Last night at a gathering of our Pacifica group, each of us lit a candle for some current issue or goal that we wished to focus on. For me it was spaciousness. I have been thinking about that term since my friend Susan K. introduced it to me some time ago, so I decided to share some of my reflections with you.
The usual expectation as we grow old is that our world will shrink, that we will limit our contacts, restrict our activities, and narrow our horizons, that we will largely withdraw from society and will focus more deeply inward. That prospect makes a lot of sense, and I will probably be inclined to do that at some point. But right now I feel an urge to expand my horizons, to reach out for new experiences, to enlarge my outlook, to encompass more people and incorporate more projects into my life. I yearn for more spaciousness.
In my yoga class I do these gentle stretches, thus creating more space in my joints and between my vertebrae (at least that is the way I picture it), and this increased space allows for greater flexibility. Once there is a bit more room between my bones and muscle fibers, it is possible to bend this way and that with much more gracefulness and ease. Having this additional elasticity also makes it less likely that I will fall and injure myself, for I can adjust more quickly to missteps. I feel safer.
I have recently returned to playing the piano, something I had abandoned for years, feeling my fingers were too stiff to perform well. I am now playing, even doing scales, stretching my gnarled and arthritic fingers, giving them much needed exercise, and in the process rediscovering the pleasure of making music. The same principle applies to the voice lessons I have started. By vocalizing, I am exercising my stiffened and thickened vocal chords, and in doing so I hope to elongate them and make them more pliable which will in turn make my singing easier and more pleasing to the ear.
It occurs to me that just as I create a sense of spaciousness in my body, my fingers, and my vocal chords through these gentle exercises, I must also stretch my mind, thus making more room for unfamiliar concepts, for different ways of looking at life, as well as for improved skills in handling all the new technological devices that are currently so popular. In other words, I wish to find greater spaciousness in my thinking. I hope to learn to understand and accept a broader range of perspectives and ways of being in the world. This is not simple, for I live a very protected and insulated life, surrounded by material abundance and immersed in the love of family and friends. For the most part I share common political views and spiritual values with those close to me, a sharing which offers me constant comfort and support, and for that I am deeply grateful. So learning new skills and listening to new and challenging—and admittedly, sometimes distasteful—views requires a definite spaciousness of mind, one that I hope to acquire.
I am reminded of yet another area where spaciousness seems significant, and that is in the heart. When we hear that someone has a “big heart” we assume that person has room for kindness and love for a wide spectrum of humanity. Just as I feel my lungs expanding, making way for more air as I take in deep breaths during my yoga class (and in my voice exercises at home), so I can sense my heart expanding when I open it to feelings of compassion for others, especially for those unlike me—strangers or adversaries. Like yoga, this takes practice, so I am working towards developing a greater ability to open my heart to those I know, to those I don’t know, and to those with whom I have difficulties. This openness holds the rewards of reciprocity, but also involves the chance of occasional rejection and pain.
So, I must be open to all promises and possibilities as I aim for spaciousness—in my body, in my mind, and in my heart. It is a risk I am willing to take.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
USEFUL GUIDELINES
As those of you who know me are aware, I am deeply interested in the concept of religion and spirituality. Though brought up in the Southern Baptist tradition, I long ago recognized that I could not fit into that that system of beliefs. In fact, I find it difficult to subscribe to any dogma, and cannot join any institution that requires certainty of belief in something that in my view is unknowable. (I therefore am particularly impressed with the vow in item two below.) There is a vastness and a mystery regarding ultimate purpose and meaning that is beyond our human understanding. Furthermore, I do not like the term “commandments.” It implies that some religious authority is “in command” and that I must adhere to whatever is being ordered. In contrast, I see spirituality as an ongoing practice; I continually strive to behave in ways that are constructive to my own development and that do no harm to others. As in all human endeavors, sometimes I fail, but that does not negate the effort.
Anyway, though I do not like the term, and though I do not understand the meaning of the initial statement “God is the source of liberation,” I find these ten “commandments” written by a rabbi influenced by a Buddhist to be useful guidelines as I try to live a life of psychological health and spiritual fulfillment. In that sense I am sharing them with all of you.
The Ten Commandments
By Rabbi Rami Shapiro as inspired by Thich Nhat Hahn
1. God is the source of liberation. Aware of the suffering caused by enslavement to things and ideas, I vow to free myself from all addictions and compulsive behaviors, both material and spiritual.
2. God cannot be named. Aware of the suffering caused by gods created in our own image for our own profit, I vow to recognize all ideas about God as products of human beings, bound by history and circumstance and forever incapable of defining the Reality Beyond Naming.
3. God cannot be owned. Aware of the suffering caused by the misuse of God and religion in the quest of power, I vow to liberate myself from all ideologies that demonize others, and to honor only those teachings that uphold the freedom and dignity of woman, man, and nature.
4. Remember the Sabbath. Aware of the suffering caused by slavish attachment to work, consumption, and technology, I vow to set aside the Sabbath as a day of personal freedom, creativity, and play.
5. Honor your parents. Aware of the suffering caused by old age, I vow to care for my parents to the best of my ability and to promote the dignity and well-being of all elderly people.
6. Do not murder. Aware of the suffering caused by the wanton destruction of life, I vow to cultivate respect and gentleness toward all beings.
7. Avoid sexual misconduct. Aware of the suffering caused by sexual irresponsibility, I vow to honor human sexuality and never degrade it through violence, ignorance, selfishness, or deceit.
8. Do not steal. Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, injustice, theft, and oppression, I vow to respect the property of others, to work for the just sharing of resources, and to cultivate generosity in myself and my community.
9. Do not lie. Aware of the suffering caused by harmful speech, I vow to speak truthfully and with compassion, to avoid gossip and slander, and to refrain from uttering words that cause needless division or discord.
10. Do not covet. Aware of the suffering caused by endless desire, I vow to live simply and avoid debt, to enjoy what I have before seeking to have more, and to labor for what I desire, honestly and justly.
Anyway, though I do not like the term, and though I do not understand the meaning of the initial statement “God is the source of liberation,” I find these ten “commandments” written by a rabbi influenced by a Buddhist to be useful guidelines as I try to live a life of psychological health and spiritual fulfillment. In that sense I am sharing them with all of you.
The Ten Commandments
By Rabbi Rami Shapiro as inspired by Thich Nhat Hahn
1. God is the source of liberation. Aware of the suffering caused by enslavement to things and ideas, I vow to free myself from all addictions and compulsive behaviors, both material and spiritual.
2. God cannot be named. Aware of the suffering caused by gods created in our own image for our own profit, I vow to recognize all ideas about God as products of human beings, bound by history and circumstance and forever incapable of defining the Reality Beyond Naming.
3. God cannot be owned. Aware of the suffering caused by the misuse of God and religion in the quest of power, I vow to liberate myself from all ideologies that demonize others, and to honor only those teachings that uphold the freedom and dignity of woman, man, and nature.
