a well-informed (though highly opinionated!) political junkie. You faced a serious illness with grit and courage. I am proud of all that you are and all that you have done. I especially wish to thank you for your patience with my missteps and for your kindness in including me in your life. This book is for you.
Jenny, you were next. There is an old joke that says if you want a perfect child, have three and throw the first two away, another illustration of how little we as new parents know and how much we learn from each child. You arrived so quickly after Laurie—less than two years—that I really did not have much time for developing great insights into child-rearing. But your placid nature helped make it easier and your entirely different way of being added to my learning curve. I was made aware of how each child has her own distinctive characteristics, from the day of birth onward. You too managed to overcome my shortcomings as a mother. You were determined from an early age to be independent, so you made your own way through graduate school, and made your own decisions with careful thought and planning. You arranged your career so you could be at home with your children. In your writing, you focused on your lifelong interest in family issues. Later, you created the nonprofit organization that represents much of your outlook on life—doing good for others. I congratulate you for your accomplishments and thank you for all you have given me and taught me. I also ask forgiveness for the times I have hurt you. This is for you.
Dan, though you arrived in our family relatively recently, you have surely become a most valued member of our little group. You faced some formidable challenges when you married Laura. Becoming an instant step father to two young women who already had their ideas about how to do things had to have been a confusing, demanding, and sometimes frustrating role for you. But you adjusted admirably, even, it seems, eagerly, and you have been accepting, accommodating, and generous in helping guide them during some of their most formative years. As if that weren’t enough, you were then faced with the trauma of Laura’s illness, a terrible time for all of us. We are all grateful for your professional advocacy and for the personal devotion you displayed during those difficult times. In addition, I wish to thank you for the expert advice and technical information, as well as the muscle power, you so kindly provide me when I need help. I am especially appreciative that you are willing to live only a few blocks away, for that gives me a great sense of security. This copy is for you.
Rocky, just as I can say of Dan, you have a special place in my heart because of your love of and devotion to my daughter and to my grandchildren. You have taught them skills and exposed them to experiences they would never have had without your interests and your guidance. That is especially true regarding sports, from ice skating to baseball to tennis to golf to water skiing. You were an excellent teacher and set a good example for them, not just in how to become good athletes, but also in how to be good sports. You also chose a life style that allowed you to spend valuable time with your family, a great gift to them as they were growing up. My one complaint is that you chose to settle in Minneapolis. It is indeed a beautiful city, and I realize it was always home for you, but had you lived closer I would have had more opportunities to take part in the lives of your family. I did not get to see all you as often as I would have liked. Still, I know that I can call on you when I am in need and for that I am grateful. This book is for you.
Now to the next generation.
Carolyn, we were thrilled when you arrived—our first grandchild. I remember going to Philadelphia to stay with your parents for a couple of weeks, helping reassure them, doing household chores so your Mom could get some rest, and also on occasion offering advice, though I tried hard to wait until I was asked. I also was then just getting involved with photography so you were a perfect subject. I thought your fingers and toes and belly button and bottom, not to mention your sweet face, were the most exquisite and perfect ones every to appear on this earth, and I wanted to capture every part of you on film. I was delighted when your Mom and Dad moved to St. Louis, for then I got to watch you grow into a highly intelligent, generous-hearted, loving, socially aware, gifted young woman—the latest achievement being a PhD from Harvard. Being witness to all that has given me great joy. Thank you for being such a beautiful soul. This book is yours.
Rebecca, luckily your parents lived in St. Louis when you were born, so you have been a part of my life from your first days. Your Mom was so exhausted after your birth—she did not remain in the hospital for some much needed rest—that I was the one to take you back there for something related to your bilirubin count, either testing or treatments, I’m not sure which. Anyway, we were bonded from the beginning. When you were little we had what you called our “dates,” when we would play or do special projects, and though of a different order now, I still treasure our times together. You have put your wide range of organizational talents, innovative energies, and aesthetic tastes into an extraordinary global endeavor—that of helping women in developing countries establish themselves in their own businesses. I applaud you for the hard work you have put into creating Nest. Thank you for your vision, for your dedication, and for your love. Here is your copy.
