80 is not 70

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~

Over coffee the other day, I was talking with a younger friend (most of my friends these days are younger) and said, “Let me tell you: 80 is not 70.”  Like so many of my pronouncements, it sounded good at the time, but when Chuck asked me what I meant, I found myself sinking into the mudflats of my own brilliance.

What did I mean?

When I came home, I found a blog I wrote nearly eight years ago, called “Since 70” [link] in which I talked about my pilgrimage as a septuagenarian: living with my “diminishments”—both physical and mental—struggling with inertia, my changing tastes in food, entertainment, and music, and most of all, my increased awareness of my powerlessness to control people and events.

Well, the diminishments have increased: I’m living with chronic emphysema, my balance is shot, and my skin shreds like tissue paper. I no longer struggle with inertia; I’ve given in to it. To lower my carb intake, I’m eating yogurt instead of muffins, cauliflower rice instead of potatoes, and just about every kind of nut raised on this planet. Technology grows more confusing. I listen to more classical music. I’m still working on acceptance.

None of which is surprising (depressing but not surprising); what surprised me as I read my blog was my impatience with my 70’s self. Several times I thought, “Oh, for crying out loud, Rick, get to the point!” And I realized that one reason 80 is not 70 is that I’m now clearer about what is essential and what is not. I have some 50 hats hanging in my garage; I usually wear one of four. I have five banjos; I play one. I have ten kinds of tea; I drink three.

I don’t know if there’s a connection or not, but life as I know it is more intense. The highs are higher and lows are lower and there are more of both. Recently, when I was walking through the woods and looked up to see a barred owl, my heart hiccuped with joy. An email that afternoon notifying us that a new 100-unit development is probably going up in those woods plunged me into despair. (A lot of the news these days does this to me.)

One of the reasons I’ve had trouble in the past finding what’s essential is because, as my first wife used to say, “Rick, you think too much.” Until I got into my 80’s, I could stand for twenty minutes staring into my closet trying to decide what to wear. I had to set a timer when I played Scrabble or Mary Lee wouldn’t play. Most of the time, though, I was thinking about what people thought of me. When I was with someone, I never really saw them; I saw only the me I thought I saw in their eyes. As for listening, forget it; I was planning what I was going to say next. These days—thank you, Jesus or Al Anon or Father Time—by paying less attention to who I think you think I am, I’ve become more interested in you. I’ve become a better listener.

I find I’m now curious, a word that was never part of my vocabulary. Quantum physics fascinates me. So does the leaf caught in a spider web outside my window. So does my death. As a result, I think, I am far less resentful about what I don’t have and far more appreciative of what I do have.

I spent a lot of my 70s reliving life in a small Maine town during the 1950s, and I’m sure I’ll continue to write about those years. But these days, what’s more important is being here. Right now. Not this decade, not this year, not this week, or even today, but this moment in the day that I’m sitting here alternatively typing on my computer and looking out the window. Maybe that’s why I’m reading and writing more poetry: it’s more immediate, more concerned with moments than memories.

So yes, Chuck, 80 is not 70. Life is not better—for many of us, it can be more painful, lonely, and frightening. But, for me at least, it’s also more interesting, more authentic.

And I’m more grateful for it.

~

Paring down

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~

After living here for thirteen years,

I’m thinning out the landscaping

around our house which has become a jungle

of overgrown shrubs and bushes,

thistles, dandelions, witchgrass, and ivy.

~

For the first time in my life, I’m cutting carbs:

swapping blueberry muffins for plain yogurt,

russet potatoes for cauliflower rice,

chocolate chip cookies and fudge cake

for apple slices and Macadamia nuts.

~

I’m thinking it’s time to clean out my closets

of old sport coats, ties, and ugly sweaters,

give away toys and games the grandchildren

will never play again, those college notes,

diaries and journals no one will ever read,

post cards and souvenirs from God knows where.

~

And while I’m at it, how about

weeding out the landscape of my mind—

obsessions about who I think other people think I am,

anxieties over what I cannot change,

fears about what hasn’t happened yet,

critical voices from seventy years ago?

