Christmas

It's Christmas Eve. Will the dachshund talk? The birds are certainly quiet.... on the other hand, it's 10:30 pm and it's raining, or sleeting, or snowing (depending on where you're standing). The youngest slept all day and is not interested in putting out cookies for Santa. The older two have not called -- and I will, this year for the first time, text the kids e-a-r-l-y tomorrow morning! Hahaheehee!

I feel quite weepy, and it isn't all to be blamed on watching "It's A Wonderful Life" and the sappy Ipod and Support the Troops ads we had to sit through (no Hallmark this year - why?). I miss Mom in a life-is-changing sort of way. If she were alive, we would either be there, snowed in, or not able to go: drama drama. But when she died last fall, a six-year old (or was it 7?) tradition died, too. Last year, the middle child came home a few days before Christmas after a harrowing 72-hour train ride, and the oldest popped in on 12/25 for a bite to eat. Under the tree were presents that took a month to deliver, with all the comings and goings. This year, we have a young adult who is frustrated by the weather and prefers Facebook to old movies, and a 1-year old dog eating ornaments, and not so many presents to unwrap. This year, I feel old, or perhaps simply aging.

As I do most years, today I watched a whole day of "Seventh Heaven" and traditional Lifetime Channel holiday movies while I dipped the pretzels and frosted little Santas. Everyone on the tv goes through great effort to get home for the holidays. There's lots of talk about traditions, and "we always do this..." or "remember when that...". This nuclear family has never been too big on traditions, or simply not ever organized enough between changing jobs and changing family dynamics to set in stone the events that make up Christmas in our household. And, this year, I realize that we probably have lost whatever chance we had to give our children some sort of firm "So This Is Christmas." OK, there are a few things that seem to happen every year: I decorated the tree by myself, and baked too many cookies and wept through that old movie. I filled all the bird feeders in case talking makes them hungry. The youngest child opened her one allowed gift tonight. Tomorrow there will be, again, cinnamon rolls during the present opening and we'll eat turkey and all the trimmings (with potatoes from the garden!), and we'll take a walk around the neighborhood and probably play Scrabble.

But, the hubby and I will have to design some new traditions (or a decided lack thereof) for just ourselves. Pizza for Christmas Eve dinner? Or, turkey on Christmas Eve and pizza for Christmas Day? Let the children come to visit and be surprized!

I asked Hubby about that song -- you know, "So this is Christmas... let's hope it's a good one..." (Oko and Lennon) and now that song, with its description of holidays past and years to come, is melodying through my head. I feel old and sad -- like I'm at the end of a chapter. And, also I feel a teeny bit eager to see what happens in a week, when 2009 is over and 2010 has just begun.

Sunday Reflections

The snow is starting to melt, to compact: the drifts shrink and the deer's footprints show up as deep dimples. The birds are calmer: the warm weather lets them sleep, I think. Hubby is in front of two football games and I am working at my desk. He scraped the ice off the driveway, taking advantage of the warmth, and the time -- and announced that he was sorry to break the Sabbath but it simply had to be done. Where do these ideas come from, dredged up from a childhood in a church, but not reviewed or validation for, lo, these twenty (++) years? It's a good thing that Sabbath doesn't have the same meaning or social norms that it used to -- when else would I do the grocery shopping, laundry, ironing, clean the refrigerator, catch up on grading, update the lecture notes -- and fit in a necessary nap? Ah, the Sabbath! AKA: "Catch Up Day." We shall eat northern and hashbrowns in another hour.

I saw a church-connection at the grocery store, though really she has no connection with the church but with the "bread angel" business that was based at the church. She passed on some gossip, and I told her that I got a few calls when the ad for my former job showed up in the weekly paper. We will keep connected via phone and snail mail. The last three years had their value: a few special friendships that I know (now in my aging wisdom) are to be nurtured and maintained and not squandered or erased (as I am doing with any reminders of the old boss!). I had lunch with an old and re-found friend on Friday -- she thanked me about five times for making her leave her home business office and thereby preserving her sanity. Basically, she's not capable of taking a break by herself and needs reliable people in her life with whom to make unbreakable dates (good strategy!). Next weekend, I'll see Old BFF for our semi-monthly meeting; add a little Christmas and a lot of "Who am I now?" talk and it will be a valuable way to spend an afternoon. I discount the value of shopping together or a night of board games, I know, and perhaps I am not very good at the mechanics of friendship -- though I am well-aware of the value of my friends' reflection of me. My "looking glass self" seems to be going through some sort of a resurgent importance. I am getting lost in Who Was I and Who Will I Become, and these friends, the ones who have known me for 30 years or 3 years, are valuable for being a mirror. At this moment, I am centered and self-aware. At this moment, I like who I am. At this moment, I know exactly what will happen next in my life. I am not old enough or wise enough to be entirely comfortable with not knowing....

The Christmas presents are (almost) completely purchased and wrapped (!!!). I sent off small boxes of two or three wrapped gifts to the adult children in California -- for them to use in their own created holiday observances. We'll see both of them "sometime" over the college/holiday break, and I have a few gifts to go under the Home Tree -- so, the reward for moving away is TWO Christmasses! I must get to the store that holds the special request video and soundtrack for the youngest -- Santa comes to "children" under the age of 18, and she sent her "note to Santa" by email last week: I am the mama who will try her hardest to make wishes come true! And (I should probably make a list!) there must be turkey, and I have to move the houseplants, and where is that stand...... I resist the Christmas spirit that is flaunted right after Halloween but, now, with the 12-inches of snow on the ground (already shrunk to 9 inches), the spirit flares within my heart. I bought wreaths for the front door at the grocery store...... Happy Holidays! Whatever god you worship, whereever you may put up your tree, however symbolic that tree may be, may all the best of wishes that go with the NEW YEAR come true for you & yours ---

