Old Age Day by Day May 26,2010

A friend sent photos of his trip to the Grand Canyon, where he, two friends and his daughter hiked down to the river and back up. The canyon really is a wonder of the world, and I've loved it every time I've been. I'm a coward, so I've never actually been down very far, but I admire those who can handle the windy, steep trails. My parents took me as a child several times. One time it was winter and we stayed at a cabin on the North Rim. Now it is closed in winter but in those days you could visit. As we were driving to the place where we were going to stay (it was night, of course, because my father always drove too long - long enough we'd be starved and grumpy before we arrived) it was deep snow on either side and icy. The car in front of us swerved to avoid a deer leaping across the road and spun several times 360 o. My father braked and my brother and I were flung around like rag dolls and all the stuff in the recess of the back window came down on our heads. Somehow, we didn't hit the other car. The next morning, as we walked to the dining hall for breakfast, we saw the car, a navy blue ford, with blood on the hood.

My husband and I camped a week on the North Rim many years later, and I couldn't look over the edge without vertigo, so I kept our younger son, a toddler at the time, strapped like Houdini practically with chains and padlocks in his stroller, well away from the edge, while my husband and our two older kids walked out on lookouts and leaned way over. I had to talk myself down from hysteria every single time. Never mind, I loved the place. It was worth the anxiety. I've been by train in the winter to the South Rim, and other times by car. The North Rim is more beautiful, but the canyon is knockout however you see it.

I sent my friend's photos to my younger daughter, because she was born late enough she missed the camping trips, and our last visit she was elsewhere. She needs to see it. For me, it's a reminder of how beautiful our country is, and how new. The history of the canyon makes human history paltry. If we get too big for our britches, a glance at the canyon humbles us. The earth is vast and enduring, and it's greatest beauties have nothing to do with us. We only witness them.

Old Age Day by Day May 25, 2010

My younger daughter and I saw Nicole Holofcenter's new film, Please Give, last night. I am an admirer of her films. They aren't perfect, but they wrestle subjects near and dear to women. They don't feel anything like any other films. This one is about guilt women feel, and how they displace their own anxieties and sadness by "helping others". It's coherent, and funny and an indictment on our consumer culture to boot. Previously, my favorite of her film's was Lovely and Amazing, but I think this one is better.

Holofcenter lets her actresses be real looking, and she elicits heartbreaking performances. Catherine Keener is amazing, as is Rebecca Hall, but all the actors are extraordinary. And it's fun to see Oliver Platt in a more complex role. Did I say the movie is very funny at moments? I laughed out loud a bunch of times, and my sympathy stayed steadfast for the characters as I was laughing, with them, not at them. The redoubtable Lois Smith has a small role, and I worship the ground she walks on.

A good film has resonance, and I believe this one is going to have me thinking about it for a long time. It's the kind of film I know I will buy. There is a feel of truth about it, and I find that rare in my movie going life.

Old Age Day by Day May 24, 2010

It's a gloomy morning with damp oozing out the air. Very atmospheric, kind of Rebecca meets Lord of the Rings. The dogs are oblivious, but I'm already feeling lethargic and at the same time as if I should be making soup and baking bread. I'm sure it won't go that far, but we do take our clues from our weather so often. It's hard to resist. Build-in, you might say. Just having a wear a raincoat makes me all Sherlock Holmesy, and damp pavement makes the threat of slipping uppermost in my mind. I wore my clogs as I walked the dogs, and when they met a basset hound I let go of the leash and let them run over to overwhelm the poor dog, as I didn't want to attempt to hold them back without mountaineering crampons. Luckily, the hound had no manners either, and thought my dogs were the cat's pajamas. I nevertheless apologized to the owner. It's always best to appear to be civilized.

I often want to eat more in this kind of weather. I must have chips with my sandwich and hot cocoa and muffins dance in my mind. Salad seems way too cold, and buttered slabs of bread begin to appeal more than usual. It's hard to get by on a dreary day with less than 3,000 calories. The only way to avert catastrophe is to sleep as much as possible, and stay upstairs with a mystery and ignore the kitchen. However, today I have my foster granddaughter, but we're going out for lunch and I'm taking her to a science center, so as long as I order wisely and avoid bakeries, I should be okay until dinnertime. Now, if I go to bed at six pm I can minimize overeating, but then the forecast is for rain every day this week, so either I am going to have to stock up on mysteries and ask for a prescription for sleeping pills, or avoid the scales in my bathroom.

