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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
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.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
THE ESSENCE OF EIGHTY
I am eighty years old. I am a widow. I live alone. My hair is gray, my face is lined, my breasts are sagging, my belly is bulging, my knees are creaky, my voice is croaky, my back is sore, my hands are covered with age spots, my fingers are gnarled, my energy and my hearing are fading, and my memory sometimes fails me. And yet, I can say without reservation that I have never been happier.
How can that be? Given the emphasis our culture places on the physical attributes of strength and beauty, I should be disheartened, even deeply depressed. But conventional wisdom, with its focus on old age as a time of decline and debility, misses much of the essence of what it means to grow old. As I said in the little talk I gave at the party celebrating my eightieth birthday, one of the gifts of age is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery. Though as elders we may suffer losses in vigor and in appearance, we stand to gain in the strength of our character and in the power of our capacity to face with calm endurance whatever life has to offer.
Those of us fortunate enough to live long have learned that we are best served when we can refrain from fighting the flow of life. We have learned that we may face bewildering burdens, unanticipated afflictions, unwanted encumbrances, or trying treacheries, but in spite of these trials, life goes on, so we might as well embrace our destiny with as much graciousness as we can muster. Many of us, by the time we reach our eighties, have learned to navigate the currents of life, giving ourselves over to the ebb and flow while still maintaining our buoyancy and our orientation. We have learned not to move too insistently upstream, against the current; we have learned not to allow ourselves to be pulled down by the undertow of discouraging events, but manage to keep our heads above water—at least most of the time. Throughout our lives we have been taught to swim ahead with determination, to steer our way courageously through rocky rapids, to thrash around vigorously when frightened or threatened. Later we discover that it is often to our advantage to let go, to just gently, fearlessly, float. The older we get, it seems, the easier the floating becomes. We have learned the importance of giving ourselves over to the natural flow of our lives.
One of my personal examples of this challenge was in dealing with Norm during his years of Alzheimer’s disease. During the early years of his illness there was a widely-accepted philosophy that those with dementia should be constantly brought back to the “real” world, that they should be corrected when making misstatements, admonished when forgetting personal information, or reminded to refrain from fantasy. I rejected that perspective, and instead accepted him wherever he was, did not correct his errors, did not admonish him for his forgetfulness, or disrespect his fantasy life. During one stage of his illness he daily reported overnight trips to China, Russia, England, and other exotic places that he took with a fellow resident, a woman whom he described as his companion and driver. (She of course was oblivious of her role in his imaginary travels.) I smiled when told of these excursions, and expressed my interest in his trips. My straightforward acceptance of his stories pleased him, made him less anxious, and made life better for me also. If he was happy in his imaginary world, why should I disturb that?
Another challenge for me was when my daughter Laura was ill with life-threatening cancer. She was near death on more than one occasion, and often seemed to have descended into a dark place of hopelessness and despair. Most persons wished me to emphasize the positive, to focus on her recovery, to insist that she look on the bright side, but I could see that that approach was not helpful to her or to me. I eventually came to believe, and accept, that whatever path she took, whatever her soul chose to do, whether it was life or death, would be all right. This radical, rather astonishing, acceptance actually brought me peace and comfort. Though that was more than five years ago, I was learning then to truly appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery—and I emphasize the mystery. Of course, I do not deny my joyful relief when she chose life.
Advancing age also allows us a sense of detachment that does not seem readily available when we are young. Perhaps it is due to the accumulation of experience, but we finally recognize that life is not made up of just blacks and whites, wrongs and rights, but that events and relationships are full of complexities and complications. I personally find it harder now to decisively place blame, for I can usually see the points of view of both sides of contentious issues. Recently my granddaughter’s engagement was broken, her wedding cancelled, a terribly traumatic happening in her young life. She feels betrayed, is heartbroken and angry, understandably so. My heart goes out to her. But, unlike many familiar with the circumstances, I admit to also having sympathy for the young man. I can also see his suffering. Had this been my daughter rather than my granddaughter, I doubt I could have brought this perspective of distance. It comes as a virtue of age.