Jessica, I went to Chicago to help your parents when you were born. They lived in this bug-infested apartment, and I slept fitfully on a pull-out couch with the springs poking through, so I was a bit alarmed when your Mom said she would be happy to live there forever! Nevertheless, I loved getting acquainted with you, and by the end of my stay had taken you—at all of two weeks old—to the Greenhouse at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, thus introducing you to one of my favorite spots in Chicago. When, a couple of years ago, you went with me there—as well as to other top quality restaurants—you had developed a highly cultivated taste for wholesome food and good wine. That gastronomical interest is one you have pursued on many levels, including preparing some lovely meals for me, and most recently in your work with the slow food movement. You also have great artistic talent which you have demonstrated with your creative projects and with your book art. I am especially grateful for your help with my book. Your cover design is what makes it the beautiful volume it is. Thank you very much. This is yours.
Rachel, you were Minnesota born and Minnesota bred, and you certainly exhibit the values and training so lovingly given you by your parents. Having recently completed your undergraduate degree, you are now pausing before you take the next step into your adult life. What is obvious is that you have a highly developed social conscience, a love of children, and a deep empathy for those less fortunate than you. Your studies regarding women’s issues and your work with disadvantaged families demonstrate your dedication to causes that receive all too little attention in our culture. Though I have not seen nearly as much of you as I would like, the times we have spent together have been delightful. You are an excellent conversationalist, for you have not only the ability to ask good questions, but also the capacity for active listening, a rare skill. And you have that most welcome of gifts—a marvelous sense of humor. In that way you remind me of Papa. I look forward to seeing how your life continues to unfold. This copy is for you.
Nick, being the youngest grandchild and the only boy gives you a special place in our family. But, since those were not conditions chosen by you, they are not really the reasons that make you special as a human being. During this past academic year, while you were a student at Washington U., I had the joy of getting to know you much better and of observing your interaction with others. I was greatly impressed—with your maturity, with your discipline, with your intelligence, and with your integrity. Unlike many young persons, you are able to transcend barriers, relating with ease to others regardless of age, or gender, or social standing, or outlook. Having you here in St. Louis last year was not only an enormous blessing for me but also for Norm in the last months of his life. He had a strong connection with you, and I hope that will always remain in your memories and in your heart. I know that whatever your future holds, he would have been proud. This book is yours.
Raven, I do not have quite the same history with you that I have with my grandchildren, since I did not know you from your early childhood, and yet you are firmly ensconced in our family circle. We love you of course because of your love for Carolyn, but you have also brought us other gifts. I especially appreciate that you have widened my literary horizons with your writing and your poetry. I also find your playfulness a marvelous attribute—one that counters my own more serious nature. The time we had together traveling through Italy, and the visits I have had with you and Carolyn provide me with many wonderful memories, of which some of the greatest are our engaging and stimulating conversations. I feel privileged to benefit from your wide-ranging knowledge and interests. I also am deeply impressed with your courage and tenacity in overcoming a potentially destructive addiction. You deserve enormous credit for that, and I salute you. With my love and respect, this book is for you.
In closing, I wish to thank all of you for this special occasion. You have warmed my heart, made me proud, replenished my soul, and filled me with joy. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
AT AGE EIGHTY: SOME INSIGHTS
At a recent family celebration of my eightieth birthday (which was August 20), I was asked to impart some “words of wisdom” to my grandchildren. I found that daunting, so decided instead to share a few experiences and some of the insights I have acquired in my long life. During the recent Summer Olympics held in Beijing, we learned that, for the Chinese at least, eight is a lucky number. So, since I have now lived for eight decades, am eighty years old, and August is the eighth month, I talked about eight events or pursuits that were especially significant for me. Of course, there are many more, for life is one continuous learning experience, but here are a few of the highlights.
1. First, running away from home at age eighteen—another eight!—because of my love for my husband Norm was probably the single most crucial event of my life, and was perhaps the most risky, for I was completely without any financial or family resources and faced a very uncertain future. Looking back on it, I can see that I had a lot of what might be called foolish courage, but that audacity altered the course of my life, even though I paid a high price—separation from my family, which brought me considerable anguish. Still, I’m thankful I took that leap into the unknown, for I cannot imagine what my life might have been had I not done so. Could I have remained in Smithfield, North Carolina? I don’t think so! Sometimes it’s smart to follow your heart.
