Becoming an elder

For Christmas, a friend got me a subscription to a magazine on spirituality. I was enjoying the articles in the first issue, on topics from resilience, joy, domestication and healthy hips.

And then I got to the retreat section, featuring spas and meditation centers in places like Costa Rica and Mexico. I skipped those pages since they are unlikely destinations and went to the more-possible selection of sites in the States. Then I landed on one called modern elder academy, and I thought, this is for me, seeing as how I am an elder (71 years old) and I am reinventing myself (modern?).

But it seems that in modern parlance, I am probably more of an ancient because this retreat is geared for elders who are in their forties. You read that right—forties!

When did forty-year-olds become elders?

Has life expectancy dropped precipitously?

I was confused.

I thought we were in a period of having the most centenarians in history. If forty-year-olds are elders, what is someone who have lived more than one hundred years?

Then I remembered back to the late nineties (when I was in my forties) and my first essay was published. I started getting emails asked me to become resident expert from a variety of e-journals and blog sites. At first, I ignored them because I didn’t understand why I was getting them. Expert? What could possibly qualify me as expert?

But the requests kept coming, so I finally responded to one and was told that since I published an essay on forgiveness, I qualified as an expert. One essay? An expert? I don’t think so.

A few years after that, I started working with post-college graduates and realized that in the thirty years since I was twenty, a lot had changed. These young people said things like, “I have been doing (insert activity) for years.” “You are only twenty-something,” I would reply. “How many years can it be?” The answer was usually “two” or “three.”

At the time, I was also teaching knitting to mostly twenty-somethings who were going on two-year overseas service assignments, and during one of my knitting classes, one woman asked if I had been knitting for long. “Not too long,” I said. “Maybe ten years.”

“Ten years!” she exclaimed. “That’s almost half my life. That’s very long.” Perspective, I thought.

Then there was the young man who had meditated for fifteen minutes a day for thirty days and raved about how meditation has changed his life. “That is a good start,” I said, and then added, “Come talk to me when you have been meditating fifteen minutes a day for fifteen years.”

Those are now the people who are hitting their forties, and given their confidence in their twenties, I can see that at forty, they might consider themselves full of wisdom—like elders.

Me? I finally accepted my expert status when I was in my sixties and am just now settling into my status as an elder, at seventy-one.

Walled cities

I am drawn to walled cities.

I first became aware of this attraction when I visited Krakow, Poland, thirteen years ago and stayed inside the walls. Even though the walls are no longer intact, a park surrounds the Old City and marks where the walls had once been. I felt safe being inside the Old City.

On my second visit to Krakow a year later, I stayed outside the walls. Every morning, I crossed over into the Old City, and something about being inside the walls felt secure to me.

A few years later, a friend visited Carcassone, a walled city in France, and sent me videos. As soon as I saw the videos, I knew I wanted to visit. It took a few years, but I went last spring, and I specifically chose to travel with Overseas Adventure Travels (O.A.T.) because they offered the opportunity to stay inside the walls of Carcassone.

The tour started further north, though, in Angers, another city with walls. Once again, I felt drawn to being within the walls. When we got to Carcassone, I felt completely at home within the walls.

Last month, I visited Avignon, another walled city, and I again found myself drawn to the inside.

Avignon, France

And then last week, I visited Italy and spent a few days in Lucca, a walled city in Tuscany.

The walls around Lucca are intact and the top of the wall is a wide path where people walk, run or bike. I walked the path several times during my stay, enjoying the views of the Old City below.

One of the gates into the walled city of Lucca, named after St. Donato

Inside the gate, I came across this fireplace and painting.

Not only is Lucca surrounded by a wall, but beyond the walls are mountains, creating the impression of a double boundary.

What is it that draws me to these enclosed places?

Walking the path on the walls of Lucca one day, I pondered the mystery of my attraction to walled cities, and I thought about growing up in Detroit.

Detroit is anything but walled, but there were certain streets which I never crossed. I stayed within the confines of an area around my house, never venturing beyond Woodward Avenue or Eight Mile Road. Without being told to, I had created my own walls.

Awareness brings an invitation, and my awareness of being drawn to walled cities and of creating physical boundaries, makes me think about other walls I have built—not necessarily physical walls but any kind of boundary that gives me a sense of security.

I find myself asking if my walls are a matter of security or a limitation, and if I being invited to step out from beyond the walls and take a chance on what is on the other side.