Dear Mom --

Dear Mom --
Guess what I learned this week!? I don't have to keep gifts from people I don't like (especially if they were grudgingly given). It really doesn't save any time or energy to shovel 12 inches of snow as it falls. The dog does grow up eventually and now likes snow! If you have a little faith in the grand scheme of things, life turns around and goes the way you want it to (two new jobs since getting fired!). Students love it when you wear blue jeans to class: the whole stockings&slip thing is a false authority - always knew that - and they equate Jeans with Real, which often changes the whole relationship. I've been married long enough to know that you have to stick it out during the bad spots (exception: violence) and a married couple should never embark on anything that will cost more than $1000.00 without conferring with each other. It is really important to support your partner in their obsessions, hobbies, and passions (after the $1000 discussion) because they will then believe that you want them to be happy, and they will respond in kind when you want to spend a little time or money on something they think is stupid (EA is going to own a new boat by Opener!! and I'm going to paint the laundry room). Even if all of my children live in California, I'm going to stay here where I have six whole months to plan the garden. And I know now that I will miss you forever. More later -- gotta go teach a little bit of what I've learned -- Love, A.

Employment & Life Change UPDATE

First, I'm so mad! I have been sinking into obsessive replays of the "We've decided to terminate you" speech, and rehearsals of the "You shouldn't do that because...." I sound a little postal. They did it all wrong and for all the wrong reasons! I never had a chance to defend myself! etc etc etc.

The re-directed thoughts include a mature look at the truth: I wouldn't want to keep working there anyway. Who wants to work when you know there are visual-daggers being aimed at you on the other side of the wall? I am going to do something vengeful, just out of pride and an inflated sense of civic responsibility. It may be complicated, like reporting their shenanigans to the Department of Labor. It may be simple, like bad-mouthing them around town. Or, it may be a combination, like carrying a protest poster along the sidewalk by the front door. I'm sure it isn't good for me to sink and wallow. I'm glad I'm older now and don't need to do that so much. I know, now, in the wisdom of my old age, that obsession doesn't get me anything other than an upset stomach, a little more acne, and too many minutes of functional cognition wasted. Looking at myself objectively and judging my behavior over the last week, I'd say that I am finally old enough to get fired.

And, there are so many other things to do.... Two new teaching gigs confirmed! Meeting tomorrow with new Dean to get textbook, tour, secret password, new email address. I just signed up for two continuing education courses: on-line, will meet both of my re-licensure requirements. The water softener is being installed right this very minute! A new garden catalog arrived Saturday.... The holidays are coming, and that includes a tree, special baking, a child visiting from the other side of the country, gift-exchanges with the BFFs, and the Christmas movie marathon on the Family Channel. Ahhhh... life is full. Gotta go: pizza's done.

The Trapdoor opens and I see another door!

Because there is no longer a schedule conflict with what I will refer to henceforth as Parttime Job #2, the one that is over, gone, vamoose, stolen from me, another emotional coulee -- I am able to say "YES" to wage-earning opportunities that will fill both my pocketbook and my soul. One of the issues that precipitated the separation was my asking for an hour off two days a week to teach a class in the same city. After I got my boxes in the car, I raced back home and emailed off a "YES" to that one. It promises professional challenges, a few or more laughs, some real hard work connecting the material to the students.... ahhhhh. That's one door opened. And, today, I said "YES" to teaching a class at another school, on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons -- that door would never have been opened by the former boss! It's a new class in my satchel, though still one of the Social Studies. I'll be able to have new rooms, new faces, new text, new factors to consider, and at the same time, use lots of my already-prepared assignments and class activities. Another .... ahhhhh.

I lectured tonight on "Middle Adulthood" which is the lifestage between Age 40 and Age 60. We watched a movie (remember David Hartman?) that made, very well, the point that this is the last stage where you can trust your mind and body to stick with you all the way to the end. And menopause and empty nests (for both men and women) bring a sense of liberation, the desire to find and follow old passions, and an imperative to discover something new. I am so totally in this stage. I am in the middle... of the road, of life, of the bridge. There is a sense of time running out, and, I am asking myself, Where Have I Been? and, Who Am I Today?

The youngest kid is admirably independent, self-sufficient, and busy. The Hubby has found his new hobby (fishing, lots of it). Now I have the time to figure out if I am the same person that I was 20 years ago, "pre-children," or not. What did I learn in those years when I was so busy being The Mrs. and The Mom, plus The Wage-Slave, that I wasn't sure some days why that lady in the mirror looked so tired? I can remember driving the road and having a CRS moment: not knowing where I was going or even who I was; my psyche was so malleable that Nicholas Cage or Jamie Curtis movies about body-switching and alternate planes didn't always stay in the "TV: Fiction" category of my mind.

I suspect there are lots of .... ahhhhh moments in my future. Now I have time to enjoy them! And some of them are going to be in those new classrooms this spring.... Gotta go and work on the reading list.... ahhhhh.

The first day is the hardest

I got fired an hour ago. It's probably not a good time to write a blog post; on the other hand, I've got the time now. A month ago, I lectured the Developmental Psych students on the stages of adulthood and the definition of "career consolidation." I have never had a real career -- only for short periods of time have I gone to the same place, same desk, to do the same task. There's been a lot of waitressing, temping in offices, and substitute teaching. The last few years have been the most balanced -- though it seems to the children that I've been gone a lot, I actually worked less than 40 hours a week, and the work(s) itself was balanced in the energy & thought requirements. There was usually a day or two, or a day plus an afternoon, at home in the garden, and weekends could be focussed on family, cookies, ironing, and reading. I told my DevPsych class that, in the middle of "middle adulthood," I had finally achieved what felt like career consolidation. Well..... it's a good thing there is no crystal ball in my kitchen.

