#19: Limits

 

I found myself taking inventory of the obstacles and upsets that people I knew were dealing with. There were children with autism. Parents with Alzheimer's. Financial crises. Career disasters. Addiction. Abuse.

And that was merely the stuff at the tip of my nose, in plain sight. How much else lurked beneath the surface? Show me someone with a seemingly unbroken stride and unfettered path. More often than not, he or she is hampered and haunted in ways that you can't imagine.

....What I am going through is what everyone endures as the years accumulate and the wear and tear starts to show. It's aging writ vivid and large. I'm bumping up against my limits. The trick is figuring out when to focus on them and when to look away. 

Am I Going Blind? by Frank Bruni 

New York Times Sunday, February 25, 2018

On Tuesday, I celebrated my friend's 60th birthday with a group of wonderful women. Inevitably, discussion turned to the milestone of reaching another decade of life and the challenges of aging. For me, 40 was far more notable than reaching 50, because my body sent me the first indications that I was aging: aches and pains, wrinkles and gray hair, and restless nights made their first appearances. Prior to 40, aging was completely off my radar -- never discussed or considered in any way. Even menopause was a mystery to me.

Part of my ignorance rests in the fact that my father has aged incredibly well. He has always looked young for his age, has never battled any chronic illness, and has exuded boundless energy. At 84, my father remains active and engaged in the activities he most values like walking and biking, gardening and woodworking, helping family and neighbors. I have always imagined that I would age just like him, I guess. However, in my 40's, I began to see in the smallest but most unanticipated ways that my body was going to be worse for wear. I could no longer deny that I would have limitations of one sort or another as I got older even if I aged as well as my father.

When I think of aging, I often return to a brief encounter with an older women who seemed to embody a sense of how I would want to age. In my early 30's, I was invited to attend a Harvard Principals Summer Institute, a three week program for new principals. We engaged in intensive learning throughout the day and socialized most evenings. At a dinner one night, Harvard rolled out the dance floor and a DJ encouraged us to dance with Motown hits and disco beats. I remember being mesmerized by an African American woman from Houston. She was tall, big boned, and angular. She wore a colorful dress, orthotic shoes, and a well-coiffed hairdo, a look that reminded me of how many women were portrayed in movies in the 1950's. As she danced, she lived in the music and the moment. It wasn't beautiful or graceful, but it was freeing and all-encompassing. She enjoyed herself with every fiber of her being, and her dancing was magnetic. I wanted to let loose, too, but I was too self-conscious, too intimidated, too uncomfortable in my own skin.

As the years have passed, I realize that rather than simply bumping up to my physical limits aging may be more about coming into my own. Each year, I feel like I am understanding who I am all the better and shedding notions of who I ought to be. I am finding and expressing my own passions and desires rather than the expectations I perceive that others may have for me. I want to be fully myself rather than a carbon copy of someone else. I care less of what others think of me and care more that I am content with myself. I like to think of this as a shedding of all the layers of uncertainty that come with youth only to reveal more of the pure essence of who I am and have always been as a person.

As I reach the core of who I am, the essential elements of my being, I am able to make the most of every moment and live with greater contentment in the present. I know that some people just seem to instinctively be themselves fully and completely from early on and couldn't imagine being anyone else for one moment -- in fact, it would be impossible for them. In contrast, I have been slow to embrace myself, slow to remember that a daffodil has always been a daffodil and couldn't ever be a tulip. In the same way, I have always been myself and couldn't ever be anyone else, yet it took me a long time to see the foolishness of such yearnings and uncover the wisdom even nature understood.

As such, I am no longer a spring chicken, but I will no longer focus on the limitations of aging. Rather, I will watch the daffodils emerge from the soil once again this March with surprise. I always forget where they were planted and am sure to find myself startled by their color against a backdrop of brown, wet leaves. I will pause to see the beauty of being a daffodil and nothing else, of being myself and no one else. May I make it my mantra to dance among the dew drops, in the kitchen with my husband to the laughter of my daughters, and in my soul to the beat of my own drum without hesitation. May I embrace aging for all it might possibly offer rather than only see what it might take away.