Whatever’s easiest

Whatever’s easiest,

I tell myself.

Dodging drama and sidestepping hurdles,

ignoring naysayers

in favor of hope.

Embracing peace and tranquility.

Paying attention to my breathing and seeking balance.

Wanting to be in alignment—mind, body, spirit.

But after a life of accepting challenges and

facing obstacles,

of double dares and digging my heels in,

of resistance and standing up for people and causes,

this new way of life can seem

just too easy.

Where is the struggle?

The overcoming?

The sense of achievement?

How do I measure success when it comes too easily?

How do I know accomplishment if there is no pushback?

How do I walk side-by-side, instead of turning to confront head-on?

How do I let go and allow others take up the battle cry?

Can I settle myself in for a time of serenity?

Perhaps this is the wisdom of aging.

Creating my vision board

I recently created a vision board, something to help me focus during my sabbatical year—travel I am planning, the things that bring me joy and goals I have set.

Even the first step of writing down what is important to me was helpful in identifying what I do and don’t want to do.

Without a job to go to or my mom to care for, I have plenty of free time, and I want to focus that time on exploring the next chapter of my life.

I scoured magazines for pictures to illustrate my dreams, goals and vision; and in the process, I realized how people my age are often portrayed. We are the parents who have memory issues and need care (often shown as an elder with a fifty-something adult child sitting on a park bench). Or we are the empty nesters looking to downsize (which usually means moving to a planned community where everyone is our age).

Where are the pictures of people like my friend Betty, who for her eighty-eighth birthday went on a twenty-mile bike ride? Or my mother who lived in her own home until she died at ninety-five?

Where are the pictures of us hiking at a state park (as I did with some friends a few weeks ago)? Playing cards (our memories still intact enough to remember the rules)? And gardening, kayaking, walking, running and biking?

Where are the pictures of us in classrooms, learning new languages, skills and hobbies?

Or in classrooms teaching younger generations skills that will help them in life?

I am not denying that with age comes decline. I cannot run like I did when I was forty, and I am usually asleep by 10:30 p.m., 11:00 at the latest. I no longer go to bars for nights of drinking (not that that was ever a good thing to do), and I am much more conscious of my calorie intake (I use fewer calories as I am aging).

I do, though, still look forward to the future. I am excited about the prospects of my next chapter and am still discerning where and how I can best use what I have learned in my life. I want to follow my mother’s example and live until I die, open to new ideas and learning new things. I want to keep discovering what brings me joy and where God is calling me to share what I have learned from life.

What is possible

The great blue heron

stands at the edge of the lake,

facing the horizon,

scanning water and sky.

“Look at what I see,”

she seems to be saying,

“and see what is possible.”

(Photo taken at Lake St. Clair, MI)

Don’t judge

“Don’t judge, Aunt Madeline,” my teenaged niece said to me. Although I don’t remember what her mother and I had been talking about or my exact response to her, I can imagine I claimed—perhaps somewhat defensively—that I was not judging. I do recall that my niece rolled her eyes in that knowing ways teens can have.

I admit that I can be judgmental, and even as I defended myself with my niece, I knew she was probably right.

This encounter was at least ten years ago, and her admonition has stayed with me and helped me to be more aware of when I am being judgmental.

Recently, I have found my niece’s phrase, Don’t judge, coming to my mind on a regular basis.

I am trying to honor my mother’s wishes about how she wants to live and die, and I feel judged by those who think I am not doing right by my mom. Don’t judge, I want to say to these well-intentioned people.

“Everyone has an opinion,” I said to a friend after hearing from yet another person offering suggestions about my mother’s situation.

The truth is that I agree that my mother’s situation is precarious, but she is ninety-four years old and she is not a threat to anyone. She wants to live and die in her own home—something I think most people can understand. Who wants to live in a nursing home? or to die in a hospital?

But sending elderly people to congregate settings has become such an accepted practice in our country that the idea of someone staying at home or living with family is considered unusual or even abnormal.

Yesterday, a home health worker told me I need to put my foot down and make my mother leave her home. “Stop harassing my daughter,” my mother said. “I am fine.” She knows what she wants.

I know how difficult it can be to take care of someone at home—I cared for my friend Jim at home when he had brain cancer. Everyday was a lesson in accepting the reality of our situation and letting go of expectations.

