Again and Again

Over and over in my life, I find those moments when unconscious expectations rise up to taunt me as especially painful.

Those moments when I am confronted with a new circumstance that rouses unspoken expectations. That moment of hitting a wall within that leaves me sprawled out on the floor - metaphorically speaking - trying to figure out where the pain is coming from. 

Oh, is that you, Change? Is that you, Unknown future? I thought we'd had a little chat about jumping out from behind the bushes along this path that I was simply walking down and enjoying. I mean, you did just pull off quite the show with the whole pandemic thing - talk about changing things up fast and furious. 

What am I talking about this time, you ask?

One of my children has flown the coop - and landed in South Asia for the long haul. Love, engagement, happy new life far, far away from our little corner of the Pacific Northwest. And me, being the tangible, kinesthetic learner that I am - needed to be there with her for a month to grok the fact that she isn't coming back. I understood all of this intellectually, but being there, spending time with her and her partner in their world, brought this home to me in a way I hadn't expected.  She's going to live in a part of the world that is a day ahead of me. She plans to have children whom will obviously grow up very far from me. And that's right where the unexpected, implicit expectation rose up - the image I've had in my head about who I will be as a mother and (if we are all so blessed) grandmother - my role in my daughter's life let alone grandchildren's lives. 

Look, I get it - its silly to think we ever really know how we will show up in any future reality; and yet, I think people do this all the time. We plot and plan, daydream, envision future selves as ways to often sleep at night. 

And here's the thing that is most important - just because this expectation rose up for me to grapple with didn't mean that I couldn't embrace that picture/that desire and also gently lay it to rest. Change HAS to be grieved. In order to let go, we need to shed whatever energy has built up that vision in the first place. For me, tears were part of that - but I shared those tears with my husband, not my daughter. My daughter and I cry over other things but not my sadness over her choices to follow her heart and build a life with this amazing man I will soon call son.  

It doesn't feel that long ago when I was making choices as I built my life as an adult. There were a lot of decisions made where I didn't take my parents wants and desires into account. Theirs was an often vague discontent in my mind. Even when we moved up north and took their precious grandbabies with us, I was sad and got an earful - but I was also looking forward into the excitement of a new job, a salary that we could buy a house with and a new place that wasn't the strip malls of southern California.

And that comes full circle. Now, I am the 50+ year old whose children are all grown and out of the house. They are all looking forward into their own lives, building new relationships, planning new adventures. I want them to be happy in their lives, actively pursuing their dreams - and I feel more of a spectator now rather than an active participant. As it probably should be. 

Musing on this grief and sense of change, I also hold my father as an example of how supportive a parent can be as an elder - the main cheerleader, the helper, the listener, the guide when needed. He prioritized building relationships with his grandchildren often by simply being present. He prioritized our ability to help each other with all the mundane things in life that often need a helping hand. He was approachable, available, and collaborative. And he seemed to enjoy creating his own adventures, continually crafting how he wanted to interact with the world - painting, camping, building furniture and volunteering almost everyday at the local elementary school. 

Its not that I need to let go of my children - I need to let go of those pesky expectation and outcomes that somehow cling to my brain. Adaptation takes time, reflection and sometimes, yes, grief.

Balance. Letting go, loving always, building new paths with others and for oneself.

Fishing at Tioga

I’m sitting on the rocks near the dam on Tioga Lake. My dad’s fishing pole is propped up in the rod holder, the line disappearing out into the water.

I had a bad moment when I was putting the pole and line together – I couldn’t remember which way the water bubble float needed to go. And was that before or after the swivel with the lead line?

I had frozen, my breath catching.

Dad wasn’t sitting near by to remind me of the proper way to assemble my fishing line. Usually we would sit together outside his trailer and slowly build our poles and lines making ready for the next day of fishing. I counted on his tackle box having the right hooks and leaders.

This time, it’s my tackle box.

Staring at the pole and pieces in my hands, I had stepped through the memories figuring that I would quickly discover whether I had it right or wrong the first time I cast the line out. So far, it seems I remembered what needed to be done.

I didn’t bring down his best pole. I couldn’t bring myself to use it. Black and glossy, I remember him proudly bringing it home from the Fenwick factory visit he made long ago. Stuff happens to fishing poles. Tips break, scratches. The pole has its own leather case and is wrapped in a long flannel bag. Okay, so does the one I did bring with me – another Fenwick pole – but the black one, no, I couldn’t use it yet.

My sister is using my pole that dad gave me one year for Christmas. She purchased her first fishing license just for this trip and even though she hasn’t fished since she was a teenager, she still is able to cast like she’d been fishing her whole life. We both brought in a fish at Lundy and have plans to enjoy a trout dinner tomorrow.

Tioga Lake is breezy at 7 am and its cold. The sky is a brilliant blue and the sun is just starting to hit the mountains of Tioga Pass. Its difficult sitting here without dad. We’re both teary eyed and hollowed out by our memories and grief. He is everywhere – and nowhere. As I sit here pondering the lake, the pole, and the Folgers coffee in my mug, I realize how incredibly happy I am that this place – this  wild and natural pocket of space won’t change. At least not in my lifetime. Sitting here on rocks that I’ve sat so many times before, fishing in the same deep-water hole, drinking the same coffee – I realize that it is here that I feel closest to him.

I have countless memories of watching the sun come over the ridge mountains surrounding this spot. Dad taught my children to fish here. There were days when we caught dinner, others when we left happy and empty handed. It’s over 9000 feet at the edge of Tioga Lake and the hills around us are bare rock and slate. Copper, grey and white. Whitebark and Jeffrey Pines dot the landscape. Alpine meadows are golden brown this time of year and there are a few hints of the fall colors coming.

This is his monument, his memorial.
His resting place permeates these rocks and trees and water.

And that makes this the place that I will come when I need to feel his spirit. I carry his love in my heart – but it’s here and at Lundy Lake and back beyond Saddlebag Lake that I feel so close to him. I’ve whispered to the land, giving over my grief to this beautiful landscape. It’s hard right now to feel anything beyond the searing sense of loss; and yet, this stunning wild place brings its own comfort and peace. When I’m ready, this is where I can walk with him.

The fish aren’t biting at Tioga.
I turn to the water and say, “I’m here, dad.”

Even as I speak, a lone eagle flies along the water towards me, directly over my head, and back beyond the rocks. I’ve never seen an eagle up here in all the years I’ve come. I gasp. Smiling, my heart cracking open, I start to cry.

Listening to Change

Its taken me a year to notice a change within myself. I knew that moving to this much smaller town was going to be a challenge. I figured that no longer being employed and sharing that particular work community was going to give me space and time to contemplate other choices. I realized that the inevitable solitude on those long days when I was alone were going to poke at my sense of self. I knew that I was going to have to embrace patience and find the positive in my choices while not allowing frustration to drag me down.