Some Glad Morning

Joyce Sutphen

One day, something very old

happened again. The green

came back to the branches,

settling like leafy birds

on the highest twigs;

the ground broke open

as dark as coffee beans.

The clouds took up their

positions in the deep stadium

of the sky, gloving the

bright orb of the sun

before they pitched it

over the horizon.

It was as good as ever:

the air was filled

with the scent of lilacs

and cherry blossoms

sounded their long

whistle down the track.

It was some glad morning.

#13: Books

"What an astonishing thing a book is. It is a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts, on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person. [...] Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. Books are proof that humans are capable of working magic." Carl Sagan

Despite the advice writers get to journal, I was never able to engage regularly in the practice, especially in regards to my day-to-day life. I tend to be the person who is so exhausted at the end of the day that I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. Reflecting on and documenting my rather mundane life as the warning light on my personal battery begins to flash is an exercise in futility. I am lucky to get a few pages of reading in before my brain turns out the lights.

However, I have been able to keep two long-term journals of a different sort. One is a journal of quotes and poems I have collected over the years. Naturally, I organize them around a single word which encapsulates the theme of the quote or the gist of the poem. The second journal is a list, beginning in the millennium, of all the books I have read, including date of completion, title and author. To be clear, the list only includes books I have read from cover to cover. I mention this because I read prolifically elsewhere as well, particularly articles in newspapers, magazines, periodicals, and online sources. Further, I have had to work hard over the years to give myself permission to stop a book I began that didn't grab me. This may be due in part to my obsessive, perfectionist personality and in part to my years as a graduate student, who had to plow through stacks of obligatory reading -- personal interests be dammed! Somehow I always struggled to sacrifice the time already invested and set a book aside midstream.


Recently, I took the time to look more closely at the list of books I have read over eighteen years. I was inspired after reading the following from a Philip Roth interview in the New York Times:

C.M. What have you been reading lately?
P.R. I seem to have veered off course lately and read a heterogeneous collection of books. I’ve read three books by Ta-Nehisi Coates, the most telling from a literary point of view, “The Beautiful Struggle,” his memoir of the boyhood challenge from his father. From reading Coates I learned about Nell Irvin Painter’s provocatively titled compendium “The History of White People.” Painter sent me back to American history, to Edmund Morgan’s “American Slavery, American Freedom,” a big scholarly history of what Morgan calls “the marriage of slavery and freedom” as it existed in early Virginia. Reading Morgan led me circuitously to reading the essays of Teju Cole, though not before my making a major swerve by reading Stephen Greenblatt’s “The Swerve,” about the circumstances of the 15th-century discovery of the manuscript of Lucretius’ subversive “On the Nature of Things.” This led to my tackling some of Lucretius’ long poem, written sometime in the first century B.C.E., in a prose translation by A. E. Stallings. From there I went on to read Greenblatt’s book about “how Shakespeare became Shakespeare,” “Will in the World.” How in the midst of all this I came to read and enjoy Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography, “Born to Run,” I can’t explain other than to say that part of the pleasure of now having so much time at my disposal to read whatever comes my way invites unpremeditated surprises.

Don't you love the way Roth recounts what he has been reading like a series of clues he uncovered or a journey, where one piece of reading led to another. Sometimes, he veered off course and meandered through an unexpected text. Other times, one book simply peaked his curiosity in another author or pushed him to explore a topic further; one book taught him something and directed him to learn more. Roth beautifully exemplifies how books are magical landscapes for the inquisitive mind.

Looking back on my reading list, anyone could discern that I have a penchant for female writers, memoir, and poetry. One would know that I became a parent, knew grief and often sought the company of those who write and garden and prepare food. The list includes periods of time when I sought inspiration or explored gratitude or deeply reflected on nature along with those who formally and informally study its workings. No one could say I only read the latest novels to top the bestseller lists in any given year, but one would know that I dabbled in serious works of fiction along with those much lighter in essence, particularly in the summer. I am grateful for this archive, a reminder of how one's life in the world intertwines with one's life of the mind. 