~

Recently, as part of a retreat on Hope,

our director suggested we make a list

of all our hopes, then cross out each one.

What remains, he said, is Hope.

~

Around me, the trees are taking

off their gaudy clothing,

leaving bare limbs to intertwine like lovers,

expanding horizons.

~ ~

Come Early, Come Late.

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◊

There’s a place not far from here, sort of a diner, but homier—

chairs and tables instead of counters and booths.

The sign over the door reads, Come Early, Come Late.

When you enter, there’s Grace

haloed by the lighting,

shaped like a cookie jar,

smiling like a Madonna in a Russian icon.

 “Sit anywhere,” she says. “Be comfortable.”

The menu’s simple, but the food is nutritious and filling,

not to mention delicious.

No one goes away empty.

Doesn’t matter what brought you here—

Maybe your wife left you or your son died;

maybe you’ve lost your job;

maybe you’re waiting for the test results;

maybe your husband’s an alcoholic,

or you’ve got credit card debts,

or you’re depressed and you don’t know why—

Grace is here:

to give you a hug, or a pat on the back,

or a word of encouragement, or a kick in the ass. 

Often, she just listens.

When you leave, she smiles and says, “Come again! 

Early or late, I’m always here.”

And you go back to battle your depression, or your disease, 

or your debts, or your doubts,

wondering where you got your strength.

◊

Watching Kirk Gibson Hit the Game Winning Home Run in the 1988 World Series

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~

The first thing I hear when I turn on the 

old motel room’s boxy television 

sounds like an ocean’s roar: the huge crowd at 

a World Series game on their feet, cheering. 

Bottom of the ninth. The Dodgers trail the 

Athletics 4 to 3. Two outs. Dodgers 

have a man on first. The excitement is 

for Kirk Gibson, their star, who’s coming from

the dugout to pinch hit. The announcer 

says no one thought Gibson could play because 

of a severely strained hamstring in one 

leg and a bad knee in the other. He 

hobbles to the plate like a wounded duck.

Pitching for Oakland, Dennis Eckersley. 

Tall, slender, like some snake, he undulates,

and uncoils to throw two strikes past Gibson, 

whose every movement appears to hurt. 

Then Gibson somehow hits a couple of 

foul balls, sandwiched between Eckersley’s three

balls outside the strike zone. Count is three and 

two. Next pitch. Gibson reaches over the

plate and casually swipes at the ball. 

It soars over the right field fence. Gibson 

limps around the bases, pumping his fist 

to the deafening roar of the crowd while

announcers hail his gritty performance.

~

I hear my daughter’s quiet voice behind

me. I thought she was asleep. I turn to 

see her lying on the bed: her sunken 

eyes, scarlet bandanna, matching socks. Face 

white with pain. Thin fingers clench. Voice soft yet

determined as she talks to my wife: “I

 know this cancer might—probably will—kill 

me, but hopefully not for years. I need 

to make the most of the time I’ve got left.”

~

I look back at the TV as tiny

men jump up and down like sand fleas, patting 

one another on the back. Talking heads 

babble about courage. The crowd roars. I 

am drowning in a tsunami of rage. 

~ ~

Watching Woman with Dog

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stock photo

~

I don’t know if she is walking 

the dog or if the dog is walking her,

but by the time they get to 

the bench by the mailbox,

she looks ready for a break.

She sits down heavily, 

takes a breath, 

throws her head and shoulders back,

closes her eyes and basks in 

the September sunlight.

Meanwhile the black lab 

circles the bench

tangling its leash 

around her legs,

before going behind her

and doing its doggy business.

The woman sighs, 

rises, untangles herself,

and harvests the dog poop 

into a blue plastic bag.

The dog, delighted, 

I’m guessing, that she’s up,

rolls over happily 

on the yellow grass,

kicking its four feet into the air.

Then they go on their way, 

the woman half-pulling 

half-pulled by her black beast, 

leash in one hand, 

bag of shit in the other.