Or I could pray for wisdom and restraint. And do my exercise video more than once a day to make up for the toast. Ah, weather. I'm at it's mercy.

Old Age Day by Day May 23, 2010

Friends asked us over for dinner last night on the spur of the moment, and we had a simple, delicious meal and watched an old movie together afterward. This is my favorite kind of social invitation, no pressure, just a little sudden window of time and an opportunity to get together. When things are planned ahead, it so often turns out I'm too tired, or I can't think what to cook, or what I really need a to eat a sandwich with a good book. This kind of comfortableness with each other takes a long time to develop, but the fruits of the effort are so delightful.

And being with this couple is so tender and happy because when the woman and I first met, she was married to a man my husband and I grew to love and who was very important in our lives. He died suddenly, and she has been a widow until recently, living her life alone raising two kids, and then meeting this man three years ago, and now, here they are living together. And we are delicately forging a new balance, with her new partner, and yet trusting, because she is such an old friend. She has, of course, picked a wonderful man this time as well, and it gives my husband and I much joy.

And isn't this just the cycle of life. The happiness/sorrow/struggles/peace mix that we get to witness if we live long enough. We've been there with her through all the ups and downs, and felt them ourselves. But we're ready to love her partner, and support their happiness. What comfort this kind of friendship is for all parties. Seeing life not just go on, but circle back and embrace us.

Old Age Day by Day May 22, 2010

Yesterday my friend and I went to a fine art show and saw some wonderful artists' works that thrilled us. I especially liked these paper watercolor works by Rachel Davis, paintings by Joachim Hiller and paintings on wood by Robert Nugent. What discoveries for me! We looked at them for a long time, then met a friend and had a soda, then came around again to gaze some more. What a mystery it is which art speaks to us. And it tells us each something different. Of course, if I could have had anything in the building, I would have picked a Colima preColumbian puppy, or a Deborah Butterfield horse, or maybe a painting by Leonora Fini. Who knows? I get to see them all and pursue them in museums, and I don't really have any desire to possess them.

As we were driving to the show, my friend wondered about the emotional draw of art, and we were saying that conceptual art can have a limitation in that it appeals to the mind, but not the heart. But we both enjoy engaging with a lot of different art, because it shows us how miraculous the mind is. The creation of art is universal and its power indescribable, really. And at the same time, it's so personal. We all have associations that pull us in, of color, subject, size. Then we have emotional pulls that connect us to the artist, and we have all these ideas from theories of art and experience that mix in with pure response. Sharing what we see together is one of the fun things my friend and I do, as well as discussing books we've read or music we've experienced.

And this wonderful thing happens when we really connect with a piece - we sort of memorize it in our minds and hearts and can call it up when we wish. I was telling her about seeing Brueghel's Fall of Icarus at the Musee de Beaux Arts in Brussels, Belgium, almost 20 years ago. I've never seen it live again, though I have a print of it. Yet I can transport myself to the museum and "see" it now, and re-feel those emotions of delight, sorrow, humor, awe and deep sensual lusciousness still. The Star Trek transporters have nothing on me. And in that moment of remembering, I am present, again, and knowing that something in me has forever altered. I find the existence of this painting comforts me, even guides me in my understanding and coping with the world I'm in. There is the real, and there is the real moment, recaptured, and most importantly, re-felt, for which all humans ought to be grateful. I know I am.

Old Age Day by Day May 21,2010

My voice teacher got laryngitis this week. It was the first anniversary of her father's death, and I've noticed that the body knows. When the mind wants to skim over unpleasantness or repeat the mantra "Everything is fine" our bodies will poke us in the stomach or cause fatigue or give us a flu. Slow down, the body tells us, feel this. Stop and feel this. My body knows the anniversary of every important death I've witnessed. I'll be thinking I need to check my thyroid level, but no, it's the day of my mother's funeral. I'll feel a vague malaise, then realize an anniversary of my first husband's death is coming up in a few days. The body remembers.

Listening to my body has been a difficult practice for me. I was raised to be stoic. No "whining" as my father would call it. He, himself refused to go to Arizona for three months and heal his lungs after pneumonia, and it caused him to have asthma the rest of his life. He thought he'd lose out if he was off work that long. So he struggled with breathing, our most basic of functions, forever after.

When my parents died within ten months of each other, I promptly got mononucleosis. I dragged around like a limp kitten for months, and awoke every night a two am in a fever. I was sad, and I wanted someone to help me weather the sadness, but I had four kids and I thought I needed to buck up. The body has a great sense of humor. Let's see who's in charge here - you won't stop, well, we'll see about that.