One of the first books I remember owning was a hard back picture book compilation of Grimms' Fairy Tales, including Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, The Goose Girl, and Jorinde and Joringel that I received from my aunt at Christmas. I was in elementary school and certainly read other books I owned or borrowed regularly from the library, but this book remains with me to this very day as the first log in my memory's reading list. I can still see some of the illustrations very clearly in my mind and remember poring over it repeatedly. Here began my journey as an independent reader which has led over the years to the book I just finished last night, Hourglass by Dani Shapiro. So many books in between are forgotten, particularly before I began my formal reading journal, but the magical journey continues just the same: one book at a time read with great pleasure.

#12: Road

45 Synonyms for Road

1. alley: a narrow street, especially one providing access to the rear of buildings or lots between blocks
2. alleyway: see alley
3. arterial: a through street or highway
4. artery: a major road
5. avenue: a road or street
6. backstreet: a street set off from a main street
7. beltway: a highway passing around an urban area
8. boulevard: a wide road, often divided and/or landscaped
9. branch: a side road
10. bypass: a road passing around a town
11. bystreet: see backstreet
12. byway: see backstreet
13. causeway: a highway, especially one raised across water or wet ground
14. circle: a curving street, especially one intersecting at both ends on another street
15. close: a road closed at one end
16. corniche: a coastal road, especially alongside a cliff face
17. corridor: a local or regional route in the Appalachian region of the United States
18. crossroad: a road that crosses a main road or runs between main roads
19. court: a road closed at one end, especially with a circular end
20. cul-de-sac: see court
21. dead end: a road closed at one end
22. drag: slang pertaining to a road often traveled on as a leisurely pastime (or, as “main drag,” slang referring to the principal road, or one of the principal roads, in a city or town)
23. drive: a public road
24. expressway: a high-speed divided highway with partially or fully controlled access
25. freeway: an expressway with fully controlled access
26. highway: a main road
27. interstate: an expressway that traverses more than one state
28. lane: a road, often narrow (also refers to the portion of a road set apart for a single line of vehicles)
29. Main Street: the principal street of a town
30. parkway: a landscaped road
31. pike: see turnpike
32. place: a short street
33. route: see highway
34. row: a designation sometimes given to roads in place of road, drive, etc.
35. secondary road: a road subordinate to a main road
36. shunpike: a side road used to avoid a main road or a toll road
37. side road: a road that intersects with a main road
38. side street: see “side road”
39. street: a road within a city or town
40. superhighway: an expressway for high-speed traffic
41. thoroughfare: a main road, or a road that intersects with more than one other road
42. through street: see thoroughfare
43. throughway: see expressway
44. turnpike: a main road, especially one on which tolls are or were collected
45. way: a designation sometimes given to roads in place of road, drive, etc.

When my father recounts his childhood surviving the perils of WWII Germany, I am always struck by my good fortune. What if starvation had finally overcome him? What if he had not fled the Soviets, leaving his homeland behind to embrace his fate as a refugee? What if he had not been plucked from the line up and instead been executed along with the others? What if he had not seized the opportunity to emigrate to America? A thousand small detours and intersections on the road map of a life now 84 years long. Innumerable choices by others to act or help or sacrifice in uncharted territory would eventually permit me to grow up amidst the untold privileges of a life in this country. 

Of course, millions were not so fortunate which is why I commit my familial fate to memory. I hold my father's legacy, this mythical story I have written in part for myself with limited knowledge of actual events, as a guiding light on the journey. It reminds me how fragile life is, how easy it is to take one's circumstances for granted and squander undeserving gifts granted unselfishly by others, how different the existence of my fellow men and women both near and far remains, and how the context of the world continues to evolve while human behavior remains fundamentally the same. I use my familial legacy as my personal GPS in life, knowing I cannot always direct the itinerary, but I can decide the road I take. 

I see living as really about one life -- my own. It begins with me and ends with me. In between is all about the life I live, the choices I make and turns I take given the lot fate (or faith as you may see it) has handed me. And, I try, really try, to live up to the personal mission statement I outlined in an earlier post this month. However, I can honestly say that the road is rough sometimes. Perhaps, really rough and more often than I care to admit. Recently, I found the list of synonyms above for the word road on Daily Writing Tips. I thought of how the road I travel is often best described by these synonyms like how I would prefer to bypass the tough decisions. Or, how a decision leads me directly to a dead end. Or, how I am sure a decision leads me to the superhighway only to find out that I have been directed to a shunpike instead.