I could go on a rant here, about the lack of communication about changing rules and standards, or the boss with a mental illness or two (to borrow a line from As Good As It Gets: we both give mental health a bad name!). But what does that do for me? There is no gain in that. I'll focus on the fact that I'm getting a month's severance pay, and that I have time during the holiday season, and that I can (and did already!!) accept that odd-hour adjunct gig teaching ITV Sociology. A letter is coming, said the committee that greeted me at the office door this morning. They provided boxes and didn't need to go through them: they trust me they said. Ahhhhh.... the tension, worry, daymares, perhaps actual angst is over. That's a good thing.

So, today, I'll do what I was going to do at the other job (babysitting a phone was a primary task) -- grade papers, complete grade reports, set up a Ch. 14 game for class, prepare for the scout meeting tomorrow. And I'll finish that silly mystery novel. And clean the bathroom and water the plants. And I get to work -- at a job I love to do! -- tonight. When I go to bed tonight, the day will seem like a good and productive one (cover the crystal ball!). The sun is shining. That's a good thing. Add "Walk The Dog" to the Do-List.

Maps and Journeys

I am reading a book called The Island of Lost Maps about cartographic crime. The author does a wonderful job of interweaving the metaphor "Maps" into a story about the histories of certain maps and about one certain map-thief. Maps are the portrait of, the reason for, and the story of journeys of both the soul and the body. Add in this quotation from a recent email from my brother, who is establishing a foundation "for good works" in our mother's name: "I have a variety of personal reactions when I read such stories as these. I think, "Oh, everything I want to do is already being done." I also think, "If a 14 year old girl can raise that much money, and a pastor plunks down everything he has, how can I set my sights any lower?" And then I worry, too, that I won't achieve what these ordinary folks have achieved with such apparent aplomb. I suppose the only thing to do is just keep at it."

I am busy these days living on several types of time. The healthcare debate promises either little change (the version that passed last night won't change lives for many people) or huge change (assassination and revolution): I fear for my country and weep for the fading of optimistic belief in the mirage called "American Dream." My inheritance from my mother will be used to buy my house from the bank -- that's telescoping about 15 years of my life into the minutes it takes to sign the check and seal the envelope. I have (finally!) set a teaching schedule for the spring, still a few months away, one that promises both periodic flurries of never-home busyness and new challenges relating to pedogogy. Spring will also bring the execution of those plans made in the days of waning summer and of frigid winter.... And, today, on a day when I have to look at a calendar to find out what the date is, and when the sunshine is saying through the window "Come quickly! I'll be gone soon," I am making a list of what must be done before bedtime.

I have been working on my lectures about the various stages of "adulthood" (as set out by our textbook). I think I'm in, or due for, a mid-life crisis. Perhaps I had one and didn't notice. I am aware that my clock is ticking. I am aware that I think about dying more often than I used to (eg., the mortgage will mature in 2024 and my first thought is that I might not be here to see it -- math is not one of my skills). Because of my experience with my mother's passing, I see the files of banking and insurances and children's college funds in a whole new light ("Oh, I should organize those!"). But, to my own confusion and fascination, I am at the same time eager to see what the next corner brings. If this is what age 50 feels like, what will it be like to be 65? Can I really eat & exercise enough to forestall disintegration? I ask my young-adult students, "What is old?" Am I a grown-up yet? One assignment in this class will be to write an obituary for yourself. What do I want on my headstone? In the end, at the end, what will I turn out to be? This is a journey that doesn't allow maps.

Autumn is just the end of the chapter

The anniversary of Mom's death was September 22nd, and her house was sold a week later. We have lived through the many firsts of new grief, and the house is -- gone, no more Christmas gatherings there, few reasons to ever return to that city -- that is the end of a chapter.

The last of the tomatoes were eaten or canned, and we had a meal of peas; the fishing started to get difficult, plus windy and cold; the wood ricks were brought up from the basement and EA cleaned the chimney. I put straw thickly on top of the new strawberries and asparagus (-gi?) and spent some time getting the new potting room organized (the table is not yet in, and that space is taken up with drying dahlia & canna tubers). Fall is coming (it's at least 50 degrees today with sunshine!) -- and that is an end of a chapter.

I spent (too) much time these last few months realizing that my LIFE book has only a few chapters left: each body system did an old-age hiccup and then settled into a new "normal." In impulsive rebellion, I picked out new plastic eyeglass frames: sort of like Elvis Costello's, and not so impulsively, I really am going to buy the zipper hightops: it's BOGO month. I read alot, so I naturally begin to see life and its myriad adventures (and those misadventures!) as being set between covers, with chapter breaks intermittently providing a false sense of resolution. Many chapters ended this fall and I feel grief in different degrees, yet -- like those #$&%* squirrels -- I feel at the very same a sense of excitement, about what takes up the space in my head, the hours on my calendar, or this blog spot. I'm waiting for confirmation of my spring teaching schedule; the garden catalogs have been arriving in the mail (another compost bin, I think, and I will try planting potatoes under the little-used clothesline); my gynecologist and I have made a pact to get out with our friends twice as often as we do now (that will equal two times: social networking does not come easily to workaholics with odd artistic and political perspectives). I discovered that I actually waiting to see how well I fare this winter, depression-wise, and if the new tricks I've been reading about will really work (Item 1: abundant plastic plants in my windowless office -done). A chapter has ended. OK, lots of chapters have ended. And every one is followed by a new page.

Suicide is a right

It's Thursday. That's the day after the two long days, and it's a long day itself. I feel a bit creaky. Last night, I introduced a film (PBS, Independent Lens: A Fishing Story) and suggested to my young students that they were the foundation of my future, that they - in this class - needed to learn to recognize ethnocentrism and the human tendency to make "groups," and to distinguish between pluralism, assimilation, and tolerance, because they - future policy-makers and citizens - had to figure out to reduce/avoid/resolve conflicts between the myriad groups that exist, locally/nationally/globally. I frequently refer to my elderly-ness, and I (increasingly) sound more querulous as I demand they step up to the plate and learn enough to take care of me in my tarnished years.