2. After we married and graduated from Washington U, Norm and I went to graduate school at the University of Iowa where we got masters degrees. Following that I worked as director of a preschool for handicapped children for a couple of years before I got pregnant. It did not occur to me to continue working, for at that time being full-time wife and mother seemed my only choice. While I knew next to nothing about mothering, I worked at it and was happy having children to love and nurture. And I was good at being a homemaker; I enjoyed the creative aspects of cooking and sewing and gardening and entertaining. I was, of course, not totally fulfilled with having only domestic chores to occupy me, so later I taught part time at St. Joseph Institute for the Deaf, but there is much to be said for the pleasures found in making a comfortable and attractive environment for one’s family. I was, and am, a natural Hestia, a woman of the hearth and home.
3. Having said that, I decided after my daughters Laurie and Jenny left for college to develop some non-domestic interests. Discovering the artistic possibilities of photography was a huge step for me. I developed an eye for composition, mastered technical procedures, and learned to express my emotions in a visual medium. In short, I became an artist. The years I devoted to photography were both productive and profoundly meaningful. Without any conscious awareness of what I was doing, I explored some of my deepest feelings, conflicts, and sorrows, and thereby produced some photographs that were both psychologically evocative and esthetically pleasing. This work also gave me an identity beyond that of mother and homemaker, an important step for me.
4. During those years taking, processing, and showing my photographs, I cultivated other interests as well. For one, I became fascinated with ritual, and began doing ceremonies with a group of women. Soon I also shared this activity with the family when we got together for Thanksgiving holidays at Webb Lake, at spring-times down in Sanibel, and on other important occasions. I loved those gatherings, when my grandchildren played dress-up, did craft projects, found examples of the elements, and entered into discussions of our chosen topic. I feel those rituals strengthened our family ties, helped us think more deeply, gave us a chance to explore metaphorical language, and encouraged creativity. I especially relished the coming-of-age rituals when we focused on each child, celebrating his or her uniqueness, and recognizing the important transition from childhood to adulthood. For me these were powerful times and I treasure those memories.
5. During the early and middle years of my marriage I suffered terribly from depression. Those periods of despair and sorrow depleted my energy and drained joy from my life, so I finally decided to address some of my own psychological issues. Much of my sadness had to do with unresolved problems with my parents, especially my mother, but I also was not happy with the relationship I had with Norm. I wanted to be treated with more respect and equality. Entering analysis with Lucy Klein, a Jungian analyst in Chicago, when I was in my early sixties was one of the best decisions I ever made. Though the sessions were often distressing and sometimes discouraging, I learned to face some of my demons, my fears, my conflicts, and my insecurities. Of course I continue to strive to be a better person, for we are never finished with our inner work, but slowly I was able to accept my failures, forgive my parents for theirs, and come to terms with the puzzles, pain, and pleasures of a good, but imperfect, marriage. I strongly believe that doing inner work by bringing awareness to our innermost feelings contributes to a happy and fulfilling life.
6. This leads me to the subject of relationships. Learning to live harmoniously with another human being from a different background, with a different life history, and with different needs is one of our greatest challenges, for it requires continuous communication, sustained negotiation, constant compromise, and a willingness to forgive past hurts. While building a strong, enduring relationship is not easy—it takes real work—it is enormously rewarding, for we can then reach beyond ourselves, broaden our horizons, and deepen our understanding of what love and commitment are about. There were times—even after forty-five years of marriage—when I thought I might leave Norm, but I am really glad that both of us made the effort to work through many of our differences and decided to overlook or live with those we could not resolve. I know that sometimes this is not possible and that it is wise to move on if there are basic incompatibilities and differences in outlook, but we should remember to value and to work at our relationships.