4. Remember the Sabbath. Aware of the suffering caused by slavish attachment to work, consumption, and technology, I vow to set aside the Sabbath as a day of personal freedom, creativity, and play.
5. Honor your parents. Aware of the suffering caused by old age, I vow to care for my parents to the best of my ability and to promote the dignity and well-being of all elderly people.
6. Do not murder. Aware of the suffering caused by the wanton destruction of life, I vow to cultivate respect and gentleness toward all beings.
7. Avoid sexual misconduct. Aware of the suffering caused by sexual irresponsibility, I vow to honor human sexuality and never degrade it through violence, ignorance, selfishness, or deceit.
8. Do not steal. Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, injustice, theft, and oppression, I vow to respect the property of others, to work for the just sharing of resources, and to cultivate generosity in myself and my community.
9. Do not lie. Aware of the suffering caused by harmful speech, I vow to speak truthfully and with compassion, to avoid gossip and slander, and to refrain from uttering words that cause needless division or discord.
10. Do not covet. Aware of the suffering caused by endless desire, I vow to live simply and avoid debt, to enjoy what I have before seeking to have more, and to labor for what I desire, honestly and justly.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Looking Back at 2009
It was in January a year ago that I posted my last blog. I am not sure why I have been so negligent, but perhaps it is because I had an unusual period of illness which made me feel as if I was living through a haze of malaise and lethargy, though actually, now that I look back, it was an eventful and rewarding year, filled with travel, visits from grandchildren, preparation and presentation of a lecture and workshop, and the establishment of new routines. Somehow things look different in retrospect.
It was, most significantly, a year of travel. I was in California four times—twice in San Francisco, once in San Diego and once in Santa Barbara—and also in Washington, D.C. But the most exciting trips were to Europe—twice! I had never imagined I would go abroad again, thinking I am much too old, but when the circumstances arose, how could I refuse? The first occasion was in June when Laura and Dan most generously invited me to accompany them and their family to the south of France.
I was concerned that I might be a hindrance in that my energy would not be sufficient to keep up with my younger travel companions. But I was amazed—and pleased—to find that I could climb up those steep hills in Provence and neighboring regions without too much huffing. We drove through beautiful countryside, saw impressive art, and ate fabulous food. Coming home after each day’s outing to a lovely villa overlooking the Mediterranean was an additional pleasure. It was an absolutely wonderful trip. I was in such a calm and centered mood that my family began referring to me as a “Zen traveler.” I am not sure I deserved the title, but it is true that I was never rattled or impatient. I felt blessed to be alive and to be with those I love. Finding such serenity in the midst of the inevitable challenges of travel was a gift of lasting value.
The second European trip was in late October when I accompanied Jenny, Rocky, and Rebecca to Italy where Nick was studying for a semester at New York University’s campus in Florence. We stayed in a lovely, spacious apartment, conveniently located near the center of the city, though it was on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Again I was worried, wondering whether my eighty-one-year-old legs could carry me up all those steps, but again was pleased to learn that I could walk miles each day through the beautiful streets of Florence and still make it up those flights of stairs. (I guess it is time to face the fact that I have far more stamina than I had thought.) In addition to visiting with Nick and seeing his campus, we took in many of the historical and esthetic sights of Florence, traveled into the lovely Tuscan countryside, ate fantastic meals and drank copious amounts of good Italian wine. Again, sharing this experience with members of my family was deeply gratifying.
Another highlight for me this year past was when I was asked by the St. Louis Jung Society to give a weekend lecture and workshop on aging. This is a topic that I have done considerable thinking about (and experienced) so I welcomed the chance to present some of my ideas to an audience. The energy reflected back to me the night of the lecture wiped away all my nervousness and made my presentation seem effortless. The attendance was much better than anticipated: the largest number of persons attended the evening lecture than any previously given at the society, indicating that this is indeed a timely subject. On Saturday there was a smaller group of enthusiastic, engaged, and responsive women who participated in the workshop. The entire weekend was an intensely satisfying experience.
Throughout the year I was blessed with visits from my grandchildren. Each one has managed to spend some time with me—a great blessing in my life. I suppose every grandmother thinks her grandchildren are exceptional, but I have good reason to make that claim! Each one—Carolyn, Rebecca, Jessica, Rachel, Nick, and you too Raven—is interesting and thoughtful; each has good, fundamental ethical and moral values; and each possesses a distinctive outlook enriched with special talents. They are still finding their way in the world so I am privileged to watch and participate in their lives as they grow into full adulthood. I enjoy their company and learn from my conversations and interactions with them. They make me very happy.
In contrast to these uplifting occasions, in February I came down with a rather severe case of flu—fever, congestion, gastro-intestinal upset, and general fatigue which lasted for days. I slowly recovered from most of the symptoms, but the gastro-intestinal difficulties persisted for months, until finally in August I consented to a colonoscopy (a rather traumatic event, but that is another story). The resulting biopsies indicated that I had microscopic colitis, a condition that has slowly improved and now—finally!—seems to be healed. In some strange way, this illness was a valuable lesson, helping prepare me for the inevitability of physical decline as I grow older, and also allowing me to practice acceptance. One effect of the illness, and an unexpected benefit, was a diminishment of appetite, causing me to lose about twenty pounds, so I am now at a healthier weight, one I shall try to maintain.
In keeping with my resolve to remain healthy, I have undertaken a daily regimen of at least twenty minutes each of meditation, yoga, and time on my elliptical machine. The discipline is good for me, helps sustain my strength and flexibility, and allows me to cultivate a more relaxed, but energized, outlook on life. Recently I have added to that daily schedule practice time at the piano. One of my intentions for the coming year, in addition to writing more frequently on my blog, is to begin taking piano and voice lessons—a renewal of old interests and skills that had fallen into disuse. I find that making music is good for the soul.
As this New Year begins, I overflow with gratitude, for I am extraordinarily blessed with abundance—of experiences, of pleasures, of family, of friends, of life. Here is a passage from the Jewish Gates of Prayer, one that seems especially appropriate as I move further into the ultimate stage of my life:
Let us treasure the time we have, and resolve to use it well,
counting each moment precious—a chance to apprehend some truth,
to experience some beauty, to conquer some evil,
to relieve some suffering, to love and be loved,
to achieve something of lasting worth.
It was, most significantly, a year of travel. I was in California four times—twice in San Francisco, once in San Diego and once in Santa Barbara—and also in Washington, D.C. But the most exciting trips were to Europe—twice! I had never imagined I would go abroad again, thinking I am much too old, but when the circumstances arose, how could I refuse? The first occasion was in June when Laura and Dan most generously invited me to accompany them and their family to the south of France.