So it's Thursday, which is also a day with chunks of time to prepare for future lectures. I will be teaching 'AGING' in two classes this fall. Gotta find some interesting, shake-them-in-their-flipflops kind of videos and articles. I found this in today's New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/24/world/europe/24britain.html?ref=todayspaper.

From the age of 16, I have pondered the What-If's and the paradoxes I encounter. What's worse: to be smart and ugly, or dumb and beautiful? (That took up a lot of thought time a few decades ago!). Now, I wonder what's worse: to lose motor coordination and other physical abilities (like my sight) or to lose my awareness of the moment and memories? One of the things that my mother and I discussed in the year before her death, was the right to die. She seemed to feel that taking her own life would cause undeserved stress and angst among her family and loved ones. So dying had to be a natural occurrence. But she did have admiration for the strength of character that led the elderly Eskimos to the iceberg. My thinking (at this distance in time from the dying) is that I have the right to hold as much control as I am able to hold over the dying, and the death. (Cynicism alert: That may be more control than I will have over the distribution of my stuff and the way I am celebrated in ceremony.) If my life isn't worth living -- and surely, I am the one who gets to decide that! -- then I have the right to end it. Right?

Did you see Maureen Dowd's column this weekend? Check it out: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/20/opinion/20dowd.html. It's about happiness, or lack thereof, in women over the age of "mid-life." Men get happier, and women get less happy (not to say "sad"). Dowd quotes a few studies, and concurs with their speculation that unhappiness is due to the huge number of options that women have today. The options collection creates a whirlpool of "What If's" and women are exhausted from trying to do everything. I wonder, in addition to the options, if it's The Potent Spell. According to that book, scientists and doctors have been telling women for a very long time that their efforts outside of the home, beyond the hearth, are futile and mis-guided, and -- at the same time -- that their role as mothers is the absolutely most important thing they can do for society, and it is so very easy to screw it up.

Now, with two out of the nest and the other one flying soon, it appears that my re-defined mothering job is to dole out money, send little love-packages, and worry when appropriate (I don't have time to worry any more about kids getting mugged in big cities, and anyway, all the worry in the world didn't stop it from happening). So, now what, for me? If I can claim any success at all at mothering, it may be that my children do not live at home AND still communicate with me regularly. They seem to be able to find friends, make a social life, clean their own bathrooms, feed themselves using kitchen appliances, and earn positive remarks from important people in their new lives (daughter got a promotion, son made the Dean's List). My "potent spell" may be mitigated by my success, but I can't fill my days considering that success or checking up those successful children. I think that if I were left bereft of a purpose in life, I would get very unhappy. So, I'm flopping around emotionally a little bit, trying to see the path that goes on into my older-age. There are a lot of options in existence these days -- but I'm thinking that there are several I can't see yet.

I seek answers from friends, I look eagerly for comments to this blog, I collect various articles about "successful aging." Sometimes I find a clue in what I'm reading. Dear Mr. Jefferson: Letters from a Nantucket Gardener includes this declaration: "Gardening is an undiluted pleasure for me. I enjoy every phase of it from pawing through seed catalogs to harvesting the fruit.... I like feeling the sun in my bones and clean air in my lungs, I like feeling my muscles stretch till they ache.... The act of gardening repays its labors...."

Children may not do that. Wage-Work often doesn't have a recognizable return on your investment. Marriage may have its moments, but it does not have a day-by-day guarantee. If my 101-year old paternal grandmother and her 93-year old maternal counterpart were any indication, living longer just to be "old" is not worth the candles on the cake: it's lonely and frustrating on many levels. So, even growing old "successfully" may not have a return on the labor involved (is our societal obsession with youth a new "potent spell"?). The Nantucket Gardener writes to Jefferson, who said at age 68 "Though an old man, I am but a young gardener," that we are all young gardeners: "Gardeners are ageless and the gardens we create go on forever." I have to figure out, I think, how to be the Best Of Myself, regardless of age, children, marital happiness, or any known measure of success. I want to be like humus: ever bettering and entertaining more worms, and contributing to the rampant growth in those who come in contact with me. The new potting room in the basement now has shelves of canned vegs, a cupboard of seeds, and lots of potential. The piccalilli jars all sealed yesterday, I got the rainbow tulips planted, and I ate a handful of raspberries. What's next?

Horrors in Life

The topic at my AA meeting last night was "Relapse." A new woman showed up, and told the tale of her several months of glorious sobriety, all crushed last week when she tied one on at a local concert. Everyone at the table except me & Bill & Lisa have been through the morning-after-you-wrecked-your-life. Though I have more than two decades in the program, I recognize that I am only one drink away from the wreck. What I ponder, when the topic is "Relapse," is what will cause me to lift that glass and take that drink? You know what they say: it ain't the first one that kills you, but it's the first one that makes you forget what you know.

My son was mugged yesterday, in the big city where he lives. He reported that the cops told him he handled it just right. A little joke, and hand over the Ipod and wallet. He did all the follow-up with the bank and the insurance and the school ID office. I suggested to him that he has now experienced VULNERABILITY, and that's probably a good thing, since the world is imploding around us and desperate people roam the streets. Charity is a great thing, if it's voluntary. Desperate people have nothing to lose. He's a statistic now. The issue is the vulnerability. I consider vulnerability to be one of the horrors in life. I like to be in control! The idea that a madman with a gun (or a banana- who thinks clearly at that moment?) can take my control and make me vulnerable, is a horror. I'm reading The Potent Spell about the horrors that mothers live with -- our children, their very existence, makes us vulnerable to several horrors. My children are grown, so that means I've missed several of the horrors. Now they fly out of the nest into their own lives -- and there is a long list of horrors I get to NOT think about now.