Given how hard it is to change, trying to take the right exit off of a roundabout may be the most vexing of all for me. I have every intention of taking a different route, the road less traveled (perhaps, as an ode to Robert Frost?), but miss the turn and drive round and round in circles instead. I end up driving in a rut I have created for myself or, worse yet, completely stuck in the mud with tires spinning. You see, I also lead a life full of what ifs. I have always been great at reading maps but not always so good at choosing the best route to take, if you know what I mean. In particular, my sense of direction stinks.

So, if my familial legacy has taught me anything at all, it's that I can't lament the road not taken. This can quickly turn into a pity party. Rather, I keep driving, get directions from others who know the terrain, and reroute. I can't control the weather or the construction delays or the heavy traffic. So, I try to enjoy the view from the steering wheel no matter what I encounter on the road and make the best of life's journey as it meanders in unexpected ways. Oh, and I carpool. Otherwise, it's a long and lonely haul. Besides, there is room in the car and always someone who needs a ride. All I need to do is pull up, open the passenger door, and offer. We'll see where the road takes us from here. Hop in!

The Journey

Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save. 

#9: Ordinary

Last weekend, my husband and I listened to "Three Miles," a segment on This American Life. (I can't urge you enough to listen to this program, if not right now then as soon as possible!) Our political climate has been charged in the last few years with issues of race and class and immigration which are all so clearly laid out in this piece and impact the American education system in varied and complex ways. Similar to the students profiled, I am living proof of the impact on a child's life by the school attended which is connected to the location of one's home which is connected to the socio-economic mobility of one's family.

Like most elementary school kids, who are immigrants themselves or are the children of immigrants, I wanted nothing more as a child than to be ordinary. I wanted to blend into my elementary school and lead an average American life even though I really had no idea what that meant. So much of child psychology revolves around love and acceptance which can be more convoluted for an immigrant child, especially one as shy and quiet as I was, who had to find a way to acculturate and still retain her heritage. And, I knew I was far from ordinary.

When I entered Kindergarten at Dixon Elementary School, I didn't speak English, and it took years for my pronunciation and vocabulary to catch up to that of my peers. My father had worked very hard and scrimped and saved for years to finally move his children to the suburbs from the urban core where the education of my older sister and brother had come into question. However, my mother had just left home and never turned back. In the early 1970's, no one talked about divorce and I certainly didn't either. As a result, I assumed I was the only child from a broken home, particularly a single family home headed by a father with a sixth grade education. As the years passed, I figured out I was wrong about the prevalence of divorce but certainly not in error about how mothers dominated the custody scene.

Being raised by a working class immigrant father, my looks were never of great concern. My clothes were often hand sewn by my aunts or secondhand, and I took charge of my hair and personal cleanliness. I must have garnered a fair bit of attention in my affluent, suburban public school, particularly after I had to get glasses in the third grade and chose octagonal-shaped frames. I was also born with a cerebral cyst which caused a skull deformation on the right side of my head. No clothing or hairstyle would ever hide this fact. However, to be honest, I don't ever, EVER, remember being bullied or teased which would not have been a surprise given how different I was from everybody else. I can only surmise that I must have blocked it out over the years or been extremely good at ignoring the world around me in real time as I tried to blend into the background.

In part, I may also have benefited from being identified as "gifted." I remember being given the IQ test, I believe, in my first or second year of school which resulted in being shuttled off to GT (Gifted and Talented Class) a few times each week for supplemental, educational programming with Ms. Naven. GT allowed me to enter into a select, social group with status and led me down the path to college from nearly the first day I entered school until I graduated. College was never an option; it was expected and driven by my teachers. My intellect was nurtured until I was fully prepared to succeed in higher education such that my father soon believed, too, acquiesced, and financially supported me to the best of his ability.

