Category: Contemplation

80 is not 70

Published on by geriatric pilgrim12 Comments

~

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

Published on by geriatric pilgrim3 Comments

~

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.

Published on by geriatric pilgrim3 Comments

◊

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.

◊

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

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments
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.

+

Pneuma

Published on by geriatric pilgrim2 Comments

~

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

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

~

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 …

~ ~

Coming Upon a Clear-cut in the Woods 

Published on by geriatric pilgrim10 Comments

~

Two years ago, seeing the slash piles, stumps, 

wood chips, witch grass, and some scrawny hemlocks,

as if Death had been through here with his scythe,

I remembered how it feels to have your 

landscape destroyed: saw once again my child’s

remaining wisps of hair, her spindly legs, 

felt again the shock, denial, anger, 

my familiar depression descending.

~ 

The other day, I wandered through the same

 clear-cut and sensed my shock replaced by awe.

Bracken broke through slash, starflowers hugged stumps,

Pink lady slippers danced on decayed leaves,

huckleberry, aspen, maple promised

me that even death is deciduous.

~ ~

Of Candles

Published on by geriatric pilgrim15 Comments

~

Gazing out the window at a candelabra of green buds,

for some reason known only to the God of my not Understanding,

I remember Liberace and his candelabra 

and his 1950’s TV show, the star flamboyant

in white tie and tails and wavy hair, 

which I guess wasn’t’ real, at least 

according to my grandmother’s movie magazines—

“Liberace’s Wigmaker tells All!”—which she devoured

along with pints of Sealtest ice cream

while she, herself a piano player 

who used to play for the silent movies, watched

Liberace play everything from Litz to ragtime

to her favorite song—“Nola,”

which we had played at Nanny’s funeral

and which the poor organist butchered,

while the candles in the church—candles I used to light

as a Congregationalist version of an altar boy—

flickered and danced and I think 

of a little old man at the nursing home 

where my grandmother spent her last years

who bounced in his chair when Nanny played 

“Nola” for the talent show, yelling,

“Tickle those ivories, Hatty!”

and I light the two candles

by my computer to write this all down

because candles do a really good job 

setting the stage, whether 

it’s for my attempt to write something, 

Or for the congregation to mourn,

or for Liberace to show off

his talent and his dimples, or for spring

leaves to burst forth while a choir

of gold finches sing backup for a cardinal 

whistling the first four notes of Nanny’s favorite song.

~

Ruminations on his 83rd Birthday

Published on by geriatric pilgrim10 Comments
Picture Rocks Wash, Arizona. On the right, stairs lead to the Stations of the Cross. On the left are the petroglyphs.

~

His life these days is like walking a trail,

maybe that wash* in Arizona when 

he was on retreat, when on one side of 

him were the Stations of the Cross and on

the other side the picture rocks that give 

the wash its name: 1500-year-old 

petroglyphs by the Hohokam farming

people of the Sonoran Desert.

~

On one side, 14 etchings in metal

depict Jesus’s progression to his

death: scourging and the crown of thorns, falling 

under the cross’s weight, piercing, thirst, and 

humiliation, abandonment by 

friends, followers, even God, death. And 

he thinks of the violence and cruelty

of the empire in which he lives against

the materially poor and the sick

and the marginalized, his feeling that 

God has abandoned the country he loves,

his own pains in places he never knew

he had; indignities; lashings of fear; 

the cross he carries of his family’s

disease; the piercing loss of his daughter.

On the other side, petroglyphs show the 

the sun’s progression during the summer 

solstice: swirls and spirals and strange designs, 

images of dancing people, deer and 

antelope, alien-looking creatures

(you don’t suppose…), and something that looks like 

a picture of an atom, but which might

depict life’s interconnected circle.

He thinks of the kind and kinds of people 

he’s met in traveling from coast to coast,

this country’s mountains, deserts, and rivers, 

of the smell of the dirt in his garden,

dancing with his wife, watching grandchildren

grow up, his church men’s group, his circle of 

friends, his joy in writing a good poem.

He recalls walking between the two sides

of the wash, hearing what might have been a 

cacophony or what might have been a 

choir of quails, doves, finches, cactus wrens, 

flickers, thrashers, cardinals, fly catchers, 

pyrrhuloxia, verdins…and he hears

the sounds of his life: voices of parents 

who, despite their own horrible childhoods, 

made of themselves a living sacrifice

for their children, echoes of the friends he’s 

lost, and of the friends he still has, some of 

them going back to childhood, the teachers 

he disappointed and the teachers who

were there when he needed them, the students 

he failed, and those he inspired, the sounds 

of the tortured last breaths of his daughter, 

and the glorious voice of the woman 

he loves as she reads the Sunday Gospel. 

~

He remembers the Arizona sky

which canopied both sides of the wash,

feeling the paradox that is his life 

enfolded by Something—The Holy Spirit, 

The Tao, The Great Spirit, Jesus, Buddha,

Jehovah, Allah, Brahmin, The God of 

My Not Understanding—he doesn’t care

about names, he’s grateful to be here and

eager to see what’s around that next bend.

~~

*a wash is a dry, low, sandy riverbed that only carries water during rare rain events. It’s often called an arroyo.