For good or ill, I tend to avoid thinking about horrors. It just makes them bigger, I rationalize. But what not thinking about them really does is protect my illusion of being in control and invulnerable. I wrote in an earlier posting about my recent breast lumpectomy. My brother responded: "You never mentioned it, but this must have been a a major moment in life when mortality passes by the window, blurred but pronounced. A glimpse. Frightening, inscrutable, and lordly. Like a monolith." And he's right, I didn't tell anyone except the Hubby, who had to get up with me at 5:00 AM and drive me to the hospital. Not thinking about the outcome, not even entertaining in conversation or writing that the outcome might be really scary -- this was a way to stay in control. "Don't borrow trouble" is an old saying; "Tomorrow comes soon enough." If the biopsy results had been bad... well, then we talk about it. Then we deal with it. Then we feel the emotions. Until then, I'll just block it all out, take one day (or one minute) at a time, and stay busy with the things that give me joy, strength, and peace (today's do-list: pickles, move the compost bin, haul the old National Geographics to the dump, iron my white shirts, grade some Sociology quizzes....). Tomorrow's list isn't yet made.

Girl Talk

I went kayaking today with my girlfriends, Moment and Lovelace. Those are nicknames, assigned today. Moment teaches me with her enthusiasm for "now" how to relax into the mood of the moment, whether it is one filled with quiet appreciation for silence or one that is hilariously noisy. There is only a very little innuendo in Lovelace's nickname. She loves, and is a quiet force of affirmation and acceptance. And she's pretty, and frilly, and lacey. After regretfully declining several invitations earlier this year, I took time away from garden and books today -- one of the last of the best of fall -- and it was worth every minute.

There is firstly, the gift of time. Selfish time, girl talk time, outdoors-not-working time, sunny but not too hot time, gentle exercise time, making relationships deeper and stronger time. Secondly, there was the forced acknowledgment of NOW: no way to make the river go any faster. I do not give up control easily. It is good for me to do that once in a while. Thirdly, there was the sugary frosting of empathy and sympathy. I spend energy, I think, in not whining, in not asking for help, in what I call acceptance of The Is, but what is really (thank you, Kathleen Norris) resignation, acquiesence, denial. It was a treat to hear "Oh, poor you!" and "Me, too!" Girls talk in mid-life about the same things they talked about when they were teens. We floated and snacked, and smoked cigars, while wearing sombreros.

I made a list earlier this summer of the things that gave to me some sort of energy. I love my garden, all the various bits of it. I cherish my books, the old favorites and the new discoveries. I really love my work: I feel valuable and valued, as well as challenged. I am looking forward to figuring out how to make pickles, sew a quilt, write the novel, weld a lawn ornament, and become part of the Sizzling Seniors. I assert that I recognize the importance of relationships, but I realized in reviewing the list that I do not give them the same importance as gardening, reading, and working. Not sibling ones. Not girl ones. Not even sex, and not even my bestest friend forever (aka BFF). I'm not sure that I take those people for granted -- nay, I think of them almost every day, and treasure the time gift-shopping, and react to emails or news stories with both my reaction and imagining their reactions. It's just that I don't take from those relationships the same breath or vitamins that I find alone, doing my favorite things. I'm not sure how to fix that, but I think I need to.

Here's a reminder: http://wimp.com/sweetinspiration. Let me always taste the coffee. That is the nectar of the gods, life's blood, the essence of living. It is the juice, baby.

Commemorating Mom

Two weeks from today, on September 22nd, will mark one year since my mother died. My siblings have been emailing about commemorating the date. I miss her every day -- what’s so special about the day she died? Commemorating, remembering, honoring the dead - my first impulse is that we should, yes, set aside time to attentively, actively, remember the loved ones we miss so much. I’ve always liked the idea of the Day of the Dead (All Saints’ Day), where all the ancestors are remembered and celebrated around the whole country. In America, we have Memorial Day (with way too much of the red-white-and-blue patriotic inspiration for the next generation) and Veteran’s Day (which is supposed to honor the survivors). But, the poems in the newspaper about how much “we still miss your smile” that start with “When God called you Home…,” give me the creeps. It seems to me, with a second thought, that commemoration of a death-day, as opposed to a birth-day, is in fact recognizing the day that your grief began. That’s selfish, and very disconnected from honoring the person who died. The national holiday is on Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, birth-day, not the day he was killed -- so that we can spend the day thinking, “Thank God someone like that was born unto us.”

I spent Mom’s dying days at her bedside in a life-changing experience of intimacy with her and with my siblings, and renewed spiritual energy. One of the many things I pondered as I sat there with her, was how she influenced me and how much of who I am today is to be credited to her. If you like me, you have to thank my mom! She spent many years, I know now, trying to balance both her need to explore her options and to fulfill her familial duties, and she spent the last two decades being - finally - the person she always wanted to be: living in exotic places providing needed education and healthcare services, acting out her principles of thinking globally and acting locally. At her deathbed, I promised myself to become more authentic, and as much as allowed by personality and circumstances, more like her. September 22nd is actually my anniversary, where I mark my progress toward my life goals.

I do, and have done, and will continue to, commemorate her life. In the last week, I have harvested edible vegetables from the raised, wire-bottomed beds that her last monetary gift purchased. I moved her garden bench to a new-made spot under the shade of the maple tree, hug the blue-painted pvc bird feeder, and straightened the picket fence bits that I took from her yard (I want my garden to be recognizable to her spirit as well as inviting). I made pickles, dilly beans, and, as I promised in my eulogy, watermelon rind pickles! I traveled this weekend 100 miles to her sister’s 80th birthday party. I re-filled the bird feeders in my yard, and I will, today, order a few more fruit bushes, and more spring bulbs. And I talked about her, with a smile, a laugh, or an affirmative nod, to friends and family. I think of her every day. I commemorate her every day.

Yesterday, my dad emailed that he had knee surgery scheduled for next week. He has been limping for at least five years now, and has explained that he won't get a new knee 'yet' because they only last 10 years. He's 75 years old. He's getting a bit hefty. My thinking -- never said out loud, of course -- is that if he doesn't get the new knee, he won't be around in 10 years. According to him, his ortho-doctor told him in June to try crutches for 8 weeks and see if the pain went away.... I think this is the same doc who told him several years ago that there was neuropathy and degeneration (of some sort) in the knee. I think that crutches, and previously, a cane, were the doc's method of letting my dad think he was in control of the knee situation, and letting my dad justify putting off surgery. He's afraid. Like me, he has been blessed with good health and few episodes of owie interventions.