Living in a county that has a total population only twice as much as the city I used to live in has been an oddly packaged gift. My LinkedIn account and the psycho-organizational lingo of a consulting practice; the traffic, the push and pull of what success looks like has all been dissolved by tides, watersheds, and eagles sitting in the trees.

I've spent a lot of hours listening - sometimes to the wind in the trees and sometimes to people who are quietly going about the business of preserving our ecosystem. I've listened into questions that have started feeding my own place in this new community. I've been listening to friendships deepening and to aging parents sharing their hopes and fears; to adult children who are finding their way in the world and to the loving heart of the man I am married to.

As I get older, it continues to become clear how important it is to keep learning. To listen and learn, to humbly assume the role of student. Whether it's bread making or showing up as the newest member on a non-profit board of directors - I thrive in the learning curve. It took me a long time to realize that. I think back - way back - and remember having an overwhelming sense of vulnerability when tackling something new. Whether it was worry over how I was perceived by others or a fear of failure (and what that would mean about me) - the future tripping meaning-making would paralyze me.

The grace of aging - at least for me - has been relinquishing judgments and getting fear out of the driver's seat. My own and other people's. It is also clearer now than ever before that I know so little in respect to the world at large. That doesn't mean I don't have my own opinions about how the world works. I have my values and beliefs; ideas about what is right and wrong - just like everyone else. And yet, all I know is how I can show up for this day, today.

If the past year has taught me anything, I would say that the lesson is how the future laughs at our attempts to pin it down. Even when I tried not to have expectations, I still had expectations. Adapting doesn't mean thinking through all possible permutations of what is possible - it means softening the knees, keeping the eyes open and meeting life head on with an open, curious heart.

"May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe"

From Mary Oliver -

"Sometimes the desire to be lost again, as long ago, comes over me like a vapor. With growth into adulthood, responsibilities claimed me, so many heavy coats. I didn't choose them, I don't fault them, but it took time to reject them. Now in the spring I kneel, I put my face into the packets of violets, the dampness, the freshness, the sense of ever-ness. Something is wrong, I know it, if I don't keep my attention on eternity. May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful. May I stay forever upstream. May I look down upon the windflower and the bull thistle and the coreopsis with the greatest respect."

- from Upstream - Selected Essays by Mary Oliver 2016



I love the image of the many heavy coats - the layering of responsibilities building bulk. New layers pulled over old and not quite forgotten cardigans. I imagine what that would feel like - the stiffness of movement, the heat, the weight. We do choose these layers - maybe we aren't aware of what those choices entail or perhaps we can't quite see the choice given our social, cultural coat closet - but those old choices feel like layers that were given to us. Our arms were thrust into their context whether we liked it or not. To fault them is to cling to blame. Blaming solidifies those layers into a foundation of meaning. We grow use to defining ourselves - identifying ourselves - with those many heavy coats even as they weigh us down.

But neither do I reject the responsibilities that have claimed me - I'd rather simply peel off the coats, releasing their strangled hold on who I am right now. All that bulk, each layer seemingly predicated on all the other layers. Stripping them off takes time. I softly release what no longer serves. I run my hand across the textures of fabricated values and beliefs, the meaning I have made of each particular coat - are these truly mine or am I touching the social, familial vision of who I should be and how I should waddle forward, stooped and bound by all those many heavy coats.

Stripping off some layers gives me a sense of my own form. And yet, I am still encased in layers that have yet to be peeled back - some that never will be peeled away and others that will continue to come off as I age and release myself into the care of the universe. But still, a different awareness - to go lose myself in the world, to wander upstream as Mary Oliver writes, continues to help me shed what no longer serves me.

What kind of nail do I want to be, tiny but useful?

The Elasticity of Love

When I called my mother last week she sounded so relieved. I had interrupted the gauze-like melancholia that had begun to weigh her down. She spoke about gratitude, how lucky she is, and yet there lurked a lingering despair about growing old. What she can't do anymore, what she sees in the mirror, how she doesn't sleep well.

A year ago I lived a couple miles away from my mother. Like many seniors, she lives alone. She used to reside in a 55+ community where she organized football pools, bridge games, and an assortment of social gatherings. She hated watching the ambulances pull up to the door. She hated hearing about another friend heading out on their final ride to the hospital. The community kept raising the rent and her fixed income wasn't changing - and so she moved. My sister and husband, with a deep and loving generosity, invested in a single level, ground floor condo nearby - and that's now where my mom resides. Her bridge partners come over on Tuesdays and she joins her lady friends at the local Ixtapa restaurant for happy hour.

I am not trying to condense all the facets of my mother into the above paragraph - god, no. I'm pulling out small moments and noticing how they've painted a picture in my own mind - what I've ignored, what I have not been able to deny. Perhaps by moving farther away, my time with her has become more intentional. Perhaps I've witnessed for myself how hard it can be to confront an aging body and mind. I see within her the deep well of grief; how hard it is to be the last woman standing and witness for the passing of too many loved ones. I see her desire to be held and loved, to tend and nurture. I see the fierce independence, the intelligence, and the frustration with a ever-changing technical world that won't let her feel competent.

Thinking about my mother is juxtaposed with changing dynamics in my own life. Where once I was the one who married and moved away, now my son and his wife have done so as well. This is the first holiday season that he won't be here for at least some small part of our family gathering. As happy as I am for him and the choices that he's made for his life, I still miss him. The traditions and rituals that are indelibly written in my heart this time of year are only special in relationship to those I spend time with - my family and loved ones. So I feel his absence acutely with the full understanding that THIS is the future. This is the empty nest. Where he is for the holidays is not about how much he loves me - its about the fact that his heart has expanded and loves others. I love his extended family too. No, its not a lack of love or care - it simply is a reality of adult children doing exactly what you want them to do: find love, be happy, and live a wholehearted life.


How many times did I, as a young married woman, head to another part of the state for a holiday? I moved - and took two beloved grandchildren with me. And during all of those choices - while I knew that my folks were going to miss me and mine - my husband and I made choices for our immediate family, not our extended family and certainly not taking into account what our parents wanted. My attention was focused on my marriage, the well being of my children, health insurance, good schools, careers. Exactly what I would want my own children to put first before my desires.

It's sitting here on the other side of those life decisions with my kids that brings home to me how poignant those moments were for my parents. I can empathize now in a way that I never let myself then. I had to steel myself against their anguish when we left California for the job in Washington. I didn't have time for the long phone conversations or shared vacations of my younger self. I had to make choices that didn't take their emotional happiness into account.