7. In order to build relationships that are lasting and loving, it is helpful to determine who we truly are. It sometimes takes courage to stand up to family expectations and cultural conventions, to follow our intuitions, and to accept our own special, maybe even peculiar, characteristics. As for me, it was not until I worked with Lucy that I began to get in touch with my own strengths, as well as weaknesses, and it was not until I was sixty-nine years old and entered a PhD program that I began to fully explore my intellectual capacities. I am not suggesting that you wait as long as I did, but it’s good to know that it is never too late to learn! Once we connect with our own authenticity and recognize our true character, then we are free to examine all possibilities and can lovingly acknowledge all our faults, all our idiosyncrasies, and all our gifts. We are also then able to accept the diverse characteristics of others and to have compassion for all human beings.
8. This brings me to number eight. As you know, I am not a follower of any particular religion, but I do feel that a spiritual outlook has added important dimensions to my life. Quite frankly, I am not sure exactly what I mean by that, except that having a sense of wonder and curiosity, asking questions and examining the deeper meaning of life, and looking within to ascertain how we are connected to others, to the world, and to the universe, all seem to be worthwhile pursuits. As we delve into the mysteries of life and death, we open our hearts and minds, and in some strange way that makes us better human beings. Though we cannot find definitive answers to the big questions, we can remember to treat each other with consideration, with compassion, with simple kindness. It is especially important to treat ourselves with the same respect and kindness we offer others, for we are just as deserving. Remember that each one of us is a vibrant, gifted, glorious, and lovable human being.
Thanks for listening. I love you all!
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!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
ELDER WISDOM
I love synchronicities. A few days ago I decided to try and write something about wisdom and old age, a topic that has interested me for some time. I hesitated, however, because for an old person like me to talk about wisdom carries some hazards, such as appearing to be self-serving, or sappy and sentimental, or overly optimistic about the aging process. Yet surely, I thought, there must be something to the widely held belief that some special astuteness can, and often does, grow out of an accumulation of life experience.
The morning following my decision to explore this subject, I was looking through the science section of The New York Times (May 20, 2008) when—to my surprise and delight—this headline caught my eye: Older Brain Really May Be a Wiser Brain. The fortuitous, synchronistic appearance of that article provided just the nudge I needed to proceed with my reflections.
The Times article was based on a book on neurology titled Progress in Brain Research which analyzed a number of studies on the aging brain. Recent advances in brain imaging techniques have made possible observing areas of the brain that correlate to various abilities, emotions, or states of mind. The findings of this research suggest that though it is true that older adults often have difficulty remembering specific bits of information, this is due largely to “a gradually widening focus of attention” that can diminish the ability to recall something like a name or a telephone number. This broadening of focus does not mean a decline in brainpower, but rather indicates that more information is being taken in, and is processed in a way that makes it available later, therefore contributing to problem solving in a variety of circumstances. One professor is quoted as saying that “there [is] a word for what results when the mind is able to assimilate data and put it in its proper place—wisdom.”
Elkhonon Goldberg, neuroscientist and author of The Wisdom Paradox: How Your Mind Can Grow Stronger as Your Brain Grows Older, explains that the aging brain displays certain changes that are advantageous to the elderly. He writes about the development over our life times of what he calls pattern-recognition, a facility which, despite some neurological decline, enables older adults to approach a broad range of unusual circumstances, issues, problems, and challenges, as if they were familiar. They can do this because of their ability to recognize and utilize patterns similar to ones encountered in the past.
Gene Cohen, another neuroscientist (The Mature Mind: The Positive Power of the Aging Brain), points out that older brains process information in a dramatically different way than younger brains. His research suggests that old people use both sides of the brain in an integrative manner to solve problems whereas young people tend to use only one side to accomplish their tasks. He also says that making wise choices or making wise decisions requires using both the logical and the intuitive, drawing on both the right and left hemispheres, acknowledging the contributions of both the head and the heart.
Cohen emphasizes that continual personal development is another important key to cultivating wisdom. In fact, he says that wisdom may be a synonym for what he calls developmental intelligence, which “reflects the maturing synergy of cognition, emotional intelligence, judgment, social skills, life experience, and consciousness.” He also describes wisdom as “deep knowledge used for the highest good,” thus adding to the word a moral component.