As Hubby and I gossiped about this news, I discovered that Hubby thought I was putting off the boob-fix -- for fear. What a revelation for him, to find out that I was much more afraid of the Big C than of the surgery -- but, since he's never had his breasts bound, or sliced, or altered, he didn't know that these things have to be carefully scheduled around expectations of using one's arm, lifting, wearing a bra.... I got a lovely note this morning from him saying that he was glad I still had all of my important parts and that I'd live a little longer yet. Ah, sentiment. All dressed up to disguise "make me happy." Hush, girl! Such cynicism!

This could lead to a whole meditation on Breasts and our (men's & women's) fascination with them. But, here, it is important to meditate on our / my changing body. Breasts of any size change their shape as we age. Lumps appear and must be removed. Fear of surgery -- of not waking up -- keeps us from getting fixed by one of the greatest health care systems in the world (yes, I have insurance). Fear of the unknown keeps us from even asking the question: What is that lump? Why do I have such pain? As we age, do we accept more easily that there will be parts breaking down (a.k.a. changing) and get less assertive and aggressive about fixing them? If pain, and changing shapes, are part of the aging process -- how will I know what is a "normal" change, and what is a pre-cursor to trouble? If I have one regret about this fix-it episode, it's that the lump wasn't in the left breast where babies' breast-feeding (I was a D-cup for about 3 months!!! Twice!!!) have left spider veins. Just a little snip there....

From "Travel Writings"

The River and I by John G. Neihardt, 1910 University of Nebraska Press

(from page 132)... Perhaps that is what an outing is for -- to strip one down to the lean essentials, press in upon one the glorious privilege of being one's self, unique in all the universe of innumerable unique things....Living in the flesh seems so transient, almost a pitiful thing in the last analysis. But somehow you feel that there is something bigger -- not beyond it, but all about it continually. And you wonder that you ever hated anyone....

And expanded by the bigness of the empty silent spaces about you, like a spirit independent of it and outside of it all, you love the great red straining Heart of Man more than you could ever love it at your desk in town. What you seek is at the end of the rainbow; it is in the azure of distance; it is just behind the glow of the sunset, and close under the dawn. And the glorious thing about it is that you know you'll never find it until you reach that lone, ghostly land where the North Star sets, perhaps. You're merely glad to know that you're not a vegetable -- and that the trail never really ends anywhere.

That is what I felt when I was young. It is what, I'm sure, my children felt when they turned their noses and dreams toward California. It is a feeling, I am convinced, that keeps one young: always curious, searching, questing. I'll sleep when I'm dead, sings Warren Zevon. I'll be a vegetable just a day or two before that. Until then, I need to re-read this passage, and take more trips, and re-fresh the feeling of youth.

PHOTOS: The Missouri River in North Dakota; train tracks headed west on the Empire Builder

Lumps and All

Yesterday I had a lump removed from my right breast.  The lump-thing has been a sign of age: according to the breast specialists I have seen for the last three years, since the first lump appeared, peri-menopausal and menopausal women get them.  And a little tiny chest measurement is no guarantee or safety-feature.   The fibro-adenoma recognized a year ago suddenly decided to grow around Easter time, and then some more in just the last month, so it may actually be a filodes tumor, which like polyps can host cancers.  I'm being pro-active and pro-philactic (is that a verb?) and also got the cyst with little calcium stars drained and biopsied.  Results in a week!

This showed up in my email basket today: barefootceo@e.femailcreations.com. An email newsletter all about empty nesting. I have been telling people about my vacation -- which was scheduled, I admit it, to check up on my kids -- and that I cried on the way home. The youngest child is so so so together, goal-driven, and open with her questions, that I can trust her to tell me when her life starts to crash (right now, she may have strep throat). The other two play a bit closer to the vests, and I have to guess the emotion and the question behind their off-hand remarks. Martina, the wise woman in Palo Alto, has 6 adult children of her own and advises me to negotiate new relationships with each one individually and separately. The children/adults will know better than I do what they need from me. It sounds like the same strategy I used when they went to kindergarten, and then to Prom: leave the door open and let the face & voice project the open-door of my heart. I will add to that recipe: go to them, and sit with them -- let the silences fill naturally with conversations. I've already got some plans for next year's trip to CA!

Kids living across the country, and lumps in my breasts (not now!) --- I have to alter my way of thinking about my world. What can I control now? Not even the garden, which is the typical August jungle of lushness and happy health and weeds flaunting their power.

My Other Life

Multi-tasking and a day of activities that (now) requires the guidance of a written list heralds the new semester. I did my weekly service act, by taking bread to the food pantry in Taylor. At home, there was laundry and freezing the garden riches and dog-walking and counter-wiping. Tonight, I assume my SuperHeroine cloak and attempt to lead the next generation into an appreciation of the rich diversity of life here on earth. There are thirty on the roster; what is a reasonable expectation of my success in turning the lights on in their heads: 10%, 50%, 90%? I have such hopes! The first day -- like so many "firsts" -- sets the tone for the whole semester. I want to find the balance between relaxed fun and serious rubrics. I want to be some sort of mix of wise old lady and cool old-er woman. I want to be inspiring -- I'll settle for lots of A's, and count it a good day if I leave the lecture hall feeling energized myself.

I do this for me. Really. It's a job that I love. It feels important -- but perhaps no more important than taking bread to Taylor. I can contribute here, with abilities and life-experience and smarts and strong training. I focus my efforts on the students and choose what will make the 3-hour session, for them, enlightening. I work hard to keep up my end of the deal: grades posted in a timely fashion, accessibility between class periods, candy & jokes & breaks. It's a service-type job. Really. And I do it for my own gratification. My wish for them: have a life that feels good.