I was concerned that I might be a hindrance in that my energy would not be sufficient to keep up with my younger travel companions. But I was amazed—and pleased—to find that I could climb up those steep hills in Provence and neighboring regions without too much huffing. We drove through beautiful countryside, saw impressive art, and ate fabulous food. Coming home after each day’s outing to a lovely villa overlooking the Mediterranean was an additional pleasure. It was an absolutely wonderful trip. I was in such a calm and centered mood that my family began referring to me as a “Zen traveler.” I am not sure I deserved the title, but it is true that I was never rattled or impatient. I felt blessed to be alive and to be with those I love. Finding such serenity in the midst of the inevitable challenges of travel was a gift of lasting value.
The second European trip was in late October when I accompanied Jenny, Rocky, and Rebecca to Italy where Nick was studying for a semester at New York University’s campus in Florence. We stayed in a lovely, spacious apartment, conveniently located near the center of the city, though it was on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. Again I was worried, wondering whether my eighty-one-year-old legs could carry me up all those steps, but again was pleased to learn that I could walk miles each day through the beautiful streets of Florence and still make it up those flights of stairs. (I guess it is time to face the fact that I have far more stamina than I had thought.) In addition to visiting with Nick and seeing his campus, we took in many of the historical and esthetic sights of Florence, traveled into the lovely Tuscan countryside, ate fantastic meals and drank copious amounts of good Italian wine. Again, sharing this experience with members of my family was deeply gratifying.
Another highlight for me this year past was when I was asked by the St. Louis Jung Society to give a weekend lecture and workshop on aging. This is a topic that I have done considerable thinking about (and experienced) so I welcomed the chance to present some of my ideas to an audience. The energy reflected back to me the night of the lecture wiped away all my nervousness and made my presentation seem effortless. The attendance was much better than anticipated: the largest number of persons attended the evening lecture than any previously given at the society, indicating that this is indeed a timely subject. On Saturday there was a smaller group of enthusiastic, engaged, and responsive women who participated in the workshop. The entire weekend was an intensely satisfying experience.
Throughout the year I was blessed with visits from my grandchildren. Each one has managed to spend some time with me—a great blessing in my life. I suppose every grandmother thinks her grandchildren are exceptional, but I have good reason to make that claim! Each one—Carolyn, Rebecca, Jessica, Rachel, Nick, and you too Raven—is interesting and thoughtful; each has good, fundamental ethical and moral values; and each possesses a distinctive outlook enriched with special talents. They are still finding their way in the world so I am privileged to watch and participate in their lives as they grow into full adulthood. I enjoy their company and learn from my conversations and interactions with them. They make me very happy.
In contrast to these uplifting occasions, in February I came down with a rather severe case of flu—fever, congestion, gastro-intestinal upset, and general fatigue which lasted for days. I slowly recovered from most of the symptoms, but the gastro-intestinal difficulties persisted for months, until finally in August I consented to a colonoscopy (a rather traumatic event, but that is another story). The resulting biopsies indicated that I had microscopic colitis, a condition that has slowly improved and now—finally!—seems to be healed. In some strange way, this illness was a valuable lesson, helping prepare me for the inevitability of physical decline as I grow older, and also allowing me to practice acceptance. One effect of the illness, and an unexpected benefit, was a diminishment of appetite, causing me to lose about twenty pounds, so I am now at a healthier weight, one I shall try to maintain.
In keeping with my resolve to remain healthy, I have undertaken a daily regimen of at least twenty minutes each of meditation, yoga, and time on my elliptical machine. The discipline is good for me, helps sustain my strength and flexibility, and allows me to cultivate a more relaxed, but energized, outlook on life. Recently I have added to that daily schedule practice time at the piano. One of my intentions for the coming year, in addition to writing more frequently on my blog, is to begin taking piano and voice lessons—a renewal of old interests and skills that had fallen into disuse. I find that making music is good for the soul.
As this New Year begins, I overflow with gratitude, for I am extraordinarily blessed with abundance—of experiences, of pleasures, of family, of friends, of life. Here is a passage from the Jewish Gates of Prayer, one that seems especially appropriate as I move further into the ultimate stage of my life:
Let us treasure the time we have, and resolve to use it well,
counting each moment precious—a chance to apprehend some truth,
to experience some beauty, to conquer some evil,
to relieve some suffering, to love and be loved,
to achieve something of lasting worth.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
TO GO ON
Why is it that I suddenly feel so, well, old? Is it because my knees are stiff and sore, is it because I get tired more easily, is it because others treat me with a certain solicitousness not offered before, or is it because I am truly entering a new stage of life that I have not yet fully embraced? In the past I have had no difficulty accepting shortcomings regarding my age, so it is somewhat surprising to find myself experiencing a vague discomfort in acknowledging my current limitations and in allowing the caring attention of others.
There is a balance to be found here—as in so many areas of life. I am eighty years old, so cannot expect to maintain the same level of flexibility and vigor that I enjoyed earlier. And yet I do not wish to surrender too soon to feelings of incapacity. Is it rude to reject offers of unneeded help? Or is it more polite to accept such offers, even knowing that I am perfectly capable of doing the task myself? Perhaps there is a middle way, a gracious way of acknowledging the kindness without accepting the implied inability. I also know it is important to learn to accept offers, or to seek help, when I have a genuine need. It is not wise to be too stubborn or too proud.
In an earlier blog, I wrote about the gifts of age, among which were the qualities of patience, acceptance, and detachment. As I try to come to terms with the diminishment of my physical strength and energy and yet honor my concurrent desire for self-sufficiency, it is apparent that these three traits are fundamental to finding the balance I seek. As I live into this ultimate stage of life, patience will be required—from and for myself as well as from those who genuinely care for me. I am, after all, learning a new way of living, which takes time. In addition, realistic acceptance of my present physical status is essential if I am to avoid being in complete denial regarding the conditions of advanced age. Detachment also provides a valuable perspective. When I can stand back and look with some measure of objectivity I can see more clearly my circumstances, and, I must admit, they are not bad!
Which brings me to a final important point, and that is a reminder to myself to be grateful for all I have, especially for my basically good health. My complaints are minor and manageable; while my blessings are major and contribute mightily to my well-being—in spite of feeling, well, old.
P.S. I just came across a poem by Liz Waldner in The New Yorker the final lines of which seem strangely appropriate, perhaps qualifying as a synchronicity:
I am old enough to understand
being willing
to go on is a great gift.
There is a balance to be found here—as in so many areas of life. I am eighty years old, so cannot expect to maintain the same level of flexibility and vigor that I enjoyed earlier. And yet I do not wish to surrender too soon to feelings of incapacity. Is it rude to reject offers of unneeded help? Or is it more polite to accept such offers, even knowing that I am perfectly capable of doing the task myself? Perhaps there is a middle way, a gracious way of acknowledging the kindness without accepting the implied inability. I also know it is important to learn to accept offers, or to seek help, when I have a genuine need. It is not wise to be too stubborn or too proud.