And I'm ambivalent about that. I kind of wish I had been better able to see and listen - even when I wouldn't change the choices that I made. I wish that my knee jerk reaction to hearing how my parents were sad or missed me - hadn't been a defensive guilt that I had let them down. I used to think that my mother was the master of all martyrs and knew just what to say to make me feel guilty. I think she often just told me how she felt and I immediately felt she was telling me that I was intentionally hurting her. I didn't know how to hear her feelings of disappointment and simply acknowledge them without taking responsibility for those feelings. I didn't know how to hold the tension between what I chose as wife and mother with being a daughter, sister, and sometimes a friend.

It is a tension. A thread that pulls us all together into a large extended family. In-laws, children, marriages, grandparents, partners. Add in careers, friends, health, new life, death, illness, geographic locations. Sometimes that thread has no elasticity. I think our culture - especially as a woman of my generation - has taught me that I must be the one to manage all those tensions all the time. Guilt, remorse, saying "I should have, could have, ought to have" - make the familial ties tender and raw.

But that's changing now that I'm on the other side of raising my kids - and watching them head off into their adult lives. It's changing as I listen to my mom talk about her day. She takes me on a journey into the twilight - the wisdom, the pain, the astonished frustration of aging in today's world. I want to be there for her on that path. I also want to share with my own children how much I miss them - and walk them through to the knowing that they having nothing to feel guilty for - that love and caring for each other, missing each other - is never a bad thing.  I miss my son right now because I have such happy memories of all our wonderful times together. That's a delightful, precious truth.

Just as my mother and father missed me. I was a delightful, precious child to them too.

Being a bright light in someone else's life can feel like a burden - but what if I accept it and simply let it be a gift of love? If I can do that, maybe I can show my own kids how its done - so they never feel that love is an unwieldy burden or an uncomfortable responsibility.

Love stretches, it holds - even when it brings tears or loneliness or grief. Even when there is laughter and joy.

You are a bright light in someone else's heart. Let that settle in.

My Father's Hands

Sitting with my father the other evening, I notice his hands. He has a bump on his thumb and is telling me how he went to get it checked out by the doctor and had to get it x-rayed. It's a kind of cyst, totally benign but annoying. I continued to look at his hands. He looks down at them too, turning them over, bringing the fingers and thumbs together. 

These hands have done so much over so many years, he says, isn't that amazing? 

I mention, with a smile, all the babies those hands have held.

I put my hand next to his and realize that our hands are about the same size in length but his fingers are a great deal thicker than mine. Why is this a surprise? To me, my father's hands are huge and strong. His skin is mottled with age, bruising and tearing easily like tissue paper. He tries to be careful but, more often then not, his hands and arms have one or two bandages covering tears and dark bruises. He refuses to NOT do all the things he needs those hands for. I think this week alone he has changed a tire; driven to a hospital with his wife's niece; changed out my sister's faucet; tried to fix his dishwasher; shepherded and helped dozens of kindergartens with their reading, computer skills and math assessments - along with who else knows what. I'm sure he's done all his yard work, vacuumed and opened at least a couple bottles of wine. He has texted me over his mobile phone. I'm also sure he has held his wife's hand as often as possible.

That's just the stuff I know about his week. He is a man who will always attempt to fix something first - and usually does. He builds furniture and he will edit photos in Photoshop. He'll tune his HAM radio and hitch up his trailer. Those hands of my father are probably the most capable, competent hands that I know - just by the skills and experiences that has filled their days.  Seventy seven years of DIY projects, drafting architectural plans, holding small hands...holding grandchild hands. Painting. Gardening. Comforting.

Pausing in that moment, really looking at those hands - time seems to stop and cascade briefly backwards. Image after image flows through my mind and I realize how blessed my life has been by my father and those hard working hands of his. I've watched him fix or build just about anything he put his mind to and sit on the floor with my children playing with plastic dinosaurs and blocks. The blessing he brings is in the truth that he has been a integral part of my life experiences. I don't just have the father figure, I have a father - man - in my life who has helped shape the way I look at the world. 

Literally, with those hands. 

I learned how to use my own hands and to look at the world as a place where my fingers belong in the soil or speckled with paint. 

The world is a hand's-on kind of place.

Thanks, dad

September 9, 1937 - August 2, 2018

Who Says You Can't Go Back?

How many times do you get to share a memory laden place with not only the person who brought you there in the first place but with the person you’ll keep going there with for decades to come?

I’ve said this before – The Eastern Sierras are one of those places on the planet that I love. Going back yet again with my dad this summer was a wonderful treat. Taking Andy along was an added bonus. These two men, both loved so dearly by me, made the time together even better.

It wasn’t always the case that these two guys got along. During the first few years of our marriage, my dad might have used Andy for target practice instead of getting out there and shooting tin cans and targets together. To see how time has shifted their relationship into one of caring and friendship has been one of the blessings in my life.

We hiked and we fished. Yes, we went target shooting way out beyond Mono Lake. We drank wine and cooked together. We told stories and reminisced.  My dad and Andy shared stories about their youthful adventures in car ownership. Dad re-told stories from past fishing trips with his brother. When we drove by a particular turn in a creek, dad would point out to Andy where I caught my limit of trout that first time or where we camped or where a particular trailhead was that we, his daughters, still grouse about that hike he took us on.

Occasionally my dad would say, “Well, you never know when one’ll be back down here to see this again.” He’s in his mid-seventies and while still active and healthy, it’s there in his mind’s eye:  Age is changing the way he does things. “It used to be,” he says thoughtfully, “that I could just get up, pack the trailer, get everything ready to go without a thought. Now I have to go over it in my head the night before. I make lists.” 

I didn’t tell him that I do that now all the time. He was marking the differences for himself – what has changed over fifty years of adulthood. But there is a way that he says it that tells me just how much he thinks living a full life is worth any of the little troubles that aging is bringing to his doorstep. He is a happy man. Truly, deeply happy.  He doesn’t complain about getting older or get maudlin about what living used to be like – dad just figures out the ways he can keep doing what he really loves doing.

There are times when he quietly lets go and holds on to happy memories that remind him of what living a full, vibrant life can give you. "I have wonderful memories," he says, "I hold on to what makes me happy, reminds me how lucky I am."

I don’t know how much longer he’ll be able to pull his trailer down to the Sierras and neither does he. He takes it one summer at a time. We did talk about how much gas he would save bringing his little compact car down – he could afford to rent one of those cabins near the market in Lee Vining. Like I said, he keeps figuring out other ways to do what he wants to do.

Finding happiness as we get older is tricky. I think it is far too easy to concentrate on loss and regrets instead of figuring out what happiness looks like. Maybe contentment is another word that we have a hard time making sense of. Is it possible to find contentment and still strive for a life well lived? As I head towards fifty, I have to say that my father has helped me see that aging doesn’t have to be a bloody throw-down battle.