Another advantage of increasing age is the development of patience. One of the things I am most proud of in my handling of Norm’s illness is that I quickly learned the necessity of remaining patient, regardless of his often frustrating behavior. Sometimes he repeated himself endlessly, telling the same stories over and over again. One example is when he told me dozens of times a day how important it was to have compassion, a situation in which my own compassion was sorely tried! Then there was the matter of getting dressed. During one period, it would take him several hours just to put his pants on. If I had a deadline or if I had other things to do, that was of no concern to him. Still, I rarely became irritated, but remained calm, gently prodding him to get on with the task at hand. I had always considered myself somewhat volatile and impatient, but I learned that patience is a quality with great advantages, for it avoids the wasteful expenditure of energy when demanding punctuality of things that cannot be scheduled or hurried.
Acceptance, detachment, and patience are related, as if tied together with one thread. One reinforces and strengthens the other. To have one is to make the other more accessible. They also seem to me to be qualities that are especially related to the ripeness of old age. For many of us who are fortunate enough to live into our eighth and ninth decades, a kind of mellowness permeates our being. In spite of the inevitable sorrows and serious setbacks we experience, we continue to savor those precious moments of serenity and simple satisfaction and our hearts are filled with gratitude.
Before I am misunderstood, I wish to point out that, of course, youth also has its virtues. The energy, enthusiasm, ambition, freshness, and beauty that young people possess invigorate and stimulate our lives and our culture. We absolutely need the qualities that youthfulness brings; we need that unsullied zeal, that exuberance, that eagerness, that passion, that keen desire for something new and exciting. Those characteristics are invaluable in producing inventive ideas and bringing about much needed change. But as we acknowledge the significance of the contributions of the early stages of life, let us not forget to value the gifts of old age, for these are all too often dismissed and denigrated. Old age has been badly misrepresented and is frequently underrated. I may not be the attractive young woman I once was, but I would not trade this stage of life for that earlier one. If satisfaction and contentment count for anything, then old age wins hands down.
How can that be? Given the emphasis our culture places on the physical attributes of strength and beauty, I should be disheartened, even deeply depressed. But conventional wisdom, with its focus on old age as a time of decline and debility, misses much of the essence of what it means to grow old. As I said in the little talk I gave at the party celebrating my eightieth birthday, one of the gifts of age is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery. Though as elders we may suffer losses in vigor and in appearance, we stand to gain in the strength of our character and in the power of our capacity to face with calm endurance whatever life has to offer.
Those of us fortunate enough to live long have learned that we are best served when we can refrain from fighting the flow of life. We have learned that we may face bewildering burdens, unanticipated afflictions, unwanted encumbrances, or trying treacheries, but in spite of these trials, life goes on, so we might as well embrace our destiny with as much graciousness as we can muster. Many of us, by the time we reach our eighties, have learned to navigate the currents of life, giving ourselves over to the ebb and flow while still maintaining our buoyancy and our orientation. We have learned not to move too insistently upstream, against the current; we have learned not to allow ourselves to be pulled down by the undertow of discouraging events, but manage to keep our heads above water—at least most of the time. Throughout our lives we have been taught to swim ahead with determination, to steer our way courageously through rocky rapids, to thrash around vigorously when frightened or threatened. Later we discover that it is often to our advantage to let go, to just gently, fearlessly, float. The older we get, it seems, the easier the floating becomes. We have learned the importance of giving ourselves over to the natural flow of our lives.
One of my personal examples of this challenge was in dealing with Norm during his years of Alzheimer’s disease. During the early years of his illness there was a widely-accepted philosophy that those with dementia should be constantly brought back to the “real” world, that they should be corrected when making misstatements, admonished when forgetting personal information, or reminded to refrain from fantasy. I rejected that perspective, and instead accepted him wherever he was, did not correct his errors, did not admonish him for his forgetfulness, or disrespect his fantasy life. During one stage of his illness he daily reported overnight trips to China, Russia, England, and other exotic places that he took with a fellow resident, a woman whom he described as his companion and driver. (She of course was oblivious of her role in his imaginary travels.) I smiled when told of these excursions, and expressed my interest in his trips. My straightforward acceptance of his stories pleased him, made him less anxious, and made life better for me also. If he was happy in his imaginary world, why should I disturb that?
Another challenge for me was when my daughter Laura was ill with life-threatening cancer. She was near death on more than one occasion, and often seemed to have descended into a dark place of hopelessness and despair. Most persons wished me to emphasize the positive, to focus on her recovery, to insist that she look on the bright side, but I could see that that approach was not helpful to her or to me. I eventually came to believe, and accept, that whatever path she took, whatever her soul chose to do, whether it was life or death, would be all right. This radical, rather astonishing, acceptance actually brought me peace and comfort. Though that was more than five years ago, I was learning then to truly appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery—and I emphasize the mystery. Of course, I do not deny my joyful relief when she chose life.