Ram Dass, author of Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing, and Dying and well-known American guru, insists that wisdom requires a spiritual dimension: “the emptying and quieting of the mind, the application of the heart, and the alchemy of reason and feeling. In the wisdom mode, we’re not processing information, analytically or sequentially. We’re standing back and viewing the whole, discerning what matters and what does not, weighing the meaning and depth of things.”
Though we seem to know it when we encounter it, wisdom is difficult to define. Experience and knowledge are certainly necessary, but it is the manner in which these qualities are integrated and applied that is of primary importance. When we meet someone of an advanced age who has intelligence, depth, compassion, a strong sense of self, an aura of calm and confidence, and who has not only benefited and learned from their own life’s experiences, but also has the motivation to share their insights with others, then we feel in the presence of wisdom. There is also implicit in the concept a sense of fairness, a lack of harsh judgment, an emotional balance, and a genuine concern for others. Wisdom integrates all aspects of the self, and requires an ability to be still, to be reflective, to stand back and look at the whole without being caught up in the minutiae of everyday events. Wisdom is as much a way of being as a way of thinking or behaving.
As I embrace my own old age, I hope to continue to develop those perspectives and characteristics that contribute to my intellectual growth, enhance my emotional stability, enrich my creativity, and foster my relationships. Some of the qualities that I particularly seek to expand and nourish are authenticity, patience, compassion, kindness, humility, humor, playfulness, confidence, acceptance, awareness, serenity, and optimism. To the degree I am successful they will surely add to my store of wisdom.
The last piece I posted on my blog had to do with grief. Interestingly, Ram Dass offers a connection between grief and wisdom: “When we cease to resist our grief … we learn that, painful though it may be, grief is an integral part of elder wisdom, a force that humbles and deepens our hearts, connects us to the grief of the world, and enables us to be of help.”
It has been said that wisdom is one of the few things in human life that does not diminish with age. I have often maintained that there are many unrecognized and unacknowledged advantages to being old. Perhaps the possibility of attaining wisdom is one of the greatest gifts of all.
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.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
GRIEF
When Norm died, now over a month ago, I had no idea how his death would affect me, for I felt I had been continuously grieving during all those years as he gradually fell away. I say “fell away” but that is not exactly right. It is true that his intellect dissolved, his anger disappeared, his anxiety abated, and his memory vanished into the mysterious vacuities that began to fill his brain. But he stayed close in the sense that he continued to show his love for me and for everyone in our family. If anything, he seemed more devoted than earlier in his life, perhaps because there were no longer any distractions, no longer a business to run, no philosophical quandaries to resolve, no scientific riddles to unravel, no books to write. Finally, when he was unable to read or to carry on an intelligible conversation, it was as if a simple expression of love was the only meaningful thing left. That seemed to be enough, for he was sublimely happy.
But once he was really, totally, physically gone, how was I to react? What was I to feel? In the days immediately following his death I relied on a huge rush of adrenaline. I called people, I sent emails, I got in supplies, I arranged for a memorial service, I spent time with family and friends. Later I wrote thank-you notes. I hardly cried at all. I became anxious about whether I was grieving properly (whatever that is), that maybe I was unfeeling and cold. I talked with my friend Sara who assured me that I should not hold myself to cultural attitudes and expectations, that I should find my own way to acknowledge my loss.
I began to understand that each death is in a sense unique and therefore each one creates its own sort of sorrow. A parent who faces the untimely death of a child surely has a vastly different kind of grief than an individual whose elderly, ill, and failing parent finally passes away. To lose a spouse is yet another kind of experience, but again the circumstances vary widely. If a husband or wife is suddenly killed in an accident, the shock of such an unexpected event sets off enormous psychic and somatic waves; merely grasping the sudden absence of a loved one is a challenge of inestimable magnitude. If, on the other hand, a mate is lost to a long illness and the surviving one is left with the overwhelming responsibilities of making a living and raising a family, extra burdens are added to the weight of grief.
