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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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....
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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?
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?
Friday, August 7, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
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.
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.
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