Being 80

I am 80 years and 4 months old. Like Poet Mary Oliver – I believe that prayer is paying attention. Every morning when I go out to pick up my newspapers, I stop and consciously acknowledge the beauty in which I live. The dew or frost on leaves and branches. How new-fallen snow reminds us of the sculptural beauty of the leaf-less trees. Bird song. The tilt of a mom holding the hand of her toddler. So many of the teachers I have learned from cite the importance of gratitude. Gratitude not just for the present amazements but also for all the people and critters who have been here before me, who have enabled this beauty to permeate my existence. I have serius mobility issues. Please don’t ask me to be careful. I have to be careful. For a time, I allowed these issues (combined with pandemic restrictions) to circumscribe my life. It felt like I was organizing my life around weekly trash pick-ups and Netflix offerings. It was an inadequate existence. I have been on several Road Scholar trips. I receive all their catalogs. One of them contained text describing alternative, and encouraging, ways to participate. You could hike off vigorously with the stalwarts or stay behind and stroll leisurely with other less stalwarts. So, Wednesday morning January 5, 2022, I called them. I explained my physical limitations and the places I wanted to go. It was a long and reassuring phone call. I looked at one of their brochures and asked about trip to the eastern side of the Mediterranean. And I signed up for an “Odyssey at Sea – visiting ancient sites in Greece, Lebanon, Israel and Egypt” I will join the tour on Dec. 1, 2022 and return Dec. 17. Of course, I do not know what my physical condition will be then. Or what the state of the world will be. More pandemic?? More wars?? But I bought ‘trip insurance’ so I will either go or stay home (if indeed I am still alive). Until then, I have a luminous opportunity on my personal horizon. I intend for it to motivate me to get out more, to do more. I need to find a travel buddy to go with me to places like Steamboat Springs and Breckenridge. In July I plan to attend the Indiana wedding of my friend’s daughter. And I will arrange as many encounters with my grandson (and sons and daughter-in-law) as possible. I’d like to go back to Taos and Santa Fe. Get an entry permit for Rocky Mountain National Park and visit other Colorado wonders. And go to concerts and plays. And show up for this congregation which has been such a magnificent resource for my mind and soul. I believe that I am not only connected to everything (and everyone) that exists now, but also to everything (and everyone) that existed before (and maybe, but I haven’t figured out how, to everything that ever will exist).
These connections comprise my obligations. I am obliged to honor all components of this vast and infinitely complex universe, to protect individuals and elements that are in jeopardy, and to celebrate the ineffable beauty that permeates existence.

 

THEY ARE BACK!!

Yesterday a miller moth flew out of my jeans as I was putting them on. I will not comment on the symbolism of that moment.

Later, another moth flew out of the glass I use to take my pills.

I know they are harmless. They do not bite. They do not chew holes in your clothes or curtains. But they are so rude! They hide in the shadows, along window moldings, on stair bannisters, and in paneling and window frames.  

They are small, dull brownish creatures that you would barely notice if they didn’t move.

As these insects migrate from the plains to the mountains, they seem drawn to my house and front porch and garage. It’s the wood. They like the wood on the porch and the west side of the garage.

And there are so many of them! 

One evening noises from the interior caused me to hesitate before opening the side garage door.  Fearing an intruder, I peeked in only to discover legions of moths flying into the garage windows. There must have been sixty of them hurling themselves against the panes. When I open the garage to drive somewhere, a cloud of moths rushes out over the alley.

Although they seem to be everywhere (little moth corpses pepper my carpets and floors) there are fewer than in years past.  When my two cats were younger, they loved to chase them, catch them, eat them . . . then regurgitate them. By turning off all lights except those in the upstairs bathroom, I would entice both the moths and cats away from other parts of the house then close the door, leaving the insects to their feline fate.

Now I have only one cat, who is old and totally disinterested.

This year’s gang seems, at last, to be diminishing. Those that are not dead have evidently made it to cooler altitudes. And I can put my jeans on without checking.

beauty in the time of Covid19

In the middle of a pandemic, there was a heavy snow that transformed our world.

 Even locked inside

Or standing on the front porch

Or walking through the Sculpture Park

We could see how the snow cushioned the trees with beauty

Yes, it battered tulips, but they will probably survive.

And so will we.

Memorial Games

When my cat Guinness died (more than three years ago) I let the veterinarian deal with his body. I kept his memory. 

 Later, when I moved my small couch, I discovered a cache of his favorite toys – little yarn or metallic balls (each slightly smaller than a ping pong ball). 