My education also gave me two intangible and invaluable gifts: a sense of self worth and the ability to embrace the extraordinary. Children's self-perception is driven in large part by what the adults and environment tell them. I was identified as smart; thus, my intelligence was cultivated. So, I performed at a high level, and I came to believe I was smart. My intellectual abilities built my self esteem and slowly encouraged me to welcome the extraordinary, to accept myself for who I was in ways both ordinary and exceptional. Even though a college education was new to my family, I believed I deserved to go to college and would excel there.

I realize that the greatest injustice currently perpetuated and reinforced by our institutions is very simple: some individuals are worthy; some are not. Some are worthy of world class educations; some are not. Some are worthy of comprehensive, preventative health care; some are not. Some are worthy of justice; some are not. Of course, I could go on and on. Instead, I would like to suggest that perhaps opportunity and excellence ought to be ordinary. An outstanding public school education ought not be the exception but the rule. In fact, democracy demands we accept nothing less. If people are among our most important resources, then we must invest in each and every one until our highest standards become every day. And, as my elementary teachers best exemplified, believing remains the first and most important step in making the extraordinary ordinary.

Ordinary Life

Barbara Crooker

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night. 

#8: Hard Work

The sun has emerged just as the earth is heaving a huge sigh of relief for the long cold spell is breaking today. The heat pump which struggled to keep us warm as we are accustomed in our large house full of windows has taken leave to rest. The frost has disappeared, the ice has melted, and the soil has softened, allowing the scent of earth to waft as we crunch leaves and walk George. He responds by digging with his nose, smelling and rooting for things we cannot sense. He knows his good fortune.

The squirrels are busy bounding and searching for hidden treasures. The crows are loud and mischievous. The deer, still in herds, are out and about. Yet, no one is fooled for the sun doesn't tell a lie. The days are still short and the light angled on the horizon just below the visor's reach to blind on the late afternoon drive as I pick up my younger daughter from school, reminders that winter has just begun. Although I wanted only to nest and expend energy primarily staying warm, comforted, and nourished over the last two weeks, I feel the urge to get things done, to check a few things off the perennial list of tasks that eluded me as the temperatures fell to the single digits.

Getting to work, I feel better. I come from a family of hard workers, of self-made men and women who made a better life for themselves and their children with a bit of luck and lots of sweat equity. I know that a good work ethic can get one much farther than innate abilities or intelligence -- not that those hurt but one can overcome many deficiencies with focused and determined effort. Back when I hired staff and teachers, I looked for those ready to roll up their sleeves. Nonprofits and educational institutions are not made for those who aren't ready to labor long and strenuously to make a vision become a reality.

I think we tend to forget that it is a privilege to work hard at something we value and enjoy -- not every day or every task, of course, but for the most part. Ask someone out of work and looking to return or those whose physical challenges now block them from fully engaging in their work lives. And, I think of those who may never know the joys of engaging, hard work, living in communities where jobs are far and few between. My father held a full-time job from age 14 until well into his 70's. The deprivations of WWII made him fully aware that it is a privilege to work hard and provide for self and family. Of course, earning a living wage in the process is also part of the equation, but let's leave that topic for another day. 

Now, I can set my complaints about the cold weather aside. I can enjoy the thaw and get to work. I can be useful with purpose and join the masses who simply get things done. Day is dawning, streaming through barren branches, yet the trees are hard at work, too. Buds are slowly emerging and preparations are well underway for spring. All living things join in production as the earth continues to spin and the seasons pass one day at a time.

To Be of Use

Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

#7: Mission

As I am sure is true for you, every business or organization I have worked for has had a mission statement, defining concisely its purpose for being. Mission statements may encompass goals and serve to focus the work to be accomplished, separating out what is important from what is not. As such, every decision to be made from the most significant to the most minute ought to hinge on fulfilling the mission. I can also say resolutely that every business or organization I have worked for has struggled to stay focused on its mission. Humans are easily distracted and struggle with the complexity decisions may embody.

In public discourse, I think we often fail to discuss the mission of our institutions and often proceed without building consensus. One might ask what is the mission of government and certainly ascertain that opinions vary greatly. Yet, if government is to serve all its citizens, then certainly the public must dialogue until some agreeable conclusions are established. Further, one might ask, "What is the mission of health care?" Given the myriad of constituents, I think the answer might differ greatly if you were the CEO of a health insurance company or a health care provider or a patient with a life threatening illness.