Striving for happiness, letting go of what doesn’t serve anymore, and learning how to discover contentment are a recipe for aging well.

Rx: If in Doubt, Call the Doctor

This morning it is the quiet sound of the water lapping against the hull and the gentle swell of the tide turning that has me up watching the dawn come up over the hills of Galliano Island.  I am out on a boat for the next week and the timing of this trip couldn’t have been more perfect.

The last few months have taken a toll that only recently I realized had a physical component that needed tending. I knew that I was tired, not tracking people and information, putting stuff in places that I could never find again – but I put that off to stress or menopause. I figured I felt weaker because I wasn’t working out as much. I switched up my diet in another attempt to kick-start my body (Mark Bittman’s Vegan Before 6 ). I gained weight. Really? I give up dairy and meat for most of the day, eat more vegies and grains than ever before – and I gain weight? Drained, feeling crazy – I finally called my doctor. 

I had put off calling her for weeks. Everything seemed so nebulous. I was sure that she was going to simply smile at me, tell me to read up on menopause and get my butt down to the gym. I basically expected her to tell me that I’m lazy and if you don’t work on staying in shape – you won’t be in shape. That’s the talk I expected. And while all of that might be true – it was a huge relief to actually find out that my thyroid is acting up and I have a B12 deficiency. That might sound silly but the tests confirmed for me that I had made the right call. Literally. I didn’t feel right and now I had some confirmation.

A dear friend of mine wasn’t “feeling right” for months. Her appetite was off, she was feeling tired, having odd pains. Finally, she went to the doctor and they discovered that she had ovarian cancer. It looks like they caught it in time. Thank god she listened. Her story of feeling off had resonated with me -how do we know what to listen for in our own bodies?

For me, neither diagnosis is life threatening and I’m feeling extremely lucky that my schedule allows me to balance out the time needed for moving a bit slower than most of the people around me. I’m realizing now how exhausted I have been and I’m looking forward to getting back some energy as I – with my doctor’s help – re-balance some essential body functions.

I share this story with you because I think it is rather common NOT to pay attention when we feel out of sync in our bodies. I’ve talked to so many men and women who try to push through discomfort or ignore something that doesn’t feel right. Our bodies give us a lot of clues that optimal functioning is not happening but we often have to be hit over the head with empirical data (like a heart attack) or test results before we make a phone call.

This has been a reminder for me to not lose touch with what good and healthy feel like. I can only imagine as I get older that these small system changes are going to continue to happen.

How I respond – and sometimes how quickly I can course correct – may make a huge difference in how I feel.

Grief and Grace

Midlife graces us with many experiences but none so difficult, perhaps, as the inevitable decline in health of the generation one step ahead of us. I know that illness and death don’t simply stalk our elders and that tragedy comes when it is least expected over the course of our whole lives.  However, if parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents live into the twilight of a life lived well and long – I will most likely be a witness to those inevitable passings.

My mother’s oldest and only surviving sister is fading fairly quickly even as I write this. My aunt has been a walking medical miracle for years and she has continued to live a full life pursuing interests and learning as best she can with the limitations of a failing heart.

As I sat with my aunt yesterday in the hospital and I listened to the buzz and flow of conversation with other visitors, she looked at me at one point and said, “Oh, here we are talking about pets – there are so many other things we should be talking about – important things.”

I heard in her voice the fatal knowing that this was probably the last time she would see me. There weren’t going to be any other conversations beyond the rather inconsequential chatter that happens in a hospital room.  We were both, in that moment, grieving the loss of – time. Memories flooded my mind, all the shared experiences we had had together and, yes, all the missed opportunities as well.

I thought about all the stories I didn’t know.  What were her favorite memories of living in France as a young married woman? How did she manage being the oldest child of five – especially after her father died when she was twelve? How did World War II impact her world? What was it like to stay in Seattle and finish out high school when the rest of her family headed down to California? Did she always love to draw? How did she survive the devastating deaths of both her children?

Cooking up one of her incredible dinners

I also thought about what I did know – her love of cooking and challenging herself with the presentation of gourmet (and amazing) meals. I know that not only did she love to paint but that I have some of her most beautiful paintings on my walls – pictures that I treasure because her love of color and medium is so present. She has been stubbornly independent even in her sixty plus years of marriage to a man that still adores her.  What a blessing they have been to each other.  I thought about all the afternoons spent at her house chasing ducks and eating walnuts out of the huge old tree that spread its shade over the backyard. I remembered how beautiful she looked when she came to my son's wedding.

I could add in hundreds of other memories and impressions but in the end I could only smile and shrug and tell her that it really didn’t matter what we talked about . I told her I knew what was in her heart and she knew how much I loved her and that was what was really important anyway. We could talk about anything and I knew through our eyes that we told each other what needed to be said.

I move through my days often feeling like my mother and father are immortal regardless of how silver their hair has become. There are others as well – like my aunt – who are part of their generation and who have been such fixtures in my world that to watch them fade and pass is heartbreaking.

And this is where that grace comes in – the heartfelt love and compassion that gives me permission to accept what is and honor these amazing people by reminding myself that they are part of me - the fabric of my life. Grace also reminds me to not miss the opportunities and invitations that I do have to stay lovingly connected with people who matter to me.

 A friend posted this quote that made me think of my aunt, aging and breathing life into the next moment -

Once you recognize within yourself a hunger for something beyond just continuing, once you taste even the possibility of touching the meaning enfolded in your life, you can never be completely content with just going through the motions – Oriah Mountain Dreamer
 

Dora Jean – my aunt – touched that meaning and refused to ‘just continue’ as a way of passing time as she grew older. She inspires me and isn’t that the most beautiful legacy of all?

Dora Jean in 1949

Stepping Towards Change

I haven’t written for a couple of months and it took me awhile to figure out why.

Sometimes the events and situations in any life take on a gravity – or depth – of emotion that doesn’t belong in a public forum. That’s my first thought. And then I think of how many of my friends are already in similar situations and it crosses my mind that we all have something to offer each other – our honest truths about some of life’s hardest struggles.

So here goes…

Many of the significant events that have happened this autumn involve my relationship with my mother. And most of those significant events have to do with her health. In respect to her privacy, let me simply say that right now she is fine and getting back to her usual level of activity (which would put most of us to shame).

Like many people my age, I have parents who were born over seventy years ago and it is a fact of life  - the worst fact of life – that none of us live forever and often our bodies begin to fail us long before our minds or spirit. My mother has no fondness for the whole aging process and is fiercely independent. In many ways she is irascible and feisty about the label of ‘old’ – fighting the notion of dependence or senior living in any shape or size. If someone says to a group of people - ‘let the older folks go first’ – she’ll sit down until the young kids are in line. This makes me smile. She is a compilation of the characters from the movie The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and if she could figure out a way to find a place like that hotel – she would be there in a heartbeat.