My other cat was not particularly interested in them, so I placed the collection in a heavy glass vase and taped a photo of Guinness on the front. That was my memorial. I put the vase behind a row of books on a living room shelf. No one need know it was there, but I knew and could occasionally smile at my memories of the crazy, loveable cat who loved only me. 

This year my grandson came to visit. Somehow, he found the vase full of cat toys. They were fun to throw. So he threw them. And the other people in the room threw them back. It was a perfect storm of cat toys and laughter. 

At first, I was taken aback. They were my Guinness memorial cat toys. But then I remembered how much Guinness loved to play. He would have approved. I joined the laughter.

After my guests were gone, I restored the Guinness memorial, ‘hidden’ behind the row of books. Until my grandson comes again.

Beyond Binary

Not too long ago I didn’t know what ‘binary’ meant. 

Not too long ago I didn’t know I knew any lesbians (although I was pretty sure I knew some gays). A long time ago I didn’t know (or know I knew) any African Americans … or Asians … or Native Americans … or Latinix … or Muslims … or Turks … or Germans … or Buddhists … or Catholics (well, maybe some Catholics … and Jews) … or motorcyclists … or hunters … or homeless people … or differently-abled people … or really old people… or any people other than white, middle class, privileged people. 

What a myopic view of the world! What an infinitesimal fragment of reality. 

Recently I went to a lesbian wedding. It was a beautiful celebration of two people who radiate joy in being together. I was honored to be there, to witness their acknowledgement of the miracle of their love. 

It is a miracle, you know… whenever it happens between/among whomever it happens. Right now it seems utterly foolish to inhibit, in any way, any smidgen of joy. 

When we open our eyes, minds, hearts to any* of our fellow passengers on this planet as it swirls within our galaxy, our heart is nourished … sustained. And we become more fully alive. [And increase the possibility of our own joy.] 

(*Even Republicans ***)
(***with one possible exception)

Water Hazards

My house is now full of water hazards because my old cat has feline kidney disease and is therefore perpetually thirsty. 

In addition to the bowls of water next to his food bowl, there’s another tucked into a corner of the dining area . . . and a huge water pitcher in a corner of the kitchen. Upstairs, there are three water bowls in the bathroom. 

But that’s not enough. Not for my cat. 

After a while, he began following me into the bathroom. I permitted absolutely no toilet access. But he was still thirsty. Looking around, it occurred to me that the sink might do. 

Close the drain, fill the bowl, lift the animal onto the counter and voila! A remedy. 

My upstairs sink is surrounded by a counter. Not so the downstairs sink. One evening as I was sitting on the toilet, my cat wandered in, thirsty. What to do? He jumped into the bathtub, peering over the rim, looking longingly at the sink. ‘Oh no!’ I thought. ‘If he jumps, he will land in the water.’ He did jump but managed to balance on the rounded sink rim and drank. Amazing. 

So. When you come to visit, please watch out for water hazards; close the door behind you when you enter a bathroom; and, please, close the toilet lid when you leave.

Earth Day Birthday

Today, April 22, is my brother’s birthday. My mom chose this date for her caesarian delivery because April 22 was my uncle’s birthday.

My brother was born in 1943; my uncle, several decades before. 🌎Earth Day was created in 1970.

Noting this, my brother claims he is older than dirt. He has told this same joke every year for the past 49 years.

It’s still funny.

It is my careful, unbiased observation that people born on April 22 are exceptionally nice human beings.

 According to my cousins, my Uncle Jack was the best dad ever. [I only spent a little time with him but I enjoyed every minute of it.] He was even at my parents’ house when we celebrated my first-born son’s first birthday (Oct. 5, not April).

And of course, my brother is extraordinary … my favorite (and only) sibling.

So here’s to our amazing and fragile planet 🌏and to all those who work to protect it (and by so doing, protect the rest of us). They get it. We are co-dependent with Earth.

Celebrate it. Do everything in your power to allow every bug and bird and blossom and butte survive and flourish.

🌎 Hooray! For the interdependent web of all existence.

Colorado Spring

It’s sandals and snow boots time in Colorado. 

 Weather changes reign. Sometimes snow, sometimes sun. 

 All creatures adapt. Last week we went from a 70-degree day to a 7-inch blizzard. 

When the robins had no access to my birdbath, where they usually get their water, they took to the streets where traffic had reduced the snow to puddles. 
I had never seen that before. 

And I believe this is the first year that my dandelions have emerged before my tulips. 

At least they provide a spot of color as green seeps back into my world. 

Green is so welcome. Every day it gathers strength, first transforming beige lawns then gradually adding a haze of leaves on the trees. 

The pace of transformation accelerates. 

 And is so welcome. 

Hallelujah!