In an earlier blog, I wrote about the gifts of age, among which were the qualities of patience, acceptance, and detachment. As I try to come to terms with the diminishment of my physical strength and energy and yet honor my concurrent desire for self-sufficiency, it is apparent that these three traits are fundamental to finding the balance I seek. As I live into this ultimate stage of life, patience will be required—from and for myself as well as from those who genuinely care for me. I am, after all, learning a new way of living, which takes time. In addition, realistic acceptance of my present physical status is essential if I am to avoid being in complete denial regarding the conditions of advanced age. Detachment also provides a valuable perspective. When I can stand back and look with some measure of objectivity I can see more clearly my circumstances, and, I must admit, they are not bad!
Which brings me to a final important point, and that is a reminder to myself to be grateful for all I have, especially for my basically good health. My complaints are minor and manageable; while my blessings are major and contribute mightily to my well-being—in spite of feeling, well, old.
P.S. I just came across a poem by Liz Waldner in The New Yorker the final lines of which seem strangely appropriate, perhaps qualifying as a synchronicity:
I am old enough to understand
being willing
to go on is a great gift.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
HOPE AND FEAR
January 1, 2009: the beginning of a new year, a time when my heart is filled with equal parts of hope and fear for our country. The hope springs from what will take place on January 20, when Barack Obama is to be inaugurated. This historic occasion brings forth an enormous sense of pride and joy, for having been brought up in the segregated South, I am especially moved—and astonished—that I should live to see an African-American become president of the United States. It is my deepest desire that he and his administration succeed in changing the direction and the agenda of our nation quickly and decisively. We are all aware of how desperately we need that shift, for the past eight years have been disastrous—politically, militarily, economically, and perhaps most significantly, morally.
My fear is that the magnitude of the problems facing our new president will be overwhelming, that the deepening economic recession will reach catastrophic proportions, that we will be drawn into more wars, that our moral leadership on the world stage has been damaged permanently and irreparably. It is my fear that we as a people will become impatient with the inevitable slow pace of change and that we will succumb to hopelessness and despair.
I am struck by parallel feelings regarding my own life. As I enter my ninth decade, both hope and fear reside within me, in almost equivalent shares. This new stage offers changes and challenges, and it is my hope I can face them with courage and good humor, and that I can apply my own recommended measures of acceptance, patience, and detachment. My fear is that, without the specific events, deadlines, or goals such as I had last year, I shall fall into lethargy or ennui, failing to find the kind of stimulation and motivation I seem to need. I too fear falling into hopelessness and despair.
This past year was a momentous one for me. Norm died in March, making me a widow. Had he made it a few more months—until September—we would have been married for sixty years. His death, though not totally unexpected, still left a big vacancy in my life and in my heart. In August I celebrated my eightieth birthday with a glorious party. I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment when I presented my book, Leafings and Branchings, to my family and friends. At present I have no similar projects to complete nor do I anticipate such significant landmarks this coming year. (Though we never know, do we?)
Last year at this time, I wrote that my intention for the coming year was to be kind. I have tried mightily to fulfill that intention, though I certainly have had some lapses. This year I wish to focus on maintaining hope, on not allowing fear to overcome my natural optimism regarding both the future of our country and my own personal fate. Since it is my belief that our thoughts have power, I intend to make every effort to think hopeful thoughts and thus add to the possibility of a kindler, gentler world and a full, satisfying experience as I continue to live into this late stage of my life.
I close with a quote from one of Norm’s heroes, Albert Einstein: “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”
My fear is that the magnitude of the problems facing our new president will be overwhelming, that the deepening economic recession will reach catastrophic proportions, that we will be drawn into more wars, that our moral leadership on the world stage has been damaged permanently and irreparably. It is my fear that we as a people will become impatient with the inevitable slow pace of change and that we will succumb to hopelessness and despair.
I am struck by parallel feelings regarding my own life. As I enter my ninth decade, both hope and fear reside within me, in almost equivalent shares. This new stage offers changes and challenges, and it is my hope I can face them with courage and good humor, and that I can apply my own recommended measures of acceptance, patience, and detachment. My fear is that, without the specific events, deadlines, or goals such as I had last year, I shall fall into lethargy or ennui, failing to find the kind of stimulation and motivation I seem to need. I too fear falling into hopelessness and despair.
This past year was a momentous one for me. Norm died in March, making me a widow. Had he made it a few more months—until September—we would have been married for sixty years. His death, though not totally unexpected, still left a big vacancy in my life and in my heart. In August I celebrated my eightieth birthday with a glorious party. I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment when I presented my book, Leafings and Branchings, to my family and friends. At present I have no similar projects to complete nor do I anticipate such significant landmarks this coming year. (Though we never know, do we?)
Last year at this time, I wrote that my intention for the coming year was to be kind. I have tried mightily to fulfill that intention, though I certainly have had some lapses. This year I wish to focus on maintaining hope, on not allowing fear to overcome my natural optimism regarding both the future of our country and my own personal fate. Since it is my belief that our thoughts have power, I intend to make every effort to think hopeful thoughts and thus add to the possibility of a kindler, gentler world and a full, satisfying experience as I continue to live into this late stage of my life.
I close with a quote from one of Norm’s heroes, Albert Einstein: “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
After Eighty
As I explained in my previous essay, “Eighty: Age of Fulfillment,” once I reached the eagerly awaited age of eighty, I discovered that the primary objectives of my life—seen more clearly in retrospect, of course—had largely been achieved. I married the man I loved, raised two fine daughters, attained some small success as a fine art photographer, received a PhD when in my seventies, relished many loving friendships, watched five beloved grandchildren grow into young adulthood, looked after my husband through a decade of Alzheimer’s disease until death finally took him away, and wrote a book about my life as a gift and a legacy for my family. I felt loved and appreciated. My fundamental needs had been fulfilled, my modest ambitions satisfied, and my fondest dreams realized. I basked in an aura of contentment and completion.
As I began to relax into the self-satisfied daze brought on by this sense of accomplishment, a surprising thought occurred to me: If I were to drop dead at this very moment, all would be fine! I would have no regrets, no unfinished business, no pangs of guilt. At first that unexpected insight brought a feeling of utter relief, for in the past I had often obsessed over some lapse in judgment or failure in relationship, had repeatedly agonized over important and not-so-important decisions, and had frequently been burdened by guilt over what I perceived to be unforgivable mistakes or grinding stupidities. As all those real and imagined shortcomings faded into insignificance, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and a binding loosened from around my heart. I felt free, could breathe easily.
I had barely assimilated that feeling of freedom, however, when I was struck by another startling realization: Something profound had come to an end. My life of yearning and striving was over. A sense of finality loomed over me, casting a chilling shadow on my initial exhilaration. All those needs and desires in my early life had pushed me forward, provided me with motivation and purpose. If they are no longer present, what will give me incentive for my remaining time on this earth? Does the absence of want suggest I am finished with life? That possibility brought a flash of anxiety. On the one hand, it seemed unreasonable, for I am still in good health. On the other hand, I am entering what is certain to be the final stage of my life; I can sense the inevitable end approaching.