Advancing age also allows us a sense of detachment that does not seem readily available when we are young. Perhaps it is due to the accumulation of experience, but we finally recognize that life is not made up of just blacks and whites, wrongs and rights, but that events and relationships are full of complexities and complications. I personally find it harder now to decisively place blame, for I can usually see the points of view of both sides of contentious issues. Recently my granddaughter’s engagement was broken, her wedding cancelled, a terribly traumatic happening in her young life. She feels betrayed, is heartbroken and angry, understandably so. My heart goes out to her. But, unlike many familiar with the circumstances, I admit to also having sympathy for the young man. I can also see his suffering. Had this been my daughter rather than my granddaughter, I doubt I could have brought this perspective of distance. It comes as a virtue of age.
Another advantage of increasing age is the development of patience. One of the things I am most proud of in my handling of Norm’s illness is that I quickly learned the necessity of remaining patient, regardless of his often frustrating behavior. Sometimes he repeated himself endlessly, telling the same stories over and over again. One example is when he told me dozens of times a day how important it was to have compassion, a situation in which my own compassion was sorely tried! Then there was the matter of getting dressed. During one period, it would take him several hours just to put his pants on. If I had a deadline or if I had other things to do, that was of no concern to him. Still, I rarely became irritated, but remained calm, gently prodding him to get on with the task at hand. I had always considered myself somewhat volatile and impatient, but I learned that patience is a quality with great advantages, for it avoids the wasteful expenditure of energy when demanding punctuality of things that cannot be scheduled or hurried.
Acceptance, detachment, and patience are related, as if tied together with one thread. One reinforces and strengthens the other. To have one is to make the other more accessible. They also seem to me to be qualities that are especially related to the ripeness of old age. For many of us who are fortunate enough to live into our eighth and ninth decades, a kind of mellowness permeates our being. In spite of the inevitable sorrows and serious setbacks we experience, we continue to savor those precious moments of serenity and simple satisfaction and our hearts are filled with gratitude.
Before I am misunderstood, I wish to point out that, of course, youth also has its virtues. The energy, enthusiasm, ambition, freshness, and beauty that young people possess invigorate and stimulate our lives and our culture. We absolutely need the qualities that youthfulness brings; we need that unsullied zeal, that exuberance, that eagerness, that passion, that keen desire for something new and exciting. Those characteristics are invaluable in producing inventive ideas and bringing about much needed change. But as we acknowledge the significance of the contributions of the early stages of life, let us not forget to value the gifts of old age, for these are all too often dismissed and denigrated. Old age has been badly misrepresented and is frequently underrated. I may not be the attractive young woman I once was, but I would not trade this stage of life for that earlier one. If satisfaction and contentment count for anything, then old age wins hands down.
A POEM FOR ME FROM JESSICA
To Gaga, a poem about your fire.
When I am an old woman I shall wear red
With fantastic jewelry
And painted pink toes
I will drive too fast
Grow beautiful gardens of flowers and herbs
I will drink bottles of wine
Eat fine cheese and nuts and fruit
I will have a family that adores me
And an array of lovely friends,
artists and priests, chefs and writers, teachers and scholars, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, old, young, here, there…
I will read books and write books
I will learn, I will go to school
And make art, take photos
I will give great hugs.
I will go to dinners,
I will cook,
And have parties
And sing and dance and travel
I will be wise, and have grey hair
And glasses and
Beautiful wrinkled hands.
When I am an old woman I will wear red, and black and gold and white and perhaps purple too,
When I am old I will be me.
I love all that you are.
Thank you for being born.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jess
When I am an old woman I shall wear red
With fantastic jewelry
And painted pink toes
I will drive too fast
Grow beautiful gardens of flowers and herbs
I will drink bottles of wine
Eat fine cheese and nuts and fruit
I will have a family that adores me
And an array of lovely friends,
artists and priests, chefs and writers, teachers and scholars, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, old, young, here, there…
I will read books and write books
I will learn, I will go to school
And make art, take photos
I will give great hugs.