My Job is Done

I woke up weeping this morning. I missed my kids. After a cup of coffee, I realized that I didn’t want them to move back home, and I didn’t want to spend any more time in the big city waiting for them to have a minute to hang out with Mom. Part of what I was weeping about was that my children are really doing well. They are well-housed, and Son has adequate housekeeping habits. They eat well and they aren’t afraid to explore the big city and make friends. They have a busy and meaningful life of work, school, friends, music, and seeking out new challenges. I weep because their success means that I myself must have done an adequate job at preparing them for the world – and now they most likely won’t ever come home again. My job as Mom is done.

So, after another several cups of coffee, I am sitting in the bright sun of the Parlor Car trying to tap into that Fountain of Freedom that is part of the Empty Nest Syndrome. Let me make a list of all the things I can do now, since my parenting duties are mostly completed. Let me not be overwhelmed by the length of the list!

Some of the things on the list are items deferred from early years: now, at last or now again, I have money and time enough. There may be some issues with required strength and agility. I want to learn how to weld and make metal sculptures for the yard. I want to write a non-fiction book and a novel, and publish a collection of my poems. I want to make a quilt depicting the landscape I see from my living room windows. I want to learn to paint recognizable scenes with watercolors. I want to ride a lot more trains. Oh! I want to create a potting shed where I can start seeds in the winter and make the under-deck into a haven for relaxation in the shade (that goal is started…).

So, this trip was not what I said it was: a visit to my kids to confirm that they were fine, or step in with funds and a vehicle to fix the troubles. This was, actually, in this early retrospective, a chance to confirm that my Mommying is done. I needed to know from the evidence of my eyes (if conversations weren’t sufficient) that my children didn’t need me. I needed to know that it was OK with them that I now put my attention elsewhere: on my own needs and desires. They are fine. They are thriving. Perhaps I can learn from them. It’s time for me to become an adult (instead of a Mom) and build a life of my own.

Becoming a different person (Aug. 24th Portland)

I am sitting in the Parlor Car of the Coast Starlight (Amtrak) train, surrounded by people who may or may not be the same age as me – I can’t tell anymore. We ate breakfast with a bald man born also in 1960, and a man who had just celebrated his 84th birthday by taking the train from his home in North Dakota to LA. The conversation was a bit awkward when the young guy was asking the old man about his war experiences (he got a deferrment to work the farm) but it evened out satisfactorily when the boys started talking about cars. Unification. Smiles, chuckles, a few “I did this with that car” stories.

I have appreciated my life experiences mostly through the eyes of AA: I can share my story, and it has value to someone else, and as I have continued in sobriety, the same experience is understood in several different ways. Desiderata told me that everyone has a story and that should it should be heard. The complaint made by elders, quoted so often in pop pieces on aging that it must be true, is that the “youngers” don’t appreciate – and learn from – the life experiences of the “oldsters.” Perhaps it is being 50 years old and aware of my spot on the lifespan continuum, but I now appreciate the oldsters’ stories, I regret not learning more from them when I had the chance, and I recognize the youngers’ dismissal of my own stories. My children are not ready to learn from me…….

The last three days with my adult children were… hmmm… difficult for me. Since I was the oldest in my family, meaning my parents weren’t practiced at the transition, and then I just left home in order to minimize the mutual angst, I don’t have any idea how to effect the new relationships I will have with my now-adult children. I was afraid on this trip of being too much of a mother. I tried very hard to not have expectations. I haven’t seen their new homes, and conversation since we saw each other at Christmas has been minimal. This trip, we had to talk about money with Son. I did ask the roommate if Son had quit smoking. Daughter told him, in our hearing, to clean his bathroom. They argued about the best sushi place (sushi?). We had to listen to Daughter’s advice (she’s the oldest) on how to help Son (he’s 6 years younger), and I realized that she thinks she orchestrated her transition to adulthood with little or no help from us. What a gift: to be so self-confident, and feel like a competent and successful adult at only age 26!! Son seems to be holding his own and has not (yet??) fallen into any of the usual huge holes of circumstances. He confesses anxiety: I think that is indicative of his willingness to assume the responsibilities of adulthood.

When I left home at 18, I was determined to be an adult. That meant (among other things, like drinking, sex, my own space, and a checking account) freedom for me and respect from others. My parents didn’t seem to appreciate my new status or to grant me the customary respect, and when I was home visiting, they actually expected me to help out with chores! I found freedom by not going home very often. I found adulthood years later, really only when I looked back as part of getting sober, and realized that I had been a mishmash of shame, confusion, and pride. I had been both a complete failure and, at least a few times, successful. I became an adult without a clear idea of what I was aiming for. Now I have a much clearer idea of what sort of Old Lady I want to become.

Living Your Principles - Finally

Travelling doesn’t agree with me --- is that an “anymore” or just a “today”? I’m feeling slothful and fat, and my feet haven’t forgotten the days on the train. We are waiting in a first class waiting room (money = age) and catching up with WiFi and CNN.

Eddie and I strolled a square about 8 blocks by 8 blocks and certainly saw the highlights of the city: children in Jamison Park and Tanner’s Wetlands. A very young city – the White Hairs are carrying large bags and cameras. We don’t fit in the demographic picture. But, we talk about making plans. There were several abandoned farms in the high desert country of Montana that looked like good retirement spots, and Portland looks like a place we could brag about living in (time to live out our principles!!).