My situation had its own particularities. Beginning a few days before his death Norm refused food or water, and as he slowly and peacefully slipped into a coma we as a family had ample time to say our good-byes. I knew he was dying, and I felt confident that somehow he had made that choice. So Norm’s death was not unexpected, nor untimely, nor painful. In many ways it was a beautiful, profound experience. I am not plagued with feelings of guilt or regret. I cared for him the best I could, visited him frequently once he was in residential care, and demonstrated my love with cheerful talk, gentle touching, and sweet kisses. In some ways, the sense of rightness that I have regarding his passing has eased my sorrow. But still, I am often awash with sadness. My eyes fill with tears when someone mentions his name. I have difficulty concentrating. I forget things. I tire more easily. I get impatient. My friend Susanna, who is a facilitator of grief groups, recently pointed out to me that these are all symptoms of grief.
Susanna gave me a copy of a poem by Denise Levertov titled Talking to Grief in which the poet likens grief to a homeless dog that is denied entrance into the house and is kept hidden under the porch. The poem ends with the lines “You need your name,/ your collar and tag./ You need the right to warn off intruders,/ to consider/ my house your own/ and me your person/ and yourself my own dog.” Something in that poem resonated with me, for in my desire to appear strong and in my recognition of the many positive aspects of Norm’s passage, I have in some ways attempted to banish grief from my house. I need to allow the dog of grief its place on my hearth.
Since I have long lamented the loss of the companionship and intellectual stimulation that I once shared with Norm, I wondered what it was exactly that I was freshly grieving. As I sat looking out on my garden last evening in the soft glow of twilight, I suddenly realized what it is. What I miss and mourn most is that there is no one now who loves me the way he did, no one who looks at me with such absolute adoration. I shall never again experience those deep, soul-filled, loving eyes fixed on mine, and that is a terrible loss.
I open my heart to grief.
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
KINDNESS
Last New Year’s Eve I wrote (and posted on my blog) a reflection about intentions. I said that my intention for 2008 is this: I shall always endeavor to be kind. Though I have made a real effort to live up to my intention, I have not always been successful. What I have experienced in full measure over the past few weeks following my husband’s death, however, is the kindness of others. It has been humbling for me to be the recipient of so many expressions and acts of thoughtfulness, compassion, and generosity.
I can offer many examples, but perhaps none so compelling as the care that was given Norm during the course of his illness by the staff at the residential facility where he lived for almost three years. I cannot think of many jobs that require the patience, understanding, and acceptance that these caregivers must possess. Dealing with patients who have dementia involves providing for the most intimate personal needs—bathing, feeding, dressing, and changing diapers. But it also requires a sense of humor and a quick mind, an ability to respond appropriately to sometimes extreme and absurd demands. Some patients can be agitated, hostile, or paranoid. Handling these irrational, sometimes threatening, behaviors is a huge challenge. Luckily, Norm remained sweet and happy and did not exhibit some of the more troubling symptoms that can afflict persons with Alzheimer’s disease, but during my frequent visits I observed endless acts of kindness by the staff toward patients who were confused, upset, angry, or often just depressed. These caregivers lavished their affection, even love, upon those they looked after, regardless of the severity of their condition. These remarkable women—and they were largely women—earned my unending respect and gratitude.
Then there were the volunteers and hospice workers. One volunteer came every week for months to visit with Norm, presenting him with small gifts, homemade cookies, occasionally even bringing her little dog for him to pet. One day she brought a book of Yiddish expressions which we read to Norm and which made him smile as he recalled the language his parents spoke as he was growing up. The hospice nurses, who made every effort to keep Norm comfortable during his final days, were unfailingly gentle, sweet, and loving. They also were responsive to our questions and sensitive to our needs as a family. They helped provide an atmosphere in which Norm’s death could take place painlessly and peacefully. They are a dedicated and devoted group.
The memorial service for Norm provided other examples of kindness. One of the sorrows we as a family have endured is the protracted loss of Norm as the person he once was. Over the decade of his illness, as we tried to be with him wherever and however he was at the moment, we slowly lost contact with the man he once had been. The trip our family made to La Jolla in November (see “A Fantasy Realized” on my blog) helped us recall many of his qualities, but the tributes read by family members and friends at the memorial service provided us with many more examples of the old Norm. We were reminded of his intelligence, his humor, his generosity, and the guidance and love he offered so many.