I read the latest op-ed column by David Brooks titled "How Would Jesus Drive?" Brooks discussed the Pope's New Year's Eve homily in which he shared:

that the people who have the most influence on society are actually the normal folks, through their normal, everyday gestures being kind in public places, attentive to the elderly. The pope called such people, in a beautiful phrase, “the artisans of the common good.”

I too love the phrase "the artisans of the common good." I think this might be a wonderful personal mission statement: I strive to be an artisan of the common good in all my deeds and decisions. I have been noticing that the common good doesn't receive much attention these days and service seems to be reserved for those with religious inclinations rather than as an important component of a civil society. Imagine how our social milieu might change, if each of us adopted this personal mission statement and became an artisan of the common good?

In this light, I thought I might make a first attempt at a personal mission statement for 2018, a compass to align my actions with my personal beliefs/my purpose/my reason for being. My hope is to center myself and remain focused. My mission may need some tweaking, but I want to share my first cut as it is written from my gut and may be most true to myself.

A Very Personal Mission Statement

Be kind.
Be generous.
Give to your limit; then give a little more.
Embrace change, encourage growth, cultivate hope.
Work hard for the common good with tenacity and ferocity.
See diversity and complexity; seek commonality and solutions.
Keep the stranger in mind in like measure as those most beloved.
Remember you are no more or less deserving of your privilege than anyone else. ~

Kindness

Stephen Dunn

In Manhattan, I learned a public kindness

was a triumph 
over the push of money, the constrictions

of fear. If it occurred it came
from some deep
primal memory, almost entirely lost-

Here, let me help you, then you me, 
otherwise we’ll die.
Which is why I love the weather

in Minnesota, every winter kindness

linked
to obvious self-interest,

thus so many kindnesses
when you need them;

praise blizzards, praise the cold.

#6: Now

An article I read the other day reminded me that so much of happiness is dependent on our assessment of the present. When Old News Is Good News: The Effect of 6 Elderly New Yorkers on One Middle-Aged Reporter by John Leland is part of a series, following the lives of a sample of our country's aging demographic. In particular, I think the work of this reporter highlights how the elderly understand best that time is a most precious commodity. Leland writes of one of his subjects: 

One day in his apartment, Fred Jones asked me my definition of happiness, then gave me his own. “Happiness to me is what’s happening now,” he said. The apartment, a cluttered wreck that was up two flights of stairs he could barely climb, was an unlikely place to look for happiness, and Mr. Jones, whose health was failing, was an unlikely spokesman. But he never dwelt on his problems. “If you’re not happy at the present time, then you’re not happy,” he said. “Some people say, if I get that new fur coat for the winter, or get myself a new automobile, I’ll be happy then. But you don’t know what’s going to happen by that time. Right now, are you happy?” Whenever I asked him the happiest time of his life, he said without hesitation, “Right now.”

As such, happiness in the now is really a choice, because sometimes the present really stinks. I would really like to choose more happiness, knowing that now, right now, is all we can truly count on. What remains a challenge is to stay in that mindset, to keep that awareness and knowledge at the forefront of my thoughts. I do think I can take some small steps to build my practice of living in the now:

• I can end each day, recounting at least one thing that made me happy. 
• I can work to cultivate and garner wisdom through experiences, relationships, and intellectual engagement. 
• I can look back and take heart that I am resilient and strong. "Look how I have thrived despite what life has thrown my way, so why worry about what is to come?!" 
• I can spend some time each day in mindful silence or prayer or meditation or reflection with the present front and center. 
• I can laugh and cry and rage and process so that all the emotions which are mired in the past don't hinder life in the present. 
• I can let love live large in my life.
• I can write.

Writing brings me front and center. It pulls out my thoughts which have a life of their own and simply pour forth as they are right now, write now, as this post finds form. So, I thought I would share a new poem that I wrote in the quiet of a solitary hour yesterday morning. So unlike my usual self with list of tasks at the ready, I sat down and wrote and gave myself to the time in hand. I was so glad I did, because the writing felt so good.