Old Hair

Other than senior discounts and Medicare, one enormous perk of aging is the lack of hairy legs.

Oh, I do occasionally – about once every three or four months – have to harvest the meager crop, scattered sparsely on legs whose veins tend to make them look like maps of the London subway system.

Still. It’s a perk.

Hair is a contrary mammalian trait. It seems to grow where we don’t want it and disappear from places where it is fervently desired.

This is true for both men and women but I will deal only with the aging female here. [And I will not deal with all of the capillary ramifications – like moustaches (which is another dilemma altogether).]

When I was younger and more smug (smugness seems to be characteristic of youth) I would smirk disparagingly at men who had attempted to disguise a balding pate by combing longer locks over barren skulls.

No longer.

My once glorious tresses still exist but, like the earth’s aquifer, are diminished.

My hair is thinning.

From the front and the sides, I still look adequately ‘haired’. Not so much from the back.

Now I too must fluff the remains and try to guide them over my pink, pink scalp.

I even have some powder I can sprinkle over the too obvious hair barrenness. It helps.

So beware, oh youth. Avoid smugness and smirks. All too soon, that which you deride will be that with which you must contend.

Hard Issues

On average, I delete about 90 emails a day. 

The algorithm that runs the show seems incapable of guessing my gender. I have in the past week, received two with the subject line: Men’s Health News (first sentence begins-- If you have ED). I don’t. 

Other subject lines: Impotence (How to Control Your Penis); Male Enhancement, Harder and Longer, Breaking Alert (Men, You Don’t Need Viagra), Hardness Issues, Hardness, etc. 

↑   I realize that this can be critically important in some relationships. I am glad there are resources available. 

But I want to know a couple of things. Is the problem so pervasive that random emails will reach thousands in need? 

And why, if the problem is so pervasive, are there stories of sexual assault in nearly every edition of the paper? 

 And why is there the “Me Too” movement? 

And why was there an article in today’s NY Times that more than 100,000 sexual assault cases have resulted in 1,000 arrests with more on the horizon? And “another 155,000 or more sex assault evidence kits still await testing.” 

And why are there 48,000 immigrants being held in ICE for-profit detention centers? Yes. That’s a related story. 

We need to start treating other human beings as if they are persons of value. 

Because they are.

Sweetheart City

I live in Loveland, Colorado. 

Predictably, the city goes crazy every Valentine’s Day. 

Citizens submit designs, verses, and cachet content and the winners are selected for the year's official Valentine’s components. 

The cards are sold in almost every local store. 

A Miss Loveland Valentine is selected from among comely high school students. Later the winner will have a special audience with the Colorado governor when she is introduced to the state legislators in Denver. 

Senior high school students paint ‘love notes’ on red wooden hearts that are hung from light posts on all major streets. The Loveland Thompson Valley Rotary Club sells ‘heart space’ as its major fundraiser. 

Volunteers gather to hand cancel mail with the official cachet before it enters the postal mainstream. 

And on the day itself, or close to it, a “Sweetheart Festival” is held in the city’s historic district. 

I’m probably leaving something out. It’s all kind of fun. 

Personally, I received some nice emails and had a lovely Skype visit with my grandson. But the only Valentine card I received was from the staff at my dentist’s office. 

It made me smile.

Wham!

After a month of 40-degree weather and sunshine, winter slammed into Colorado. When I walked toward the entrance for the event on the east side of town, the temperature was gentle, the wind calm. When I walked out, I saw the sidewalk was wet. Then I felt the rain. Then gusts of wind threatened to knock me down. I was teetering toward the parking lot when a couple passed me then turned and asked if I’d like some help. “Yes!” 

As we maneuvered off the sidewalk toward the parking lot, rain changed to sleet, driven horizontal by fierce wind. It was actually painful. As we struggled forward, the sleet mixed with snow. Visibility was minimal. The couple persevered, depositing me in my car, admonishing me to be careful. 

I turned the heater and windshield wipers on full blast, dried off my glasses and waited until most windows were clear. Not that it did much good. The snow was now falling in such thickness that roads, signs, and traffic were almost completely obscured. But I couldn’t stay there. 

I drove, inching my way toward what I hoped was the exit, letting others pass so I could follow their tracks. Slowly I made it back to the highway, getting into what I hoped was the slow lane. I headed west, choosing to get off the highway as soon as I could, grateful that increased traffic made the road more visible. 

Closer to home, I knew the way. My car knew the way. My garage door opener worked. I was home. And so grateful to the couple who turned back to help a tottering old lady. 