This is great. Part of me cheers her on. And yet, this determined independence is only so grand while she doesn’t need medical care. Now that she is single and lives alone, my sisters and I have the distinction of being her primary care providers when she can’t manage by herself.

There’s nothing new about this – we all see it coming as our parent’s hair starts turning silver and health becomes much more precarious. I think my younger sister and I are lucky that we all live in the same town – this has been a saving grace when prepping meals every day. This phase of life - when the questions concerning an aging parent begin to require answers that include tangible support and care - is now my experience. I’m trying to figure out how to respect my mother’s independent nature while also being acutely aware of how fast, in this very recent incident, she needed daily care, advocacy and logistical help – and what to do when that happens again.

When my children were toddlers, I remember how important it was to let them venture outside of the safe little world that had held them as babies. Fingers needed to get dirty, knees scraped, odd things tasted – and all the while, as a parent, I hovered in the background, ready to step in, slap a Band-Aid on or pull someone back from the street. It was a kind of ‘parent radar’ that had to be kept on at all times as the little ones trundled into one adventure after another. In some ways, it feels like that radar has been switched back on in a much more nuanced way with my mother.  I’m so damn grateful that she’s felt good, been active and been involved in all sorts of things. I haven’t worried about her health in years. Now, today, I know that while all of that activity and living is going on, she can also stumble pretty hard and it takes more than a Band-Aid to fix what ails her.

I am aware that I have a new, developing role in my mother’s life that I can’t figure out ahead of time. There is no way to calculate or factor in any variables that might come up as she continues to pursue her own version of quality living. The bottom line is that I’ve had to finally accept that my mother is not immortal – without letting her know that I know that.

My mother, on the other hand, is the only one who knows what thriving means to her and I want to support her desire to be happy. I just have to acknowledge to myself that her choices will always have an impact on me because I am going to be tuned in to her slowly declining ability to be independent. This means that I need to be mindful of not simply reacting to given situations. Instead, I need to know for myself what I can and can’t do. It’s time to let go of the baggage, the stories, the expectations and look at what really exists in this complicated and very special relationship. It isn’t perfect, we aren’t best friends but I love her and know she loves me.

Maybe love is really the crux of this whole topic. How I love her now is very different then when I was a child.  It isn’t an idealized love of mother and child – this is a humanized, layered depth of feeling. It is built upon almost fifty years of interaction.  Bruised, battered, nourished, joyful – this love for her is simply in my bones. I reached up and took her hand as a child; she held my hand as I gave birth to my children and I will hold her hand when she is scared and ill and weak.

And what about today?

Today she is happy, a little tired from the holidays, complaining about her football picks and planning on enjoying wine and dinner with friends.

Life goes on.

I think the best advice I can give myself is to simply take it one day at a time and have some faith in my ability to walk an unknown path into my own future shared with others that I love.

That sounds so deceptively simple.

The high school reunion...that I didn't go to

I had the plane tickets purchased, a hotel room reserved. I was actually looking forward to going to my thirty year high school reunion. It popped up on my radar months ago and I was determined to go this time.  In the end, work got in the way and I had to cancel all my plans.

That didn’t stop me from thinking about it, though.  High School, friends, what we wanted and where we ended up. I went to our first reunion – the 10 year reunion – and reveled in the sense of justice that some of the cheerleaders had gained a lot of weight. This time around, I felt a simple happiness to see so many old friends alive and well enough to tell the tale.  Hairlines have receded, waists are perhaps a bit thicker but the smiles look the same.  I got back in touch with my high school best friend and her sense of humor is as sharp as ever. She still makes me laugh.

Maybe it’s because I have a child still in the throes of her own high school experience, but I think back to all the ways I related to the world thirty years ago and I have to say – I’m glad to be where I am right now. Someone posted a picture from our senior year of the ‘senior table’ and while other people reminisced about good times, I felt a shudder of remembered unease.  That table epitomized the cliques that were present – the tribes that people belonged to. I rarely felt that I belonged anywhere and that had nothing to do with high school but what I had grown up with. No one in high school knew the truth about my childhood – hell, I didn’t have the language yet to even talk about it - but I can look back and see how those dynamics impacted my ability to figure out my place in the world. 

I bet that pretty much sums up most people’s experiences with high school.

Now I look back with a deep sense of compassion for all of us – all that we each were struggling and grappling with – as we confronted the task of growing up. I can see the children that we were while making rather adult choices around work, sex, drugs, alcohol, and our futures. We were living our own version of ‘YOLO’  - you only live once – and look at us: we survived.

Which is why I watched this reunion come and go...

with a smile.

 

A Ceremony Worth Celebrating

I’ve wanted to write about my son’s upcoming nuptials for weeks and guess what happened?  The wedding was last weekend.

This is what happens when one is busy experiencing the event.

I really wouldn’t want to have it any other way. 

Juxtaposed with the whirlwind of wedding activities was enjoying family from California.  My sister-in-law is approximately my age with a great husband and four kids all under the age of eleven. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was managing the care and keeping of three kids much in the same way that she is. And yet, here I am watching my oldest get married. Blink and there he is, standing in front of the officiant saying wedding vows to a remarkable and lovely young woman.  The little boy who was going to take over the world with his underwater laser base couldn’t keep the tears at bay when he saw his bride walk down the aisle.

It was pretty much a golden moment.

I am no longer an advocate for elopement – and my girls better listen up as I say this. Being witness to these two young people making a vow and commitment to each other was very important for me. My heart warmed as I heard my son speak his vows to his bride; however, it was her vows to him that cracked my heart wide open. This woman, who loves my son with all of her heart, took the responsibility to ‘be the shelter for his heart.’  I felt a deep sense of contentment and satisfaction as something almost intangible seemed to slip away from me into her hands – the care and keeping of the man my son has become.

I will always be his mom but it was through the witnessing of their vows that I also get to step down from the primary female role in his life. Frankly, I’ve felt that since the day he took her on their first date and there was joy in my heart even then. This time, however, the knowledge feels more solemn as if I, too, am making a commitment to honor their marriage partnership foremost by simply being a loving presence and support for both of these amazing young people.

Ceremony and ritual are not just for those in the center of the room.  The community that witnesses the ceremony is woven into the fabric of the vows and intentions as spoken.  Watching this particular community celebrate these nuptials gave me a peek at the love, humor and care that will undoubtedly continue to grace the lives of my son and daughter-in-law.  What a blessing!

And so, at the end of the day, as my guests head home and I slowly begin to put crystal and china away, I am conscious of being a woman with children who are quickly launching into their own adult lives (yes, one is still flapping in the nest - but she’s on her way).  I am aware of how quiet this big farmhouse of ours is. Empty rooms, echoes of voices and the thunder of little feet.  Memories savored, and yet - tomorrow beckons to me just as it does to my son. He steps into marriage and a future family of his own. I step towards my own new chapter.