I will go to dinners,
I will cook,
And have parties
And sing and dance and travel
I will be wise, and have grey hair
And glasses and
Beautiful wrinkled hands.
When I am an old woman I will wear red, and black and gold and white and perhaps purple too,
When I am old I will be me.
I love all that you are.
Thank you for being born.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jess
A TOAST BY LAURA AT MY 80TH BIRTHDAY PARTY
We are here to celebrate 80 birthdays and 59 anniversaries, 55 years of mothering, 28 years of grandmothering, and six months of great-grandmothering. These markings are the raw numbers of old age, but they don’t reflect the memories, stories, lessons and wisdom that come to us in snippets or snapshots or the fullness of a life lived with intensity and insight. That my mother has taken pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard—to share these is a gift to us and a bequest to future generations.
Each of us has entered my mother’s book in a different chapter—some long ago, some more recently—but we are, nevertheless, all part of a story that began in rural North Carolina and moved across the country to the suburbs of St. Louis. The end is not yet written, so we will refrain from speculation, but suffice it to say that we will be eagerly awaiting the sequel at her 90th birthday celebration. But as we reflect today upon the time we have been give with our mother, grandmother, confidant and friend, however long or short, we are reminded that our connections with one another constitute our greatest blessing and though we choose to celebrate the length of our lives, it is their essence that is more worthy of recognition. And so it is true here.
To that end, let us make a toast to times shared, advice given and sought, wisdom imparted, stories remembered and, of course, the joy of reading. Happy Birthday, Mom, and may there be many more chapters to come.
Each of us has entered my mother’s book in a different chapter—some long ago, some more recently—but we are, nevertheless, all part of a story that began in rural North Carolina and moved across the country to the suburbs of St. Louis. The end is not yet written, so we will refrain from speculation, but suffice it to say that we will be eagerly awaiting the sequel at her 90th birthday celebration. But as we reflect today upon the time we have been give with our mother, grandmother, confidant and friend, however long or short, we are reminded that our connections with one another constitute our greatest blessing and though we choose to celebrate the length of our lives, it is their essence that is more worthy of recognition. And so it is true here.
To that end, let us make a toast to times shared, advice given and sought, wisdom imparted, stories remembered and, of course, the joy of reading. Happy Birthday, Mom, and may there be many more chapters to come.
COMMENTS TO PARTY GUESTS: AUGUST 23, 2008
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!
Thank you for being here and helping me celebrate my eightieth birthday! I was especially eager to reach this milestone because I wanted to tell you how wonderful it is and how lucky I am to have lived this long. We all know that growing old brings inevitable failings and losses, but it is important to remember that it also provides us with untold opportunities and rewards, even pleasures, among which is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery.
I also wanted this occasion in order to express my gratitude to all of you—my family and my friends—for all of you have contributed to the richness and fullness of my life. Many of you have been with me through both dark times and bright times. When I needed to talk, you listened to me; when I was confused, you helped straighten me out; when I was depressed, you cheered me up; when I was joyful, you laughed with me, and recently, when I was grieving Norm’s death, you comforted me. Throughout the years your love and support have sustained and nourished me. The little spider on my invitation suggested that I am still weaving the web of my life and I am incredibly blessed to have caught each one of you in that web!
As a token of my appreciation, I have a gift for you—my long-awaited book, Leafings and Branchings, which tells the story of my life. I have had many interesting experiences as I traveled from my childhood, raised during the Great Depression on a farm in North Carolina, in a house without electricity or running water, to the comfortable, privileged, and gratifying life I lead today. I hope you will get half as much pleasure in reading about my life’s journey as I did in writing about it. I would love to hear your impressions after you read it. There will be copies stacked on the table by the front door, so as you leave you may take a copy with you if you wish.
Perhaps you noticed that on my invitations the “eighties” were hanging from a tree like ripened fruit—just as are the ones on the tree in my garden. I would like to share with you a short poem, called Halcyon Days, written by Walt Whitman when in his seventies, for in many ways it reflects my own sentiments.
Not from successful love alone,
Nor wealth, nor honor’d middle age, nor victories of politics or war;
But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passion calm,
As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky,
As softness, fullness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,
As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last
hangs really finish’d and indolent-ripe on the tree,
Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all!
The brooding and blissful halcyon days!
So, here’s to being eighty—the brooding, blissful, happiest days of all!
PRESENTATION OF MY BOOK TO MY FAMILY
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.
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