It was once thought that age sixty or sixty-five ushered us into our final years, but that no longer holds true. While by that time we have passed through middle-age, and may have retired from our jobs, we certainly are not yet really old. We have entered a phase that I refer to as the penultimate stage of life, the next to last. It is for many, as it was for me, a golden period of happiness and accomplishment. When we reach eighty to eighty-five, however, we move from the penultimate stage to the ultimate stage. These words have interesting etymologies. Penultimate comes from the Latin paenultimus, from paene, “almost,” from which flows its meaning “almost last” or “last but one.” The term ultimate carries the connotation not only of “final” or “last,” but also of “supreme” or “utmost” or “high point.”
According to those meanings, as we move from the penultimate period into the ultimate, we are entering not just our final years, but the crowning season of our lives, the peak of our existence, the high point of our time on this earth. These words may seem odd or inappropriate, since we have been conditioned by our youth-worshipping society to think of our last years solely in terms of decline, as going down. We also tend to equate aging with unavoidable loss. There are too many of us, young and old, who view old age almost exclusively as a time of debilitation, decrepitude, diminishment, and disease.
Chances are we will have to deal with one or more of those dreaded “d” words. I do not deny the difficulties we may face; they can be formidable, and may on occasion threaten to overwhelm us. We must endure the deaths of ones we love, and must face our own mortality. We must cope with likely physical limitations: ebbing energy, lessening strength and flexibility, questionable memory, and fading eyesight and hearing. We may suffer serious illness. We may have to accept assistance for personal care. In short, we may be required to change how we live our lives. Such changes can be challenging, even acutely painful, but they are not the whole story. I maintain that it is possible to acknowledge our losses, accept our infirmities, and face our failings without being defined by them. We are more than our deficiencies.
Persons over age eighty-five now constitute the largest-growing sector of our population. As a group we are healthier and wealthier than any previous older generation. Our decades of living, working, and learning have profited us in countless ways. As a result of our longevity we have broader experience, greater insight, enhanced awareness, superior knowledge, and better understanding than those who have not lived so long. Though we have made our share of mistakes, we have had the opportunity to learn from them. We have had to adjust to changing circumstances, personally, culturally, and economically, allowing us to develop flexibility. Many of us have lost good friends and/or spouses, imbuing us with a depth of feeling heretofore unexplored. We have maintained relationships in spite of differences and confrontations, teaching us the value of compromise. All these experiences have added to our store of worldly knowledge, have contributed to our emotional maturity, and have given us an opportunity to widen and deepen our outlook so that we might live into a more meaningful and satisfying old age.
Nevertheless, as I move from the penultimate stage of my life into the ultimate stage, I am puzzled. I still have an irresistible urge to live life fully as long as possible. But what am I to do now that the main goals of my life are realized? Many in my age group are facing this existential dilemma. We wish to continue to participate in the world around us, but we are not sure how best to do that. It seems apparent, however, that how we choose to use our residual energies and how we apportion our remaining resources will be determining factors in shaping not only our personal futures, but also in shaping the future of our nation. Perhaps the most crucial aspect is how we regard our roles, how we envision ourselves as we enter this final stage. We need to adopt an appropriate and meaningful paradigm of aging, so that as we move into our late years we can continue to bring enrichment into our own lives and to the lives of those around us.
Transitions from one stage of life to another can be difficult, filled with fear and uncertainty. And yet transitions are necessary; we go through many of them throughout the span of our lives. Without them we would remain stuck, unable to grow or change. Now that I have reached what seems to me the pinnacle of my life—age eighty—I find myself wandering and wondering. I know that I am crossing over from one way of life to another and that I must let go of many of my former patterns and perspectives. But I am not yet sure of what exactly it is that I must relinquish. And I certainly cannot see what lies ahead. I am in an in-between place, a liminal space, neither here nor there, a state that in mythological terms is thought of as Hekate’s crossroads.
These crossroads, shaped like a Y, demand a change in direction; there is no way to continue on the same path. It is the option given prominence by Robert Frost in his well-known poem “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s traveler contemplates a fork in the road, knowing he must choose one of the two paths. He takes “the one less traveled by,” and “that has made all the difference.” In the poem, the alternatives are equally apparent, so the decision can be made quickly, but sometimes the paths ahead cannot be clearly seen; the choices are obscured and the life-traveler is filled with confusion and doubt.
This is where I currently find myself. Which is the right way for me? Which fork in the road will be more serene, which less rocky? Which path will lead me to the high point of my life? How am I to live these last precious days, months, years? I feel I am not the same person I was before, but I do not yet recognize this new emerging woman. I am bewildered. I suffer the vacillations of ambiguity. I wish for clarity and understanding, but am filled with perplexity.
Having gone through painful periods of transition in the past, I know that there lies within my current chaotic state a promise of new order. In archetypal and psychological terms, chaos signifies not only confusion, but also void or emptiness, and thus allows space for new ways of thinking, provides opportunities for creative energies, and opens the way for new precedents. During this time of unease, outside my conscious awareness, a restructuring of the habits and patterns of my life is taking place, my identity is undergoing a subtle or not-so-subtle shift, my imagination is being stirred—all of which, I trust, will help me reach a new level of integration and meaning. In the world of physics, chaos implies process; it is dynamic, ever changing. In personal terms it is a becoming.
What I am surely becoming is a very old woman. Perhaps the role I am now living into makes me a true Crone, a woman who is well weathered, who is both tough and tender, who has survived many seasons, indulged in countless pleasures, and endured untold sorrows. What I hope is that I can infuse this new persona, this very old Crone woman, with intensity of feeling, with compassion for all, with acceptance of frailties, with deeper spiritual insights, and with a grand sense of humor. I hope that, having attained my main aims, I will savor these final years, remembering and honoring the past while reveling in the present as I live into the supreme, utmost, high point—the ultimate stage—of my long life.
As I began to relax into the self-satisfied daze brought on by this sense of accomplishment, a surprising thought occurred to me: If I were to drop dead at this very moment, all would be fine! I would have no regrets, no unfinished business, no pangs of guilt. At first that unexpected insight brought a feeling of utter relief, for in the past I had often obsessed over some lapse in judgment or failure in relationship, had repeatedly agonized over important and not-so-important decisions, and had frequently been burdened by guilt over what I perceived to be unforgivable mistakes or grinding stupidities. As all those real and imagined shortcomings faded into insignificance, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and a binding loosened from around my heart. I felt free, could breathe easily.