I don’t own a dog, 

but I know the feeling…

~

In the Dark Woods

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~

Sometimes, thanks to luck or Grace or the stars’ 

alignment, as you trudge through the dark woods

of life, defeated by the demons which

have scared and scarred you, stumbling over roots, 

clambering up crags, whacking your way through 

the pucker brush, slapping at blackflies, lost,

angry, afraid—you come to a clearing. 

Breezes blow away the bugs and sunbeams 

light a path of pine needles to a log

cabin and a porch and a rocking chair 

facing a blue bay dotted with islands,

and you sit and breathe the salt air, rocking,

loosening, loosing yourself in the light

dancing on the water, breathing, gazing,

feeling enfolded by you don’t know what

or for how long, until the journey calls.

Then, for a while at least, the trail is smooth.

Views get wider, demons get smaller.

You’re grateful to be on the road once more.

~

 

 

I’m Coming Back as a Tree

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I don’t have to come back as a Redwood, but I wouldn’t say no.

+

Because I’m old enough that middle-aged women

offer their seats on the bus, I am, quite naturally I think,

spending more time these days pondering my death,

and I’ve decided (because of course I have control over such things)

that when I die, I’m coming back as a tree,

my toes probing the dark humus, my body a sturdy trunk,

straight and tall, my head a crown of leaves 

glowing golden in the sun, holding hands—well, roots—

under the soil with other trees and plants, anchored

in storms while swaying to the music of the spheres, 

open to the sky, reaching for the light,

providing homes for birds and squirrels,

shade and shelter for pilgrims on their journeys, 

unconcerned with politics or religion,

race or sexual orientation, expanding or defending empire.

I don’t know about you, but I think being a tree 

sounds a lot like being in heaven;

it certainly beats wearing wings and harping on a cloud all day.

+

To my Daughter on her 56th Birthday

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~

This year, I find myself remembering

the night I spent in the waiting room

 (I wish now I’d been with your mother but 

those were much different times) finally 

hearing a phone ring, then the call from

across the hall, “Congratulations, 

Mr. Wile, you’re the father of a giant 

economy size baby girl!” 

Still, I wasn’t allowed in to see you 

until late that afternoon, after I’d 

wandered the village streets dazed, aware only

of the sun on the water and white boats

in the harbor. (Did I eat? I don’t remember.)

~

Until your mother and I walked down 

the hall to the nursery, where you lay 

with two other newborns, as big as both 

of them together. I stood before

the nursery window, paralyzed 

with awe. It all was too intense—

the waiting, the news, the village green, 

the blue water, white boats, my love for you.

~

Only later, all these years later, after

the arguments, the divorce, your anger 

at me, our reconciliation, your

shortened life, my prolonged anger at God,

my reconciliation, can I fully,

finally say how grateful I am for

the miracle that was—and remains—you.

~

Pneuma

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~

Leaves sway seductively

In a silky blue sky.

The air is clear,

the breeze an energy drink.

To a background of bird songs,

I wave to the crew mowing lawns,

breathing easily

as I walk the neighborhood,

recalling ten days ago

when emphysema rattled my lungs

and my ribs ached from coughing.

Holed up at home, I watched

through the window as

smoke from Canadian wildfires

stained the sky nicotine yellow,

the same color as the mucus

coming up in my throat,

consequence of years

spent fighting fires

in the American Rockies.

And although I can’t undo

the damage from those years

of wood smoke punctuated

by cigarette breaks,

I can take advantage

of this moment and

breathe in the grace 

that smells today of ocean.

~

This Year’s Garden

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~

This year’s garden is smaller than last year’s garden

which was smaller than my garden the year before

as I become less able to kneel dig lift.

Still I’m grateful to be able to garden at all.

For seventy years, gardens have been my teachers

admonishing me to plan prepare plant

water weed and wait 

for a power greater than myself

to provide the needed sun and rain

bees and worms.

To trust that in the liminality 

between planting and emerging

when nothing seems to be going on

new life is exploding.

So much happens beneath the surface.

To accept that not every seed will sprout

nor every seedling survive 

nor every plant produce

and that weeds are always with us.

To live in the faith

because it’s been true for 70 years

and why should this year be any different

that the harvest will come.

To be thankful 

to share 

and then lie fallow

resting in readiness …

~ ~