Each and every day.

Aging Moms Prefers Daughters over Husbands?

Articles like these drive me crazy:
Aging Moms Prefer Daughter to Hubby Study Finds

Originally on an ABC news blog and ‘reblogged’ on Huffington Post, the article basically says that “research shows” that as women age they prefer their daughters as best friends and confidants more than their husbands.

“Study finds,” “Research shows” are always red flags for me. I am immediately skeptical.  Not to mention that the whole slant of the article makes me shudder.  This is the kind of journalism-lite that I hate because too many people pay attention to the journalist’s perspective without looking at the data for themselves.  All is rosy and sweet – isn’t it cute how so many women turn to their daughters as best friends?  One line is devoted to the daughter’s perspective of feeling stalked by her parent. Now we're talking interesting - but one line is all she gets.

But that’s beside the point.  Okay, it’s part of the point but here is MY bigger pet peeve: the study itself.
The study: http://www.nature.com/srep/2012/120419/srep00370/full/srep00370.html

Here’s an excerpt from the Discussion part of the study:

The assumption that mobile phone communication represents the most of important relationships of subscribers and that the strength of communication reflects the level of emotional closeness, these results allow us to draw four conclusions... (#2)as they age, women's attention shifts from their spouse to younger females, whom we assume, on the basis of the age difference, to be their daughters.

Each conclusion “assumes” truths based on unverified values. Why?  Because the researchers basically culled through a bunch of cell phone data records looking at gender and age and how often calls were made to a 'best friend.' Now, go back and read that first sentence again – what did they base that assumption about mobile phone use on? Hell, that’s a study in and of itself.  Moreover, they didn’t have the data that actually verifies any of the relationships between the cell phone users.  If an older woman is calling a younger woman a lot – it must be her daughter.  That’s flawed logic.

That, a scientific study, does not make.  Granted, the researchers are more interested in establishing some data on how different genders invest in relationships with other or same genders as time passes – they cross a line, however, when they start drawing conclusions as to who is who for a given subject based off of cell phone usage.

However, as reported out in the articles that followed on ABC and Huffington, the conclusions support a need in our culture for a large population of women to continue to be helicopter parents. (The conclusions also could be read to reveal a surprising level of loneliness that middle age women  feel and how hard it is to give up a role of all-knowing wisdom and authority.)  Now these women have a study to support their desire to continue to focus all their attention on adult children and not deal with the realities of an aging relationship that will take work and tending. Empty nest, anyone? The journalist with ABC does gently suggest through the words of a psychologist that this way of being in relationship with your adult child can become toxic or poisonous.  But that only makes sense if a person recognizes what healthy boundaries are in the first place.

People like to hear what supports their views on life.  We like to be validated in our way of thinking.  It is scary to me that there are so many women who buy into the veracity of the assumptions presented - that daughters can fulfill the need for closeness better than a partner.   

Read the data, ask questions and then decide in what world is it okay to call your daughter three to ten times a day and text her constantly when she is 27 years old? Leave the girl alone, stop living vicariously through her and go pick up the tattered remains of your marriage/partnership (if you have one) or go out and get your own life. I'm telling you, Intimacy is much better with an adult partner then your child.  I’ve known a lot of “Debby’s” and I’ve worked with their daughters.  As a therapist. 

Because they needed one.

I love my daughters and we text and talk on the phone a lot more than I do with my husband. This amounts to once or twice a week - more with the 16 year old because I am often tracking her down for location and ETA home. But the reason for my husband getting less air time is that I wait to share my day, thoughts, ideas and worries with him in person.  I don't need to call or text him because I'll be able to sit and make eye contact with him in the evening. That's my preferred method of communication - in person. With my kids - who knows when I'll see them next?  That often goes for the sixteen year old as much as the 23 and 25 year old. 

So the study is flawed for me from the get-go. Its assumptions are too flimsy to hold much water. It really bothers me how the media - especially Huffington Post - picked it up and gave it a stamp of approval. And if there is anyone out there that thinks its just fine to have your daughter be your best friend while your marriage fades into some bland, tasteless friendship -

Give me a call, I can set you up with a good therapist.

Bucket Lists

Each week Google Alerts drops anything published or blogged via the Internet about midlife into my inbox.  There are some weeks that I just roll my eyes – like this one – where almost everything has to do with the  fifty shades of gray author E.L. James sharing that her books were the outpouring of her own midlife crisis.  The news media just loves that. All I have to say is – good for her and now the world can share in her personal sexual fantasies.  I love that she claims this, by the way.

Buried within all the titillation regarding what critics are calling ‘mommy porn’ was an article about taking the midlife crisis on the road by making sure you have a bucket list of things that you want to accomplish before you, well, kick the bucket.  That’s what a bucket list is, right? A list of activities that you want to check off to feel that you’ve lived the fullest life possible. 

When we are young, we say – "someday, I am going to learn to play guitar," or "someday I am going to live in Europe."  Those dreams feel more like goals at that point in our lives and less like pure daydreams. There is a sense that time is infinite and all of those “somedays” will happen in about five years. Somehow.

Midlife rolls around and I suspect more than one midlife crisis has been the product of realizing that those ‘somedays’ never materialized as we thought they would.  Jobs and careers happened. Electric bills and weddings.  Car insurance payments and a second child. There’s a lot of joy in finding the love of your life and having children – heck, having your own car might have been a one of the things that you once dreamed about.  And yet, for good or ill, the bucket list sits patiently waiting for you to fill it up with more wishes and dream opportunities.

I’m curious if this is an American phenomenon: once again wanting to make sure we get the full value out of what we signed up for.  Status quo, sometimes regardless of how good it is, is never quite good enough so we must constantly strive to up the ante and cram in “better” experiences.  This drives the consumer market and it isn’t much of a leap to see how it translates to our way of dealing with life transitions.

Building a bucket list is one way to future-trip about what you will feel like once you have checked all those items off the list.  If you tend to beat yourself up over things that you don’t accomplish – a bucket list may not be a great idea for you because, let’s face it, that list most likely has some highly improbable daydreams on it.  Let the bucket list hold the inconsequential, relatively unimportant items like ‘I want to spend a year in Italy.’  If you don’t go to Italy before you die, chances are it won’t be the most important thing you are lamenting while on your death bed.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – Regrets are emotions that shrivel us up inside.  I think I would regret not telling my children that I love them on a regular basis whereas I won’t regret it if I never see the pyramids in Egypt. I’d like to see them – but it won’t make or break my life experience. Hitting midlife and realizing that we’ve lost track of our dreams doesn’t have to be terrifying – it can be a wake-up call. There is time to repair broken relationships and re-engage with lost dreams. We can do this in order to keep living a full and vibrant life instead of trying to cram more stuff into the memory file – stuff that you may not be taking with you there at the end.  I don’t know, that’s just a hunch.