And the people who came! I had expected a small group, and had reserved what I considered an adequate space for the service. I obviously underestimated the impact my husband had on the lives of those who knew him. Not only did relatives and close friends come to honor his memory, but also former employees, business associates, professional contacts, neighbors, caregivers, hospice workers, and many others. There were not enough chairs. People had to stand in the back of the room; some could not get in at all and had to wait out in the hall. I am embarrassed not to have been aware of how much he was loved and respected by so many. I shall not forget the kindness of those who came to express their condolences.
The cards, the notes, the donations given in his memory, all have warmed my heart. The time and care so many have taken in writing of their memories and of their personal relationship with Norm is impressive. I had not known how meaningful these messages would be, but they have given me great comfort and have revived many of my own remembrances of our past together. It is a blessing to read such comments as: “I love Norm because of his ability to move from a rationalist viewpoint to a profoundly spiritual way of looking at the world”; “Norm was a ‘mensch’ and a profound thinker”; “How lucky we are to know his influence every day”; “Norman was one of the greatest human beings I’ve ever been lucky enough to know”; “His warmth, wit, intellect, and the twinkle in his eye will be missed by so many”; “Norm has had a profound impact on our lives”; “Norm achieved what we all pray for in this life, which is to leave a special mark upon this earth and to somehow make it better for having been here”; and on and on. I had not really appreciated how much positive influence he had on others, so I am grateful to have all these thoughts written down. They help keep alive the memory of the man I was married to for so long.
There are still other examples of kindness and generosity. There were fruit and cheese baskets delivered to us. There were beautiful flower arrangements that graced our home. One friend, a massage therapist, gave me a massage in the week following Norm’s death—a most welcome time of relaxation. The eulogies written and read at the service were especially moving, and the absolutely spectacular meal enjoyed by family and friends at our home after the memorial service was prepared, served, and donated by our very dear friend Tim—an extraordinarily generous gift.
So, a time of sorrow and loss has also been a time of healing, of rejoicing, of sharing memories, of renewing old friendships, and a time of realizing once again the power of simple kindness. I am encouraged by the examples of others to rekindle my determination to follow my stated intention, to always endeavor to be kind.
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.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
NORM'S DEATH
My husband Norman Friedman died early in the morning of March 29, 2008. In many respects he had been leaving us for a decade, his formidable intellect slowly consumed by the mysterious plaques and tangles that clutter the brains of those with Alzheimer’s disease. In the beginning we noticed occasional bizarre behavior, small memory lapses, endless repetitions, and a loss of appropriate affect. As the disease progressed, he experienced greater cognitive failures, was unable to make decisions, could not drive or dress himself. In time it became necessary to place him in a residential facility so he could get the care I could no longer provide at home. In spite of these fearsome losses, however, something of Norm’s true essence remained until the very end of his life.
Through the long years of his illness, he retained his sense of humor, his gentleness, his basic kindness, his concern for others, his generous heart, and most of all, his love of family. His eyes always lit up and he smiled his friendly smile when any of us entered the room. He began to say “I love you,” to me, words he had rarely spoken earlier in our marriage. On those occasions when he could not speak, he stared intensely into my eyes, wordlessly communicating his inexpressible love. When I frequently asked if he had any complaints, he always assured me that no, no complaints, that everyone was always good to him, and that furthermore, he was the “luckiest man in the world.” I also often asked what made him so happy. Sometimes it was because I was there with him, or because he had such a wonderful family, but other times he would just smile and say, “I’m breathing.” Though seriously impaired from an intellectual standpoint, Norm obviously found great joy in the ordinary pleasures of his life. Simply breathing was enough.
Toward the end Norm rarely uttered any sentences that made sense, but on the Sunday before he died, he startled me by giving a lucid response to a question that I posed when I noticed that he did not look well. I asked, “What is happening with you, Norm?” He answered firmly and distinctly, “It’s better you don’t know.” In retrospect it seems clear that he was aware that he was nearing the end of his life and wished to protect me from that knowledge. From that day forward, until the early morning hours of the following Saturday, when he drew his last breath, he refused further food or drink and slowly sank into a coma. His soul apparently had made a certain decision to pass on to another reality.