But I’m too exhausted to think about moving! The roses are in bloom here in the “Rose City” and I am a little homesick for my garden. I suppose the garden is like the children that I used to have: the daily watch, the imperative chores, the small and important celebrations of growth or progress. I’m thinking that happiness is related to observing those milestones – which means one must always have something to celebrate. A long-term project is necessary. Successful aging requires one to accept the closure of a project (children raised & gone from the nest) and to seek new projects (gardens, writing that book). If I am to age well spiritually and emotionally, I’ll need something in my life that I am passionate about… and that thing really should be something that I can achieve, that includes inherently milestones to celebrate. I have considered some sort of campaign, but politics are so so so frustrating; impotence and discouragement are not good for the soul. What else is there? Investment. Dirt. Giving back to my community. Finishing half-done projects. Knowing that my efforts are focused in the direction of the principles I hold dear. Dirt. And, recognizing first, and have the courage second, to seize the opportunities that life presents. I will, again and again, talk to strangers on the train. I’m going to go to Angel Island and the Cable Car museum. I intend to walk up Lombard Street in my $40 walking shoes.

Possibillionaire

“I am a possibillionaire” says my husband. Like his early days of gambling in Lake Tahoe, his fishing on the Mississippi now satisfies his need for endless, infinite, myriad possibilities. Of what, you ask? Of a win, a big fish, a story to tell or bragging rights, of adventures including the bad news and the stress-filled. He likes knowing that the next minute will not be the same as the one just completed.

I, in contrast, find myself seeking predictability and as much control as possible over the next minute or two. I think that has to do with aging. I’m just plain tired of being caught off-guard or of looking carefully around the corner so that I can be prepared. I would like to assert that it is a hang-over of parenthood. The youngest is now 17 and I can start relaxing my hyper-vigilance. But I have always been a control-freak: “bossy” is what they called it during my childhood, and “assertive” was an admirable quality in my early adulthood. I’m sure that all that practice with controlling the outcomes of each endeavor helped make my parenting experiences mostly pleasurable. However, now that the need for watchful alertness, for over-pre-planning and listing all the contingencies, I haven’t relaxed at all….

I think I recognize the passing of time. I’m running out of time to dream. I gots to get going on the Achievements, on the Exercise of Options, on (dare I say it?) making a Success Of My Life. There are bucket lists, of course, but I’m trying to remember what I dreamed of doing in the halcyon days of possi-billions. In the meantime, I garden and re-read books and put everything back in the kitchen drawers after cleaning the organizers – exactly like they was before. I hate when I’m not home often enough to keep the refrigerator set up by food groups. I wish I knew which flower would be in colorful bloom next month so I could… dress to match? I need time to think this out. Time is what I feel like I don’t have.

What am I doing now? Training across the Montana farmlands with mountains bumping the horizon on three sides. To California to visit my two adult children. I’m going to visit Angel Island (before the state closes it, again) and the Cable Car Museum (I am a former cool person, now a tourist!). And, I’m going to work on my plans for the future. I’ve got three days plus another train trip.

WEEKENDS ARE HARD ON THE RECALL

I tried to introduce my brother to Jan -- Tony's wife -- and totally instantly completely blanked out on her name! "Senior Moment" or "CRS" (can't remember shit). It happens. It happens more often....

Summer Sunday

These days can provide time to think. Too much time, sometimes. I was the first one awake and I finished the Jennifer Winspear book: dowsing, second-sight, revenge & forgiveness. It is too hot for me today and I am not anxious to start dirt-work -- though picking beans before the rain is a good idea and working some more in the cool basement is another. Until I choose, I sit down at my desk to get ready for tomorrow, to just "check my email" (none), and check out the truth behind a revelation dream: that my Facebook page under the old ISP still exists... it does! And there is the last message from a friend who died last week in her sleep. And there is a posting from a friend who, last year, married and moved to the South. I sent the blog link to two people. I unplugged my cell phone from its charger.

I am not driven, in my elderly wisdom, to be the best nor have the newest. I go rather cautiously into the NEW -- driven by a vague messianic feeling to model "bravery." Email quickly proved itself to be valuable and now I have multiple addresses and chat with myself, sending links and teaching materials back and forth to one or another of my offices. I have a cell phone now, as of last week, and I have entered numbers into the contacts list; I've used it once. I am afraid to give out the number because I don't want to be interrupted, and because I don't want people to see me frantically digging through my purse to find the phone... I would like to look COOL. I started this blog just to prove that I could, in front of my class -- perhaps some of them will read it, and comment -- and now, like charging the phone or checking for missed calls, I have added a new committment to my life. No, I don't have to run with the crowd, but am I not at a time in my life when I am supposed to be reducing the committments?

Fridays are predictably unpredictable.

On Fridays, I stay in my jammies and do housework chores... OR, I get into the dirty jeans that have been on the laundry room floor and go outside to play in the dirt... OR, I put a Miss Marple DVD in the machine and correct papers. I eat a pizza mid-morning. I complete the 2nd pot of coffee. I take the dog out every hour. Today, there is a sense of "pending" that comes with excitement: we're going out with friends for dinner, my brother is coming to visit next week, vacation (via train!) comes every closer on the calendar, and it is time to buckle down and imagine what we will be doing in that psych class I'm teaching this fall. It's raining - which is only a good thing; the new plants can be quite happy in their pots for another day or two. On Fridays, my life belongs to me, with all of its boring "must do this now" and all of its forward-looking tasks. I need a few more Fridays, I think.

There is some new credible research that suggests, for women, the Empty Nest is a new beginning -- like being done with menopause, it allows for a whole new rhythm for the day, the week, the month. What will I do when I don't need to cook every day and the laundry piles are smaller? What did I dream of doing, back in the day when I had to let the baby cry so I could go to the bathroom? I can't remember. It seems imperative, though, that I come up with a list. There's the gift of time that should not be squandered, and there's the prescription for sans-dementia aging that must be followed -- and there must be a consideration of my sanity. I feel somedays, when children are gone for the day and husband is at work, and there are no papers to grade (and it's raining), that I am descending into a twilight ... of life? of love? I don't know, and I should know. Shouldn't I?

How do you know if you're old?

What is successful aging? Here's one plausible definition: http://www.apa.org/monitor/jan00/cs.html
It seems that all I really have to do to "grow old gracefully" (i.e., still dancing) is DO SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY. Getting up is old. Going on adventures is new.