Never Ending Now

If now is always there,

The present eternally reliable,

Then this involuntary breath,

This wakeful blink of both eyes,

This bitter aftertaste of coffee brewed strong,

This warmth of pup with head in lap,

This glimpse of sun rising on a still, cold horizon,

This knowledge of love asleep in downy beds above,

Binds me with my fellow travelers forever,

One as near as the other far

Both yesterday as well as tomorrow,

In a single journey through memory and hope.

Universal,

Instinctual,

Never ending

Now.

#5: Stress

It’s been a long time since I really changed my mind about something, and I’d forgotten how good it feels: like sunshine after a dark winter. (271)

If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name ~ Heather Lende

I have been mulling over the notion of stress and thinking it might be terribly maligned. Suddenly, stress is killing all of us and underlies all that ails our species. Perhaps, stress is a term that gets used far too frequently and applied far too broadly. For me, stress lies somewhere between fear and worry. Fear deals with issues of survival -- fear is fueled by a lack of safety, the deprivation of one's basic needs, and the experience of disconnection, isolation, or dehumanization. Worry, on the other hand, encompasses thoughts of the future and what might be, negative events that can't be controlled or even accurately predicated. Stress, physical and mental tension, results from being pulled out of a state of equilibrium and comfort. As a result, many experiences may cause stress in one person and not another, and people differ in the amount of stress they can handle.

I know not only that this is likely an inaccurate scientific differentiation but also that life certainly challenges us and causes stress in both foreseeable and unpredictable ways. Each individual has a unique mind-body connection in relation to stress. As a result, I think that perhaps what is most important is to reflect on one's relationship to it. I recently read a summary of psychological research on Hey Sigmund that found how we think about stress, how we perceive its impact on our health and mortality, may be more important than the stress itself:

Researchers used data from the National Health Interview Survey (NHIS). Here’s what they found:

• The risk of premature death was increased if people who were experiencing stress believed that stress would adversely impact their health.

• Those who reported experiencing high stress and who also believed that stress adversely affected health had a 43% increase in the risk of premature death.

• Those who experienced high stress but didn’t believe it to be harmful were at the lowest risk of dying – even lower than people who didn’t experience a lot of stress.

I think this explains why stress has never been something I worry about or avoid. I believe stress has a place in my life, and I believe that I have enough awareness in midlife to know when I am experiencing too much stress and need to regroup, although I am also not naive: sometimes we can't do anything about the stress in our lives and must muddle through. We certainly can't control as much as we would like to think we can. I would also throw out that perhaps the root of so much of what we call stress can more accurately be labeled unhappiness: decisions and situations may simply make us unhappy which reduce our ability to cope and increase the stress response.

In this New Year, I want to keep my focus on happiness, engaging in the world, striving to have a lasting, positive impact, and building new, invaluable relationships. I will embrace the notion that I can pursue new and challenging experiences and manage the stress which seems essential to being a growing, learning, changing person. My goal is to find a point of equilibrium, living a life full of demands and passions while requiring I make myself mindfully vulnerable. I hope I can grab hold of the opportunities that come my way, living by the mantra that stress is a challenge not a threat.

#3: Abandonment

I was five when my parents divorced. My mom left and never returned, running from the past and a life she never wanted which included three children. I know that both my parents are to blame for marrying and a marriage with many flaws. Having lived in Germany, I also understand the culture and context of her childhood and the scars WWII etched unforgivably deep. Although as a child I took on far too much responsibility for her decisions and the aftermath that became my daily reality, as an adult, I can see that my mom needed to rewrite her story.

Being an abandoned daughter is a hallmark of my life, my own story, yet it was rarely discussed in my family. She continued to live in the same city and build a new life for herself, yet she never reached out to reconnect with her offspring. I remember shopping with my aunt in Kmart once, when we ran into my mom with a blue light special flashing in an aisle nearby. My mom and aunt exchanged words, but I was never acknowledged and left reeling by the unexpected encounter. To be honest, I have no other real memories of her, but my older sister and brother do which is why her abandonment hit them even harder than me.