Those of you who have read Norm’s book Bridging Science and Spirit, or who have discussed the topic with him, are aware that he had a belief, based on his readings in physics and mysticism and the Seth material, that consciousness survives the death of the physical body. He particularly admired the work of the physicist David Bohm, who described two basic levels of reality. As Norm writes: The first level is the explicate order: our everyday world, where physics normally plies its trade. …The second level, the implicate order, contains all possibilities and probabilities. In this region, consciousness takes the form of waves rather than particles. The implicate order is whole, seamless, unbroken. To use a musical analogy, the implicate order contains all the possible music to be played. It was Norm’s conviction that each individual consciousness returns to the great ocean of possibilities and probabilities as described by Bohm. The implicate order is not heaven in the traditional sense, of course, but is a hidden domain where all things are possible. We who loved Norm fantasize that he can now enjoy endless conversations with his idol David Bohm.
Following that Sunday when Norm hinted at his impending death, my family and I sat by his bed each day. Though barely responsive, during the first days he would smile weakly when I sang to him, and would attempt to pucker his lips each time I leaned over to kiss him. By Friday his breathing was accelerating and his fever was rising, so we knew the end was near. That evening we gathered in his room, our daughter Laura on one side of his bed and daughter Jenny on the other, all of us joining hands, completing our circle. We told him how much we loved him and how much he meant to us; we sang Amazing Grace and also sang the song he had whistled incessantly during the past few years (for reasons we never understood), Battle Hymn of the Republic. We said goodbye.
Just before leaving the room I leaned over his bed, placed my cheek against his, and sang: Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me call you sweetheart, for you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing, in your eyes so true. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. That, plus a gentle kiss on his lips, was my final declaration of love to the man who was my husband for almost sixty years.
Two years ago, when Norm appeared to be dying (he was in hospice twice before this final time), I had made funeral arrangements, engaged interfaith minister Ted Lau to officiate at a memorial service, and indicated some writings I wished to include. So everything was in place for this inevitable event. All the grandchildren and in-laws came into town for the ceremony which was held on Tuesday, April 1, 2008, at Lupton Chapel.
The service was everything I had hoped it would be—warm, intimate, and true to Norm’s fullness as a human being. Ted Lau has read Norm’s books and therefore understands and appreciates Norm’s philosophical outlook, which he summarized in comprehensible terms. Other family members and friends read tributes, offering stories and sharing memories. He was a mentor and a role model to many young men and women who spoke lovingly of his influence in their lives. The result was a reflection of the many aspects of Norm’s intelligence and his multi-faceted personality. As I said in my tribute, Norm was a man who accomplished much and was loved by many.
My reaction to Norm’s death is one I have described as “joyful sorrow.” It is a strange, paradoxical term, but my emotions are anything but simple. I have been grieving the slow, inexorable loss of Norm for ten years. I cannot count the days I cried copious tears, wondering what was happening to the man I had loved for so long. Sometimes I was frustrated in having to deal with his failing mental and physical capacities. I was often overwhelmed with all the financial and household responsibilities thrust upon me. I was alone, and sometimes lonely. I became a virtual widow, though I still had a husband. So, in many ways, I was prepared for this final loss.
Still, I do not have a feeling of relief at Norm’s death as some have suggested. It is rather that I have a profound sense of the rightness of all that happened. The days we had with him before he died were precious, filled with love and gratitude. The testimonies of his family and friends at the memorial service were deeply moving, and the meal we shared afterwards was one he would have enjoyed. I believe that Norm had a purpose in living the final years of his life in the way he did and that his death came at a time of his choosing. In his years of dementia, though he lost his intellect, he reached a kind of purity of joy, love, acceptance, and peace that few achieve. I sometimes felt he was in a state of nirvana, or of grace. He was supremely happy, perhaps the happiest he had been in his entire life, completely free of fear, worry, or anxiety.
Knowing that Norm had developed a transcendent outlook on life brings comfort to me and my family. We feel blessed to have been a part of his life’s journey. I cannot help, therefore, but feel joyful, though naturally there is a tinge of sorrow coloring my mood and my memories. We had almost sixty years together, a good, though not perfect, marriage. I shall miss him, especially his twinkling eyes and his loving smile.
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.
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