I have dreams and goals that inform my life. Some stay with me, others fade. I like planning new adventures and love being in the moment of those plots I put into motion. What I am trying to do is detach from the outcomes - what sense I will make of the moment once it is past.

I asked my husband if he had a bucket list and he said no. He has friends who keep those lists in wallets and pockets, but he doesn’t.  We talked about all the things we thought we would be doing at this age when we were younger and he looked at me and said “I couldn’t have imagined how amazing my life is now when I was twenty. Could not have imagined it at all.”

So there you go.

Bucket lists, I’ve decided, can be fun but I wouldn't count on my older, wiser self actually putting that much stock in whether or not I checked off a list of things as a measure of a life well lived.  

In the end what matters,  I suspect, is the life I am living now. In this amazing moment.

Trip Down Memory Lane

I stand on the beach just shy of the Balboa pier in Newport Beach. The wave set is decent with about a dozen four to five feet waves interspersed with a beguiling gentle roll of surf. Making my way down to the waterline, the cold sand is nothing compared to the chill of the water as it wraps around my ankles with froth.

If you stand still, the breaking wave will slowly erode the sand under your feet, depositing more on top until your feet disappear into the ground. I used to do this as a kid until I had to dig myself out.

The pier is busy with people - tourists, kids, locals and fisherman. 70 degrees with a brisk northwesterly breeze and blue skies.

What is not to love?

Kids screaming as the tide chases them up the beach; Teenagers body surfing; towels, piles of clothes and coolers marking small group territories - the southern California beach hasn't changed all that much from the days that I used to catch the bus down from Fullerton with my teenage friends.

I don't remember the berm of sand that you now have to climb down to get to the water. Over the years I’ve heard how these beaches are being eroded – their sand stolen and deposited elsewhere at the discretion of an uncaring ocean. There are no lifeguards sitting in their towers overlooking the crowded beach.  Is it just off-season or is this another casualty of California’s financial woes? I don’t know but I also notice how no one is going very far out in the water. Perhaps those in the water at this moment are simply not comfortable playing where the waves rise out of their swells, form their crests and roll forward with a crashing roar of frothy madness.

I stand on this beach remembering a blur of sensations that comes from thirty year old memories. There was a time that I could have told you what streets you could park on particular days; which houses were rentals filled with college students and where the cracks in the boardwalk were. Driving down today, I remembered knowing all of that. I wonder where that information has gone. Perhaps I’ve released all of that knowledge into the bucket of ‘no longer necessary.’

I mouth the names of streets that I used to know – MacArthur, Jamboree, Katella – and places like Aliso Beach and Crystal Cove.  I used to carry a map of Orange County and the Los Angeles basin around in my head – don’t ask me where the Ventura freeway is today. I may be able to tell you that Katella is near Disneyland but I don’t remember any longer where it originates or how far it travels across the urban sprawl that once was my home.

But I could still show those kids how to body surf because I’ve continued to play in the surf everywhere and anywhere I find it.  Time has passed and even though some landmarks, roads, buildings and locations have not changed – my need to remember them has faded into forgetfulness.

I’m guessing that this is normal and yet, I wonder if these are points of information that I want to refresh – or continue to let fade into my past? I’m left with impressions, snippets of sensory memory. I smell eucalyptus and I am transported to my childhood backyard.  I stand on the beach in Newport and I am walking through a hundred other moments with friends, Coppertone and beach towels.

Letting memories fade releases a sense of vigilance that I’ve held on to for years. I don’t mind remembering or revisiting places, scents and relationships; however, it has become acceptable to find gaps and holes in the memories. I feel like laughing at myself for trying to hang on to so much for so long. I don’t need to be able to recite the stories let alone the meaning that I once made of certain circumstances or events. There was a time in my life that I seemed to need those stories to define who I was. I needed the clarity of where (and what) I came from in order to know where I was going.

What memories become white noise in our heads? What ruts do we continue to walk in when we retell the same meaning making stories over and over again?  It takes enormous energy to continually re-weave the web of our own history and meaning. I think I want to redirect that energy elsewhere.

I’m guessing there are many ways to accept the reality of aging. It is literally the magic of time passing and the softening of memories buried under the years of new experiences. I am the person I am today because of those past experiences and I don’t need to explain the ‘and this is why’ any longer.

I can stand here on this beach, feeling the tickle of sand crabs running over my feet, and simply enjoy the fragmented impressions of a world I lived in a life time ago.

It is a good moment – one of the best.

Wild Hippie Momma?

My daughter called me a Hippie the other day.

I found that rather amusing. And then I stopped and asked myself: how do I actually define ‘hippie-ness?’

1976

Born in the middle of the 1960’s to parents who were anything BUT hippies certainly didn’t expand my awareness on the subject.  If anything, as my awareness of culture grew in the 1970’s – the Hippie movement had mainstreamed into the world around me. Civil rights, non-violent activism, Scooby Do, sexual freedom and yes, the clothing – the world that I was growing up in was permeated with the impact of the Hippie movement.

Looking back on what I learned as a kid, I tend to think of Hippies as folks who have chosen to live what mainstream culture would call alternative lifestyles. I think about people who eschew the consumer driven society, use their voices to promote peace and environmental health and live on Salt Spring Island in the summer.  Birkenstock sandals, long hair and vegetarianism complete the picture. 
Not exactly me.  And that stereotypical image is certainly not representative of just how complex the Hippie movement was nor the people who lived it.

So what is my daughter referring to? Is it because I’m doing a four day fasting vision quest in May?

No, it’s because I told her that maybe I should embrace my wild side and get a tattoo.

“Just don’t start smoking weed, mom- that would be too weird.” That’s all she said when I asked.

I’m home after a ten day trip to south Nevada– most of which was camping out in the desert with an amazing community of people who were pulled to this type of nature-based, self-actualization work much as I was. This work is about peeling back layers of all the different ways I think about Self and the World – using the wilderness as a gateway into my understanding, fears, and gifts.

I love it.

In essence, I'm clearing space mentally much like a strong meditation practice would do. The tools are different but being present to what manifests as the true, living experience of being in my own body/mind/spirit is at the core. This forty seven year old body, this woman who is moving into middle age and will soon no longer be the primary caretaker of children. She who is all the ages that she has ever lived with all the dents and scars to prove it. Who am I now? If I take the time to pause and listen, what do I want to know?  As I get older, I am drawn to questioning the choices that I have unconsciously made through the years. That deep, inner conversation is easier without the distractions of cell phones, computers and all the relationships that live in my day to day world.