I had barely assimilated that feeling of freedom, however, when I was struck by another startling realization: Something profound had come to an end. My life of yearning and striving was over. A sense of finality loomed over me, casting a chilling shadow on my initial exhilaration. All those needs and desires in my early life had pushed me forward, provided me with motivation and purpose. If they are no longer present, what will give me incentive for my remaining time on this earth? Does the absence of want suggest I am finished with life? That possibility brought a flash of anxiety. On the one hand, it seemed unreasonable, for I am still in good health. On the other hand, I am entering what is certain to be the final stage of my life; I can sense the inevitable end approaching.
It was once thought that age sixty or sixty-five ushered us into our final years, but that no longer holds true. While by that time we have passed through middle-age, and may have retired from our jobs, we certainly are not yet really old. We have entered a phase that I refer to as the penultimate stage of life, the next to last. It is for many, as it was for me, a golden period of happiness and accomplishment. When we reach eighty to eighty-five, however, we move from the penultimate stage to the ultimate stage. These words have interesting etymologies. Penultimate comes from the Latin paenultimus, from paene, “almost,” from which flows its meaning “almost last” or “last but one.” The term ultimate carries the connotation not only of “final” or “last,” but also of “supreme” or “utmost” or “high point.”
According to those meanings, as we move from the penultimate period into the ultimate, we are entering not just our final years, but the crowning season of our lives, the peak of our existence, the high point of our time on this earth. These words may seem odd or inappropriate, since we have been conditioned by our youth-worshipping society to think of our last years solely in terms of decline, as going down. We also tend to equate aging with unavoidable loss. There are too many of us, young and old, who view old age almost exclusively as a time of debilitation, decrepitude, diminishment, and disease.
Chances are we will have to deal with one or more of those dreaded “d” words. I do not deny the difficulties we may face; they can be formidable, and may on occasion threaten to overwhelm us. We must endure the deaths of ones we love, and must face our own mortality. We must cope with likely physical limitations: ebbing energy, lessening strength and flexibility, questionable memory, and fading eyesight and hearing. We may suffer serious illness. We may have to accept assistance for personal care. In short, we may be required to change how we live our lives. Such changes can be challenging, even acutely painful, but they are not the whole story. I maintain that it is possible to acknowledge our losses, accept our infirmities, and face our failings without being defined by them. We are more than our deficiencies.
Persons over age eighty-five now constitute the largest-growing sector of our population. As a group we are healthier and wealthier than any previous older generation. Our decades of living, working, and learning have profited us in countless ways. As a result of our longevity we have broader experience, greater insight, enhanced awareness, superior knowledge, and better understanding than those who have not lived so long. Though we have made our share of mistakes, we have had the opportunity to learn from them. We have had to adjust to changing circumstances, personally, culturally, and economically, allowing us to develop flexibility. Many of us have lost good friends and/or spouses, imbuing us with a depth of feeling heretofore unexplored. We have maintained relationships in spite of differences and confrontations, teaching us the value of compromise. All these experiences have added to our store of worldly knowledge, have contributed to our emotional maturity, and have given us an opportunity to widen and deepen our outlook so that we might live into a more meaningful and satisfying old age.
Nevertheless, as I move from the penultimate stage of my life into the ultimate stage, I am puzzled. I still have an irresistible urge to live life fully as long as possible. But what am I to do now that the main goals of my life are realized? Many in my age group are facing this existential dilemma. We wish to continue to participate in the world around us, but we are not sure how best to do that. It seems apparent, however, that how we choose to use our residual energies and how we apportion our remaining resources will be determining factors in shaping not only our personal futures, but also in shaping the future of our nation. Perhaps the most crucial aspect is how we regard our roles, how we envision ourselves as we enter this final stage. We need to adopt an appropriate and meaningful paradigm of aging, so that as we move into our late years we can continue to bring enrichment into our own lives and to the lives of those around us.
Transitions from one stage of life to another can be difficult, filled with fear and uncertainty. And yet transitions are necessary; we go through many of them throughout the span of our lives. Without them we would remain stuck, unable to grow or change. Now that I have reached what seems to me the pinnacle of my life—age eighty—I find myself wandering and wondering. I know that I am crossing over from one way of life to another and that I must let go of many of my former patterns and perspectives. But I am not yet sure of what exactly it is that I must relinquish. And I certainly cannot see what lies ahead. I am in an in-between place, a liminal space, neither here nor there, a state that in mythological terms is thought of as Hekate’s crossroads.
These crossroads, shaped like a Y, demand a change in direction; there is no way to continue on the same path. It is the option given prominence by Robert Frost in his well-known poem “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s traveler contemplates a fork in the road, knowing he must choose one of the two paths. He takes “the one less traveled by,” and “that has made all the difference.” In the poem, the alternatives are equally apparent, so the decision can be made quickly, but sometimes the paths ahead cannot be clearly seen; the choices are obscured and the life-traveler is filled with confusion and doubt.
This is where I currently find myself. Which is the right way for me? Which fork in the road will be more serene, which less rocky? Which path will lead me to the high point of my life? How am I to live these last precious days, months, years? I feel I am not the same person I was before, but I do not yet recognize this new emerging woman. I am bewildered. I suffer the vacillations of ambiguity. I wish for clarity and understanding, but am filled with perplexity.
Having gone through painful periods of transition in the past, I know that there lies within my current chaotic state a promise of new order. In archetypal and psychological terms, chaos signifies not only confusion, but also void or emptiness, and thus allows space for new ways of thinking, provides opportunities for creative energies, and opens the way for new precedents. During this time of unease, outside my conscious awareness, a restructuring of the habits and patterns of my life is taking place, my identity is undergoing a subtle or not-so-subtle shift, my imagination is being stirred—all of which, I trust, will help me reach a new level of integration and meaning. In the world of physics, chaos implies process; it is dynamic, ever changing. In personal terms it is a becoming.
What I am surely becoming is a very old woman. Perhaps the role I am now living into makes me a true Crone, a woman who is well weathered, who is both tough and tender, who has survived many seasons, indulged in countless pleasures, and endured untold sorrows. What I hope is that I can infuse this new persona, this very old Crone woman, with intensity of feeling, with compassion for all, with acceptance of frailties, with deeper spiritual insights, and with a grand sense of humor. I hope that, having attained my main aims, I will savor these final years, remembering and honoring the past while reveling in the present as I live into the supreme, utmost, high point—the ultimate stage—of my long life.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Eighty: Age of Fulfillment
When I was asked not long ago to blow out the candles on my birthday cake—fortunately only eight, one for each decade of my life—I was quite unexpectedly rendered speechless. The tradition, of course, is to make a wish as the candles are extinguished, but after successfully blowing them out, it suddenly dawned on me that I had nothing to say. I could think of nothing to wish for! The realization struck me that I had everything I needed or wanted, was, in fact, completely satisfied.