And to a car that warmed up and handled slippery streets and a cozy home to welcome me. A glass of wine and a little television numbed winter reality and I went to bed dreading the avalanche that I must assuredly deal with in the morning. 

There was no avalanche. Only about an inch of snow. By mid-morning the sun was out, and many sidewalks were clear. 

I love Colorado.

Dystopian Curse

My next substantial piece of writing is way overdue.

People keep asking me if I am writing a new book. No. But I should be.

The trouble is, I want it to be funny. I am pretty good at making people laugh, usually just by saying something unexpected. Something other than the “how are you?” “fine” kind of stuff.

These ambitions are daunted, subdued, quashed by two factors.
       
First, the enormously depressing news of what is going on in our world. It’s as if news reports were written by Margaret Atwood or George Orwell. It seems irresponsible to write something fluffy.
     
Second, I too often let the enormously depressing news quash my own sense of humor.

However, I do understand why Hollywood pumped out lots of lighthearted movies during the Depression. When they were so urgently needed. That’s an important precedent. But someone on the West Coast must have been buoyed by more ebullience than I can muster… most days.

Writing dystopian tales seems the only logical response to current events.
And they are not funny. At all.

Still, I keep trying. I’ve even invented a character, Gertrude, who (just a coincidence) is experiencing with ironic humor all the indignities of getting old… alone.

So I will persevere. I will take a walk and actually look at the beauty around me. I will eat a piece of chocolate. And snuggle with my cat. And write another damn paragraph full of wit and good cheer.

Amen.

I want a lion

This is Harlan’s lion. 

As Linus used a blanket, Harlan (age 3) uses his lion. It's something for him to hold on to when things (either good or bad) get overwhelming. 

Mostly the news is about something terrible ... every day: 
A pipeline . . . 
A wall . . .
A shooting or bombing . . .
A massive fire or tsunami . . .
Alliances shattered; treaties ignored . . .
Environmental safeguards dissolved . . .
Governments paralyzed or paranoid or predatory . . .
More than 260 million people wandering the planet with no home and little hope -- having left everything they have ever known ... Millions escaping the unacceptable, only to become unacceptable. 

All kinds of toxicity

All the time

I (considerably older than 3)want a lion

Beethoven Lives

Last summer, my son and daughter-in-law took my 2.5- year-old grandson Harlan to Chicago’s Grant Park to listen to whatever music was being performed. He could sit on the grass or dance. He danced.

Thanksgiving week we were playing around in his living room. My son casually picked out the beginning notes of “Ode to Joy” (4th movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony) on Harlan’s toy piano. Harlan, now three, was playing with his toy train but he perked up when he heard the melody.

Then, amazingly, he started singing – in German.

Both my son and I were astounded – that he recognized the melody, that he remembered the German words, and that he sang them pretty much on key.

Harlan’s mom is German and is teaching him that language along with English and a myriad other things. But still.

There are perhaps a hundred language variations of that particular section of Beethoven’s work. I believe that it is adapted so often, in so many contexts, because it may well be the most joyfully triumphant piece of music ever written.

But what could be more triumphant than a performance by a three-year-old boy in a Chicago living room? Beethoven lives.

Once Every 16 Years

For 16 years, ever since I brought him home from the Humane Society when he was two years old, I have avoided tripping over my cat, Herbie. 

Until yesterday. 

I was unloading groceries. When I turned to move some perishables into the refrigerator, I stumbled over his soft, not-so-adorable-at-that-moment form. 

I didn’t fall. Instead, I managed to land most of the perishables safely onto the counter. 

Except for the blueberries. When their little plastic box fell to the floor, it opened, and all the little blue globules flew out. 

Herbie the cat was delighted. Blueberries roll. Everywhere. The magnificent old feline batted them around for a few minutes before ambling off to one of his four favorite napping places. 

Except for the one I stepped on, the blueberries were quite neat and retrievable. And washable. 

And the cat, forgivable, especially when he snuggled, purring, next to me in bed that night. And still forgivable even when I found the small hairball on my bedroom rug this morning. 

Once every 16 years is okay.

One Hummingbird Moth

I am fortunate to live where I can go up when I get down. And I was down. All that Friday afternoon and evening I barely slogged through agonizingly slow hours. I could not focus. Not read. Not watch television. Not write the letters and emails that needed writing. Not do basic chores. I was stuck in the muck of despond.

 It took me a while to get going on Saturday. But I knew that moving was essential. And going up the mountain imperative.

 I didn’t leave until almost midday so stopped and bought a sandwich at the Subway place where the man with perpetual verve works. (He always makes me smile.) I put the sandwich in my car and drove up through the canyon west of town --  the canyon that can do so much to restore my soul. There is a little restaurant where the road forks – one branch going into Estes Park, the other into Glen Haven (then on into Estes). I stopped there to see if it was still in business. (It was, but not for lunch.)