I’m not going to start smoking – rest easy, my dear. There are too many other, natural, healthy ways to get high on life.  And if I buy birkenstock sandals, get a tattoo and stop eating meat - I'll just be living into a future me that will still like to get facials and drink red wine with friends.

Midlife Rollercoaster

If you don’t want to read about menopause than stop right now and go back to the Cold Frames post from a week ago or check out the professional category.

I am a woman and I can’t talk about midlife without addressing the wonderful world of hormones.

Still a great resource

I think it was Christiane Northrup who made me realize just how many body processes hormones are involved in.  Impressive. Great. Happy to hear it. My body is a delicate machine balanced on now fluctuating chemical interactions. Isn’t that marvelous?

Every few weeks these amazing chemicals mix in a fascinating way that keeps me up all night worrying about any and all potentially anxiety-ridden situations. Forgot to take the library book back – wham – going to chew on that for a good half hour at 1 am.  Remember how you forgot that woman’s name in the grocery store and it was obvious – think about THAT for another forty five minutes as your brain rehashes, replays and agonizes over the nuances of the conversation.

Those aren’t the big hitters, however, not by a long shot. The guaranteed subject to keep me up the greatest length of time in a hormonally induced anxiety fest is: The Teenager. The runner-up was Work – I’m kind of thankful not to have that on my plate at the moment (although that can create its own thought process in the wee small hours of the morning).  I may as well just be a bystander in my own brain – it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

I know the moment that the little hormonal gremlin has pulled out its winning card from the deck –

Do you really know where she was on Saturday night?

That is a sure fire way to get my eyes to pop open.

I’ve been dealing with perimenopause for many a year along with the cyclical insomnia that has come with it.  I know all the tricks to deal with insomnia now but the best answer is to simply sigh, get up and go make a cup of herbal tea. I grab my journal – vent in writing, make lists, harangue the teenager – and jot down whatever seems to need being said. In a way, I guess I honor the anxiety. I give it a place to be scared or angry or embarrassed.

There have been some really long days where I only got by thanks to the 12 cup pot of coffee. It was a blessing this morning not having to drag myself into work. The truth is that I’m getting used to a life that includes a few sleepless nights every month. That’s a huge improvement from those early days of whacked out sleep patterns when I despaired of ever sleeping a solid eight hours again. Now I’m happy with six. I’m also a big believer in siestas – another huge bonus of not working every day until 5pm.

And no, I never did go ask my daughter about Saturday night. She’s upstairs doing homework, texting and on Facebook while also probably painting her nails and rearranging her shoes. She ate dinner with us. Laughed, chatted.

Let’s be grateful for the moment.

What's wrong with looking my age?

My husband, bless his sweet heart, gave me a compliment this morning as I was getting ready for work - "hon, you look great today.  You don't look like you're forty seven at all. You look younger."
A compliment and yet...
What's wrong with looking just like I look today AND being forty six and eleven months? What does 46 or 47 years old look like?  And why is being told I look younger than I am considered a compliment - just as it is insulting if you tell someone that they look older than their age?
I look in the mirror and see some wrinkles, spots, discolorations and diminishing eyebrows.  I see how shiny my short mop of hair is now with all the silver in it.  I am heading towards fifty and feel so grateful to have my health and love and joy in my life.
The mirror shows me one way to look at a forty six year old woman and I really have no desire any longer to compare how I look to any other mid-forties woman.  No more comparisons with thin supermodels, actresses or the perfectly coifed, designer dressed suburban yoga queens. 
If letting go of such confining and draining thoughts is part of getting older - life is going to keep getting better and better.

Baby pictures

We were all young once.
The world was filled with wonder.
You can see the innocence and trust. 
Those baby cheeks and that uncluttered gaze. 

And then that baby had babies...here is my youngest learning about the world around her  - or putting rocks down the storm drain - it's all about perspective...

My middle daughter is graduating from college this year.  This was the day she learned to walk - she was ten months old. Never one to sit still...

And then there's my boy.  I can still hear his giggle.  He grew up to be an engineer.  I blame the legos.  Now he's in love and thinking about his own future.






Go catch a snowflake on your tongue, roll in the grass, or climb a tree.  Draw with crayons, dance and sing to whatever music fills you with joy.  Just be.  That baby child isn't gone.  I still look into the world with those same eyes - I just sometimes don't let myself really see what is right in front of me.

The world is filled with wonder.

Aging Well

Aging Well: Surprising Guideposts to a Happier Life from the Landmark Harvard Study do Adult Development by George Valliant, M.D.

Very interesting book. This landmark study from Harvard is made up of three cohort studies that began back in the year 1938. It follows over 800 subjects over the course of their lives. At the time of this book being published, most of these folks were mid to late seventies. This research is the epitome of what a longitude study can encompass. Now, how someone wants to pull meaning out of that preponderance of information also becomes quite fascinating. I think Valliant makes a… ahem… valiant effort to be as scientific as he can when he draws out his conclusions. He works a great deal with Erickson's Stages for Adult Development and adds his own tweaks to that model as he goes through his findings.

As a therapist who has worked with older clients – I found this book exceptionally insightful into the aging process as well as how to clarify ways in which an elder can explore his or her own meaning making. As a middle aged woman, I read Valliant's findings with interest and agreement. Well-formed identity; intimacy, career development (commitment, competency, compensation and contentment); adaptive coping style and generativity are some of the attributes that he sees coming together to increase the likelihood that someone will live a long life.

Aging well isn't about genetics. This I know. And yes, Valliant does talk about health and moderate exercise but he is stressing the ways in which we form our outlook on life as a better predictor of how we will cross that threshold into our senior years. He may brush over how adaptive coping styles relates to depression which leads to isolationism – and he may not talk about attachment theory when he is detailing what happens when a forty year old has yet to build their own identity separate from their parents but all in all, he does tease out a complex relationship between a host of attributes that are rather compelling.

I have known now for years that my ability to adapt to change is directly related to how happy and content I feel. My ability to cope emotionally goes hand in hand with how I reach out into the world – how I try to take my place in the world. It defines how I open my heart to others and how I allow life to flow in and out of my own journey. These ways of being are all part of what Valliant describes as developmental tasks that when embraced well can create a higher satisfaction with the life I can have as I age.

Thinking about my parents who are around the ages of the study participants, I also see how difficult it is to tease out how aging well actually works. The tasks and stages that Valliant lays out are not sequential and I also believe that sometimes regression can happen as well.

And, in the end, does it really matter whether or not we can predict or define 'aging well?" To a certain extent, we are all the products of experience, wisdom, learned behavior, and circumstances. Like most human beings (now there's a generalization) – I do like to think there is a blueprint out there that will lead me to a long and fruitful life. Valliant's work feeds that need quite nicely.