No I listen carefully, and if I'm about to doze in the middle of a task, I doze. If I don't feel like eating, I don't. I check in with the vessel that houses whatever being I am, and make sure it wants to come along for the ride. If it needs to be parked in the garage, so be it. The garage is nice and safe and dark and cosy. Respect the body. We really need its complete cooperation.

Old Age Day by Day May 20, 2010

I went with my voice teacher to see a simulcast opera at a nearby movie theater last night. It was Rossini's Armida; a total delight. Renee Fleming sang the lead, and she was amazing. The wonderful thing about opera is it's goofiness. The sublime and the ridiculous yoked together. Well, probably they always are, but opera makes it obvious. There are all those people trying to control other people's emotions and actions, love taken to the extreme, power lusted after with such force it becomes its own destruction. It's us writ large, and we can see our foibles and longings with a detachment that reminds us we are human, and therefore engaged in a tricky enterprise.

The costumes of the demons in this production had golden, tigerish tights and long tails a la Avatar. Then they had kind of Miraclesuits around their middles. Surpassingly strange and delightful, if utterly absurd. The soldiers had Dr. Zhivago coats and Fleming was trussed up a creamy white coat cum jelaba with deep eggplant in inserts in her first costume and a corset and a million ruffles, all eggplant, in her second. She had on a curly red wig, and was more gorgeous than any earthly being.

And the great thing is, I could eat my bucket of popcorn and soda as I watched. AND the restrooms were less crowded. No, it's not the same as live opera, but it's fun.

I will be mimicking the operatic voice for days, until the illusion wears off completely. But anything that reminds me the world is bigger than our soap opera troubles is grounding. Perspective is always a good idea.

Old Age Day by Day May 19, 2010

Well, the IRS refund check disappeared yesterday. It was in the front hall next to my purse, and then it was gone! I have crawled among more dust balls than a spider. Either the dogs ate it or someone came in the house and took it while I was upstairs. Neither seems really plausible, but we gave up last night and faxed the IRS a form to stop payment and reissue the check. It drove me crazy. I imagined all kind of scenarios but I believe it comes down to our sock eating, acorn eating, plant eating, green apple and persimmon eating, rock eating canines. I'd think this was some kind of statement on their parts if they weren't so undiscriminating. The female dog has already had surgery for rocks in her stomach and they both almost died from eating acorns (the tannic acid is poison). But I thought they'd matured and reformed. Well, except for the male dog's habit of raiding trash cans and eating envelopes and dixie cups.

Easy come, easy go. I was feeling rich yesterday morning, and was going to indulge in a serious book buying spree, but that was not to be. I had to restrain myself to two books, and one of them a gift. It takes a shock to tame an addiction, and my own dogs to administer it, evidently. One book I purchased was "The Idle Parent" about taking the laid back approach to kids. I told the bookstore owner, a friend, that "It's never too late to validate one's parenting, even if the kids are grown". The author is a great believer in living near woods (which I did as a kid) and refusing to entertain them so they figure out how to use their imaginations. He also is not big on cleaning up messy rooms. Too futile. And the structured time in his house is nil. No lessons and kids strapped in car seats endlessly. It reminds me that my foster granddaughter, when we took Amtrak recently, looked up in amazement and delight and said to me "There are no seat belts". It was the best thing about the trip for her. She didn't abuse it, and there was no running in the aisle, she just felt free, and could stand up whenever she wanted. We, of course, visited the dining car each way as well, and it sure beats fruit rollups in the snack bag hung to the car seat.

Today, I feel better, and in two or three months another check will come, and I will take it directly to the bank, even if it's two in the morning. The dogs will be in their seat belts (crates) until I have the deposit slip safely in hand.

Old Age Day by Day May 18, 2010

I got this bargain DVD set of two "Imitation of Life" movies the other day. One is from 1934 with Claudette Colbert and the other is a 1956 version with Lana Turner and Sandra Dee. I'd never seen either, though I'd vaguely heard the title, but I like to take a look at African American women early in film, and each has a fantastic performance by the woman who is best friends with the white woman. Colbert is all wrong in the first film, and the racism is not erased, but rather highlighted by the plot. Delilah is a kind of Aunt Jemima and Colbert takes advantage of her in every way, but the heart of the tragedy is Delilah's daughter being able to pass for white and wishing to do so and hating her mother for being a marker for her blackness. It's shocking, and her mother's wise sadness over this is touching. But in real life people were passing, and these rejections of family history were not uncommon. Louis Beavers, as Delilah, is the best thing in the movie, and brings dignity to the portrait of a woman who understands her daughter's desire to step outside the trap of racism only too well, even though she herself has no chance. She also knows it will end in tragedy.