I do believe that while a uterus permits women to have children not every woman has a "mother" instinct, and my mother may have been one of them. As a result, I had plenty of anxiety as I entered motherhood myself nearly 19 years ago now. I wondered whether I would even know how or want to mother a child once he or she arrived. In addition, motherhood is so romanticized in our culture, and the stakes for women as mothers continue to rise. I had plenty of worries. Thankfully, the mothering instinct immediately kicked in, and I learned as I went along not only about how to parent but also about myself as a person.

Marriage and motherhood helped me let go of the pain from childhood, the life I was born into that I could never control anyway. The life my husband and I have built and the addition of our girls have enriched my life with unimaginable challenges and rewards. Still, abandonment is a part of my story, but I no longer see it as a mark of my own failings. Rather, I see its meaning as a mark of my personal strength. I survived and thrived through great loss. I am a strong woman with a strong voice, who strives to advocate for the greater good and the downtrodden.

Now, when the past returns in unexpected ways as was the case yesterday, I remember that everyone has a story that continues to be written until one's last breath. We may never fully understand the story of another, or even our own for that matter as we peel back the layers of meaning over time, but we can cultivate empathy for those who are strangers yet our closest blood relatives as well as those who live on the other side of the planet with experiences eerily similar to our own. The value of the past is in its acknowledgement while letting go at the very same time, granting space within our personhood to go on living fully, authentically, and graciously. May I continue to welcome the past with an eye on the future.

The Arrival of the Past

Scott Owens

You wake wanting the dream
you left behind in sleep, water washing through everything, clearing away sediment of years, uncovering the lost and forgotten. You hear the sun breaking on cold grass, on eaves, on stone steps outside. You see light igniting sparks of dust in the air. You feel for the first time in years the world electrified with morning.

You know something has changed
in the night, something you thought
gone from the world has come back:
shooting stars in the pasture,
sleeping beneath a field
of daisies, wisteria climbing
over fences, houses, trees.

This is a place that smells
like childhood and old age.
It is a limb you swung from,
a field you go back to.
It is a part of whatever you do.

#1: Intentionality

Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart--to pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again. (23) Upstream by Mary Oliver

I am ashamed to say that I allowed the political upheaval of 2017 to violate my privacy. The shock of the last presidential election, the arrogance and offensive speech of our political leadership, and the announcement of breaking news was designed to invade our personal space on a daily basis. The goal may have been to shake up the establishment, but I believe that the outcome unhinged us as a nation to our very core. Our actions and words may have upended our deepest values and core beliefs such that we were even unaware of the impact.

For me personally, I tuned in to the political drama far too frequently: television news, radio news, news alerts on my cellphone, newsletters sent to my email. I vet my news sources well and trust their factual basis -- no Facebook or Twitter for me. However, I allowed them to infiltrate my personal well being, and I have had to learn to temper my political raging, to control the news I ingest rather than allow it to control me.

As such, my primary resolution for 2018 is to live with intentionality. I hope to:

• cultivate gratitude and relish in relationships;
• care for my body with healthy food and steady activity and exercise;
• make room for rest and nature and vacations; 
• read books with depth and breadth and imagination; and
• garden and cook and create with purpose.

In regards to A Measured Word, I want to write on a daily basis with thoughts and meditations on a single word as well as a poem or quote or photo. I may struggle to meet the goal, but I need the creative outlet and solitude to collect my own thoughts and live with intentionality. In our political climate, it seems that we need to reorient our compasses -- to think for ourselves with common sense, truth, and our principles as guides rather than allow social media to think for us. 

To act based on what we know is right rather than what we heard someone else say takes effort, but I can't wait to get to work. What could be more exciting than to have 365 days of a brand new year ahead? Hand me the blank slate -- I am ready to write!

Some Days

by Philip Terman

Some days you have to turn off the news

and listen to the bird or truck
or the neighbor screaming out her life.
You have to close all the books and open
all the windows so that whatever swirls
inside can leave and whatever flutters
against the glass can enter. Some days
you have to unplug the phone and step
out to the porch and rock all afternoon
and allow the sun to tell you what to do.
The whole day has to lie ahead of you
like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.
Some days you have to walk down the wooden
staircase through the evening fog to the river,
where the peach roses are closing,
sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.