The Glen Haven road is less traveled so I took it. It had been more than a year but the curves and cliffs were familiar and comforting. Entering Glen Haven, I spotted the general store and pulled into the parking area at its side. My sandals were not suited for the gravel, but I managed to move my sandwich and water bottle and droopy self to a table in the shade of the store’s front porch. I ate, watching passersby and the birds playing in the pine tree across the street.

When I finished and went into the store, I bought some little things and a cup of ice cream. When I asked the flavors, the owner pointed to the sign on which the flavors were listed. When I asked the ingredients of ‘Rocky Road’ he said: chocolate, marshmallow and walnuts. He smiled when I said that sounded well balanced. And his smile made me smile.

Back out on the porch, I savored. Not just the ice cream, but also the flowers on the porch – in large sedentary pots and pots swinging above. Each was crammed with a rainbow of blossoms. It was then that I noticed the tiny creature hovering over the flowers – wings beating faster than my eyes could register. A hummingbird? The woman sitting next to me said yes but then changed her mind. She had never seen one with bumble bee stripes and, as we looked more closely, we saw that the two-inch creature did not have a beak but a proboscis, curling into the center of each blossom.

Others began to gather and comment and take pictures. They said it was a hummingbird moth. My camera was in the car, but I took no photographs. It was more fun to watch a half dozen tourists pointing smartphones and 35mm cameras at the tiny wonder. And it was a wonder (you can Google it if you’d like to see what it looks like).

The miracle was the shared awe that it invoked among us. It was enough to remind me how spectacular our world is.

I stood up and drove home. I was okay.

Family-Rich Weekend

Rarely, rarely, rarely have I had such a family-rich weekend/birthday. 

My grandson and his parents returned from camping to fill my house with energy and laughter. And they stayed for my birthday and even brought presents. 

Then my nephew and his family came – my grandniece and grandson delighting each other and all of the grown-ups. And they brought presents. 

Then my brother came and melded into us as if we had never separated. And he brought a present. 

And I received calls and/or texts from my older son and other nephew and my other grandniece. Plus lots of wonderful birthday cards. And Facebook notifications. 

The house is quieter now and everything is pretty much put back together. [Put-back-together houses are over-rated.] 

Some might worry that the house might feel a little empty and sad. But it doesn’t. All the laughter and love reverberated into the walls and floors and lodged permanently into my being. 

I am replete.

Continuing Education

On a recent morning, there was, miraculously, an amusing comic strip in my morning paper. [I always start with that section hoping to find a little humor amid the newsprint largely devoted to disasters of one kind or another.] 

In the strip in question, one lump of a man was commenting on the predicament of another lump of a man about to fall on a banana peel. He said: “For Ernie, learning from his mistakes is a form of continuing education.” 

For Mim too. When I learn. Too often, I repeat the same unproductive patterns. Too much television. Too many computer games. Too much to eat. Duh. 

Occasionally, I break out of what Thich Nhat Hahn calls ‘habit energy’ and revel in productivity and/or spontaneity. And it always feels terrific. I am energized by taking a detour up into the mountains or actually writing a new post for my blog. 

Sometimes ‘continuing education’ feels like tripping on a banana peel. But at least I am moving. And learning. 

You can learn a lot from the comics section.

DETOURS

I have not memorized the ISBN numbers for either of my books. I needed to provide them to the proprietor of the great little store where my writers group is staging an event in a few days. I had a copy of Family Time in my study so that was easy. Oddly, I had no copies of my first book Tree Lines (A Memoir) upstairs.

So I went downstairs to my great cache of unsold books and found Tree Lines. I made the mistake of opening it. I read one chapter then grew curious about others (it’s not that I didn’t know what happened, it was just good stuff). 

About an hour later I realized that I still needed to take it upstairs and record its ISBN.

Before that, I felt I should drink the tea I had prepared to counter the allergic head congestion that is driving me crazy.

As I sat down to drink, I pulled out a section of the New York Times. Why I picked the business section, I don’t know. There was a fascinating article about a Navajo Nation proposal to buy Remington, one of this country’s largest gun manufacturers. The Navajo planned to shift Remington away from consumer sales and focus on police and defense contracts. The only guns they planned to sell to consumers were long guns used by hunters. As a bonus, the tribe intended to shift part of the manufacturing process to the reservation, providing needed employment. But the proposal was rejected.

Wow.

I looked at the clock. It was time for lunch. I would record the ISBN later.