The strangeness of that feeling of absence of want seeped into me slowly over the next few days and weeks, prompting me to examine its source and its meaning. For most of my life I have been governed, sometimes overwhelmed, by a vast array of needs. Even after I had an ample supply of material goods and plenty of loving support, I frequently pictured myself as one who continued to suffer from extreme deprivation. For a very long time, my sense of “not enough” seemed unshakable.
In my earliest years, the need was for the love and attention of a mother who was too depressed, too needy herself, to give me the kind of emotional nourishment that I so desperately craved. Having lost her mother at an early age, and not receiving any nurturance from step mothers, my mother had no capacity for offering that which she had never experienced herself. So I grew up feeling an emptiness which gave rise to an incessant hunger, for what? Love, acceptance, approval, recognition, reassurance—you name it, I needed it.
Though the dearth of maternal love was certainly central to my neediness, that was not the only thing I was missing. I also lacked intellectual stimulation. I lived in a household in which educational values—reading, learning, discussion—were not encouraged or respected. The neighbors and friends in the Southern rural community in which I grew up were unfailingly kind and generous, but they had little or no curiosity about the workings of the world. They had settled comfortably into a kind of all-knowing state of mind, so it never occurred to them to seek information or to ask questions. As a result of living in that kind of anti-intellectual atmosphere, it was not until much later that I became fully aware of how intensely I hungered for opportunities to express my inquisitiveness, to explore my intellectual capabilities, and to further develop my mind and my spirit.
I also desired beautiful things. Like most young girls, I wanted pretty clothes and I certainly hoped to attract the boys with my appearance. In addition I longed for beauty in my surroundings. I seemed to have an acute visual sense in that I noticed my environment and was sensitive to its esthetic qualities. I envied those of my friends in whose homes the furniture was color coordinated and the walls hung with art. My own home, which had no sense of order or harmony, seemed always bleak and cold, for it was lacking any semblance of coziness or casual comfort. Though I was conscious of the natural splendor displayed in the woods and fields that surrounded our country home, I wished for more beauty—and warmth—inside our house.
There were, of course, other needs, but in retrospect I can see that these three—an insufficiency of mother love, a lack of intellectual stimulation, and the absence of an appreciation for esthetics—were perhaps the most powerful underlying motivational forces of my life. The effort to overcome what appeared to me to be crippling deficiencies in my upbringing determined many of my subsequent decisions and much of my behavior. Paradoxically, it was these very voids that gave shape to my future.
In order to compensate for the absence of mother love that wounded me so deeply, I vowed to be the very best mother I could possibly be for my two daughters. It was not always easy, and I admit to many mistakes and failings along the way, but I did manage to improve considerably on my own mother’s style of mothering. I did not succumb to fits of rage, as my mother frequently did, causing her to wield a nasty switch against my tender flesh. I tried never to diminish my daughters’ accomplishments but to offer encouragement and praise, whereas my own mother could not, out of envy or spite, find it in her heart to support me in my endeavors. I made every effort to champion my daughters in their choices in life whereas my mother refused for many years to acknowledge or accept my marriage to the man I loved, treating him with undeserved hostility and contempt. I am deeply proud of my daughters’ worldly achievements, but it is their own outstanding mothering skills that are most significant in what I view as the healing of our motherline.
Though I was a conscientious and loving mother, it is as a grandmother that I have most fully come to appreciate the kind of unconditional love that we long for and strive to embrace. I did not have a living grandmother, so I have tried to become the kind of grandmother I would have wanted. Being a generation removed from these young people has made it easier for me to be less judgmental, more accepting, more capable of the kind of detachment that is sometimes called for in order to see more clearly. I can watch with greater objectivity the paths my grandchildren choose to follow, can observe with absolute fascination as their lives unfold, and can offer unqualified support as long as they are not harming themselves or others. My love for these four young women and one young man is truly without reservations or conditions. They are a blessing in my life.
My yearning for learning has been another persistent presence in my long life. Even though we were married as undergraduates, my husband and I graduated together and then received our master’s degrees at the same time, for I insisted on equal educational opportunity. Following a brief time working, I became a stay-at-home mother and attended to domestic responsibilities as my daughters grew up. Though I read widely, took some non-credit classes, and worked part time in my profession, my need for something more challenging became increasingly insistent. I had a series of dreams in which I was going back to school, which led to my recognition of that long-suppressed desire for intellectual stimulation. So, following the unmistakable message being given me, at the age of sixty-nine I enrolled in a PhD program, truly the fulfillment of a dream. In 2002, at age seventy-three, exactly fifty years after my previous graduate degree, I received my doctorate in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. It was a deeply rewarding moment.
As for the desire for beauty in my life, I have found numerous modes of expression for satisfying that particular need. The first major item my husband and I purchased after our marriage was a sewing machine. When we finally found ourselves in a proper apartment (not a single room, not a trailer), I used it to make curtains—unbleached muslin trimmed with a figured fabric. I fashioned other household accessories, made all my own clothes, and as our daughters grew, I sewed their pretty little dresses as well. Later on, as our income grew, I purchased paintings and sculptures—largely from local artists whose work I admired—for our home and garden.
But my greatest esthetic accomplishment was in becoming a fine art photographer when I was in my fifties. I collected dried flowers, bones, feathers, old photographs—anything that caught my eye—and arranged the objects into still life compositions, made the exposures, then developed the negatives and processed the prints. My black and white photographs were well received at a number of exhibitions. The images often reflected the sorrows and losses of my life, giving them a haunting and evocative appearance. I had become an artist, capable of creating beautiful pictures, thus helping assuage my thirst for things that please the eye.
Now that I look back on all those wistful wants and nettling needs, I can see that, though they often caused me great anguish, they were at the same time formidable forces, pushing me relentlessly forward as I pursued my life’s goals. I can see now that those feelings of emptiness and barrenness instilled in me an intense, unyielding desire to fill up those huge holes in my psyche with something more caring, more meaningful, and more beautiful than I had known in my early years. The sense of deprivation that caused me so much suffering was also the fuel that fired my creativity, fed my ambition, and furthered my search for knowledge.
I am, therefore, beginning to see the value in those needs which I formerly feared and scorned, for without a hunger for mother-love I might not have sought nourishment in my own mothering and grandmothering; without a desire for knowledge I might never have had the courage to enter a graduate program at age sixty-nine; and without an awareness of the lack of beauty in my surroundings, I might never have known the delight found in providing an attractive living space for my family and in creating beautiful photographs. In other words, without the demands of deficiencies, I might never have known the pleasures of prevailing.
I am overcome with awe and gratitude in that I have—most amazingly—fulfilled my life-long wishes, satisfied my heart-wrenching hungers, and sated my most fervent desires. But perhaps the most important realization is that it was, in fact, my needs that made that fulfillment possible. My needs were the empty vessel that I have spent my life filling up. So, as I enter my ninth decade, I can say, with humility and pride: My cup runneth over.