I felt judged then, too, by people who had lots of ideas of where I should take Jim for treatment and what kind of food I should be preparing for him and on and on.

I believe that people die the way they have lived. My mother has always been fiercely independent, and she has also always been suspicious of doctors, medicine and congregate settings. My dad, too, avoided doctors and when he had a major stroke, my mother did not call 911. Rather, we called hospice and kept my dad comfortable at home until he died three months later.

I have known several other people who died at home, including my friend Ted, and my neighbors Domenic, Margaret and Mary. A hundred years ago, most people died at home.

I am doing the best I can, so please don’t judge me.

Looking ahead

We celebrated my mother’s 94^th birthday last week. At a niece’s wedding last fall, people kept telling me that my mother is “amazing” and “awesome.” I got tired of hearing it, and I also smiled at the truth of it. My mother is amazing and awesome.

At 94, she still does her own cooking, cleaning and laundry; and she is still trying out new recipes! As my mother has aged, she has, in some ways, become more open to change. Part of that, she would say, is that we, her children, have forced her to accept change because we don’t do things the way she once did them. But, after a little resistance, she goes along.

My grandmother lived 96 years, and most of my mom’s siblings lived well into their 80s. One uncle died just days short of his 98^th birthday. We have longevity.

The thing about my mother and her family’s longevity is that it is a constant reminder to live as though I, too, have longevity. It is an invitation to see a vast future waiting for me to explore.

And, because I have had so many friends die young, I also know an early death is possible and that each day is precious.

Balancing those two realities reminds me of a large rock I once saw. One side of the rock had the quote, “Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die” etched into it, and the opposite side had a quote about planning for tomorrow. I was more of a “live for today” kind of person, so I don’t even remember what the other side said!

Having lived longer than a number of my friends (some did not even reach thirty) and considering my mother’s advanced age, I think more about the future now and ponder how I am being invited to live into that future. Intentionality is the word that comes to mind when I think of what is ahead—living intentionally.

For much of my early life, I moved around—a lot. I think in all that moving around, I was trying to run away from my past, searching for something external to bring me peace—only to find that wherever I went, I took my history with me. Eventually, I realized that everything I needed was inside me. I feel settled now and plan to stay put. I am unpacking and looking to a future built upon what I have learned.

Are you more of a “live for today” kind of person? Or are you someone who plans more for the future? Are you able to find a balance between the two?

Caring for an aging parent

My mother likes to quote her mother. Almost every conversation includes at least one, “As my mother used to say…” followed by some pithy comment from my grandmother.

These comments are all in Polish, the language my grandmother spoke, and my mother quotes her mother in Polish and then translates them into English. She gets great joy from repeating her mother’s words.

My grandmother was a farmer and her sayings are usually quite earthy.

Although my grandmother lived in two countries (Poland and the U.S.), in each place, her life was fairly limited. She lived in small, rural communities in both countries, and her life was ordered by the seasons. She seemed quite content with the boundaries of her life in northern Michigan.

I knew my grandmother, having spent time every summer with her on the farm. She was always kind to me, and I felt safe with her. I was fortunate to be present when she died at age ninety-six.

My mother is now ninety-three. I moved home six years ago, in large part, to be near her, and I check on her several times a week. She loves to play cards and we usually get in a few games every week.

My mother is fiercely independent. She also has unrealistic expectations of herself and her capabilities.

She still drives, even though her eye doctor, primary care physician and physical therapist have all told her to stop. She denies that her reflexes are diminished in any way—or her hearing or her eyesight. She becomes very defensive when someone suggests otherwise.

On the one hand, my mother wants to be left alone, to do as she pleases. But when she has a health scare, she wants help…until she is better. Then she denies she ever needed help. She was fine and we should have just left her alone.

It is a vicious circle.

When my father had a major stroke, my mother did not call 911. My father had been very clear that he did not want to go to the hospital nor be resuscitated. “If you walk in and think I am dead,” he used to say, “go out for another hour and then come back.” He dreaded hospitals and the thought of being kept alive by machines.

I have come to realize the great strength it took my mother to honor my father’s wishes. I am not that strong. When my mother is in distress, disoriented, or displaying other signs of serious illness, I cannot leave her, even though I know that is what she says she wants.

My aunt made the health care decisions for my grandmother, so my mother was spared the responsibility and the guilt. My grandmother died in hospital connected to machines. It is not what my mother wants, nor do I want it for her.

