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.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
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.
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