The strangeness of that feeling of absence of want seeped into me slowly over the next few days and weeks, prompting me to examine its source and its meaning. For most of my life I have been governed, sometimes overwhelmed, by a vast array of needs. Even after I had an ample supply of material goods and plenty of loving support, I frequently pictured myself as one who continued to suffer from extreme deprivation. For a very long time, my sense of “not enough” seemed unshakable.
In my earliest years, the need was for the love and attention of a mother who was too depressed, too needy herself, to give me the kind of emotional nourishment that I so desperately craved. Having lost her mother at an early age, and not receiving any nurturance from step mothers, my mother had no capacity for offering that which she had never experienced herself. So I grew up feeling an emptiness which gave rise to an incessant hunger, for what? Love, acceptance, approval, recognition, reassurance—you name it, I needed it.
Though the dearth of maternal love was certainly central to my neediness, that was not the only thing I was missing. I also lacked intellectual stimulation. I lived in a household in which educational values—reading, learning, discussion—were not encouraged or respected. The neighbors and friends in the Southern rural community in which I grew up were unfailingly kind and generous, but they had little or no curiosity about the workings of the world. They had settled comfortably into a kind of all-knowing state of mind, so it never occurred to them to seek information or to ask questions. As a result of living in that kind of anti-intellectual atmosphere, it was not until much later that I became fully aware of how intensely I hungered for opportunities to express my inquisitiveness, to explore my intellectual capabilities, and to further develop my mind and my spirit.
I also desired beautiful things. Like most young girls, I wanted pretty clothes and I certainly hoped to attract the boys with my appearance. In addition I longed for beauty in my surroundings. I seemed to have an acute visual sense in that I noticed my environment and was sensitive to its esthetic qualities. I envied those of my friends in whose homes the furniture was color coordinated and the walls hung with art. My own home, which had no sense of order or harmony, seemed always bleak and cold, for it was lacking any semblance of coziness or casual comfort. Though I was conscious of the natural splendor displayed in the woods and fields that surrounded our country home, I wished for more beauty—and warmth—inside our house.
There were, of course, other needs, but in retrospect I can see that these three—an insufficiency of mother love, a lack of intellectual stimulation, and the absence of an appreciation for esthetics—were perhaps the most powerful underlying motivational forces of my life. The effort to overcome what appeared to me to be crippling deficiencies in my upbringing determined many of my subsequent decisions and much of my behavior. Paradoxically, it was these very voids that gave shape to my future.
In order to compensate for the absence of mother love that wounded me so deeply, I vowed to be the very best mother I could possibly be for my two daughters. It was not always easy, and I admit to many mistakes and failings along the way, but I did manage to improve considerably on my own mother’s style of mothering. I did not succumb to fits of rage, as my mother frequently did, causing her to wield a nasty switch against my tender flesh. I tried never to diminish my daughters’ accomplishments but to offer encouragement and praise, whereas my own mother could not, out of envy or spite, find it in her heart to support me in my endeavors. I made every effort to champion my daughters in their choices in life whereas my mother refused for many years to acknowledge or accept my marriage to the man I loved, treating him with undeserved hostility and contempt. I am deeply proud of my daughters’ worldly achievements, but it is their own outstanding mothering skills that are most significant in what I view as the healing of our motherline.
Though I was a conscientious and loving mother, it is as a grandmother that I have most fully come to appreciate the kind of unconditional love that we long for and strive to embrace. I did not have a living grandmother, so I have tried to become the kind of grandmother I would have wanted. Being a generation removed from these young people has made it easier for me to be less judgmental, more accepting, more capable of the kind of detachment that is sometimes called for in order to see more clearly. I can watch with greater objectivity the paths my grandchildren choose to follow, can observe with absolute fascination as their lives unfold, and can offer unqualified support as long as they are not harming themselves or others. My love for these four young women and one young man is truly without reservations or conditions. They are a blessing in my life.
My yearning for learning has been another persistent presence in my long life. Even though we were married as undergraduates, my husband and I graduated together and then received our master’s degrees at the same time, for I insisted on equal educational opportunity. Following a brief time working, I became a stay-at-home mother and attended to domestic responsibilities as my daughters grew up. Though I read widely, took some non-credit classes, and worked part time in my profession, my need for something more challenging became increasingly insistent. I had a series of dreams in which I was going back to school, which led to my recognition of that long-suppressed desire for intellectual stimulation. So, following the unmistakable message being given me, at the age of sixty-nine I enrolled in a PhD program, truly the fulfillment of a dream. In 2002, at age seventy-three, exactly fifty years after my previous graduate degree, I received my doctorate in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. It was a deeply rewarding moment.
As for the desire for beauty in my life, I have found numerous modes of expression for satisfying that particular need. The first major item my husband and I purchased after our marriage was a sewing machine. When we finally found ourselves in a proper apartment (not a single room, not a trailer), I used it to make curtains—unbleached muslin trimmed with a figured fabric. I fashioned other household accessories, made all my own clothes, and as our daughters grew, I sewed their pretty little dresses as well. Later on, as our income grew, I purchased paintings and sculptures—largely from local artists whose work I admired—for our home and garden.
But my greatest esthetic accomplishment was in becoming a fine art photographer when I was in my fifties. I collected dried flowers, bones, feathers, old photographs—anything that caught my eye—and arranged the objects into still life compositions, made the exposures, then developed the negatives and processed the prints. My black and white photographs were well received at a number of exhibitions. The images often reflected the sorrows and losses of my life, giving them a haunting and evocative appearance. I had become an artist, capable of creating beautiful pictures, thus helping assuage my thirst for things that please the eye.
Now that I look back on all those wistful wants and nettling needs, I can see that, though they often caused me great anguish, they were at the same time formidable forces, pushing me relentlessly forward as I pursued my life’s goals. I can see now that those feelings of emptiness and barrenness instilled in me an intense, unyielding desire to fill up those huge holes in my psyche with something more caring, more meaningful, and more beautiful than I had known in my early years. The sense of deprivation that caused me so much suffering was also the fuel that fired my creativity, fed my ambition, and furthered my search for knowledge.
I am, therefore, beginning to see the value in those needs which I formerly feared and scorned, for without a hunger for mother-love I might not have sought nourishment in my own mothering and grandmothering; without a desire for knowledge I might never have had the courage to enter a graduate program at age sixty-nine; and without an awareness of the lack of beauty in my surroundings, I might never have known the delight found in providing an attractive living space for my family and in creating beautiful photographs. In other words, without the demands of deficiencies, I might never have known the pleasures of prevailing.
I am overcome with awe and gratitude in that I have—most amazingly—fulfilled my life-long wishes, satisfied my heart-wrenching hungers, and sated my most fervent desires. But perhaps the most important realization is that it was, in fact, my needs that made that fulfillment possible. My needs were the empty vessel that I have spent my life filling up. So, as I enter my ninth decade, I can say, with humility and pride: My cup runneth over.
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