As anyone caring for an aging parent can probably appreciate, it is difficult to walk the fine line between supporting independence and ensuring safety.

I pray for wisdom.

My prayer

I start my mornings with an hour of quiet time—journaling, reading scripture, praying and writing. My missalette includes a Prayer for each day, written by saints or taken from a variety of Sacramentaries.

The diversity of sources intrigues me, and many are new to me. This month, I have been introduced to the Gelasian Sacramentary and Saint Makarios of Alexandria.

These prayers often spark a prayer of my own.

Recently, I have begun to ponder how I pray and what words I would use if I were writing my prayers down instead of just saying them.

Knowing I spend time in prayer each day, people often ask me to pray for them and those they love. My friend Ted believed I have hot line to God because the things he asked me to pray for turned out the way he wanted. I was nine for nine when he asked me to pray for his friend Adele.

Instead of getting better, though, as Ted had wanted, Adele died. When Ted called me to tell me Adele had died, he said, “Your prayers didn’t work.”

Ted had never asked me about the specifics of my prayer, so I took this occasion to tell him that I had not prayed for Adele to get better. I had prayed that God give Adele the grace and strength to face her difficulties, that her faith remain strong and that God grant her peace.

“Why didn’t you ask God to cure her?” he wanted to know.

“That is not how my relationship with God works,” I answered.

When my friend Jim got brain cancer, many people prayed that he would be cured, and they were certain God was going to comply with their wishes. It would have been miraculous because there is no known cure for the type of cancer Jim had.

“What will those people do on the day you die?” I asked Jim.

My prayer for Jim was that he get right with God, that he have the strength to face what was happening to him and that he be at peace. It was my prayer for him whether he was to live or die.

I share Ted’s confidence that I have God’s ear, but my concern is more focused on acceptance.

If I were to write a prayer, it would go something like this:

God, give me the strength to endure whatever hardship comes my way with grace and peace. Help me to let go of my own expectations and accept the truth of what is. Give me the wisdom to remember that my vision is limited; help me to trust that you see the big picture. Help me to be grateful for all that has been and to say “yes” to what is yet to be.

This is my prayer for myself and also how I pray for those on my Prayer List. Not miraculous cures—although I thank God when they happen—but hope for wisdom, courage, strength and peace.

My wild and precious life

We recently celebrated my mother’s ninety-third birthday. Her mother lived to be ninety-six and one of her brothers died a week shy of his ninety-eighth birthday. We have longevity in my family.

As I pondered my mother’s long life, Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day came to mind. It ends by asking,

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

After college, when I went into nonprofit work instead of returning to the FBI, my mother was not happy. For eight years, she had been able to say, “My daughter is a secretary in the FBI,” and people understood what that meant. She had been looking forward to saying, “My daughter is an FBI agent,” but that did not happen.

Instead, I got a job recruiting advocates for people who have developmental disabilities. My mother had no idea what that meant. My work defied easy explanation, and she could not imagine how I spent my days. She was baffled.

“Where did you ever get the idea to go into that kind of work?” she asked.

I told her that she had given me the idea by the way she lived.

My mother always made room for one more. When my unmarried uncle got cancer, he moved in with us, and my mother took care of him. When my grandmother needed a place to live after my grandfather died, my mother welcomed her into our home.

She showed me how to greet new neighbors with a prepared meal and to comfort someone in pain by being present and listening. She always has extra food prepared because no one leaves her house empty-handed. “What can I give you?” she asked as I left her house on her birthday.

That is the thing about parenting—so much of it is in the doing rather than the telling. I learned by watching.

When a friend of mine was having twins one summer, I offered to come help harvest her garden. For three days, I picked beans and tomatoes and then canned—quarts upon quarts of veggies to get her family through the winter. Toward the end of my visit, she told me she had been resistant to my coming because others had come offering to help, but they just ended up being more work for her. “You have helped me so much,” she said with gratitude and also a note of incredulity in her voice.

“You don’t know my mother,” I responded, because my mother’s example and her voice in my head would not allow me to be a burden. If you can’t help, stay home, would be my mother’s advice.

When I imagine myself at ninety-three, I hope I can look back and see that I have lived my one wild and precious life with integrity and meaning, helping more than hindering, giving more than I have taken.

Every morning, I pray the Prayer of St. Francis. That is the life I want to live.