Lana Turner is also poorly cast (she was an awful actress), but Juanita Moore, as Annie, gets a bigger, more complex role, and as her daughter, Susan, Susan Kohner is given a meaty part and shows us the agony of a girl rejecting her loving mother to find what she hopes is her destiny. The white people are frosting. The story is centered on the compelling tale of passing, and its' costs. This movie is directed by Douglas Sirk, and he knows how to make ordinary lives seem strange.

Anyway, both movies are worth seeing and comparing, and in some ways ahead of their times. It's funny to look back and see what the culture thought were the issues of black people, what white people thought the issues were. With Lena Horne dying last week, I've been thinking a lot about skin color. She was criticized for marrying a white man, though her coloring and features leaned definitely to passing. People who didn't know her wanted her to be a certain way - people both black and white. She was trapped, and she never had the film career she deserved. Even now, a woman who is half white, Halle Berry, is black. She has to embrace the man who wasn't in her life, and keep the white mother who raised her out of the spotlight.

When will we get to a world where you are not judged by skin color? It doesn't look like any time soon. I wonder if it's even possible. But the struggles should be acknowledged. I wish everyone could see Louise Beavers and Juanita Moore. Performances that should have been honored and become legend. It is never too late.

Old Age Day by Day May 17, 2010

In my childhood, we always had a dog. We first had a big spaniel, then after that cocker spaniels named Scamper I ,II and so on until we left home. I didn't think anything of it, though it was my father who really adored dogs. His parents had dogs up until they died. On my mother's farm there was always a dog, but it wasn't much of a pet, because there was no space inside and too much work to do outside to get sentimental. But Mom never questioned the encessity of a dog. But it could not come in her house. My father's parents always had the dog in the house, but he abided by the rule. He built dog houses and if there was snow or exceptional cold the dog got to sleep in the garage. He even built a doghouse for one of my dogs, which was carted wherever we moved.

When my brother and I were kids, the dog went with us wherever we roamed, and part of our job was to check for ticks, brush out the pine needles and debris from his coat and feed and water him. We had cats, but nobody paid much attention to them. Cats were for the mice and never went inside. They slept on the tires of the car in the garage if it was cold.

We all would have thought the world had gone mad if we'd seen a dog store or a fancy dog toy or dog outfit. Now, dog boutiques litter the shopping areas and huge amounts of money are spent on inessentials. We've changed our relationships with dogs. We want dogs to be more than they are perhaps, and then we get disillusioned when they can't live up to our human needs and expectations. A dog is a hair's breath away from wild. When we lived in the country I could see it. Dog packs chasing and killing sheep, dogs breaking into houses and stealing food. Dogs are fantastic, and I want to be one if I have a next life, but they aren't humans. They don't need baby talk, they need a leader, and without a totalitarian structure, they worry and fret.

Now people use them as status symbols, as body guards, as a substitute for human love and connection. It's hard on the dogs. They want us to know what we're going, and they'll happily follow along. When we don't understand them, we harm them and they get put down or abandoned. I think maybe people should develop their people skills, and that would be a great kindness to our furry friends.

Old Age Day by Day May 16, 2010

I went to a Wesla ceremony today and it was so sweet and joyful. It's the Buddha's birthday, enlightenment and death day all rolled into one. I went with a dear friend, who has been my spiritual companion for quite a few years now, and she is always leading me on new paths just when I need a fresh direction. A part of the ceremony is to bathe the baby Buddha in water, and it is so like the tenderness we feel when we bathe our children or grandchildren, that you want to blow bubbles and splash and giggle. So much of the Buddhist path is about beginner's mind, the curiosity and delight in the world that young children effortlessly possess. Having grandchildren is a reminder of the loving nature we all have if we allow ourselves to acknowledge it.

Yesterday we went to our younger daughter's graduation ceremony and heard Nancy Pelosi speak. And she touched my heart, because she spoke as a woman, a mother and a grandmother and she kept connecting people's lives in ways that we women do so well. I felt proud of her, and proud of the progress women have achieved since I was a young woman my daughter's age. We have struggled. There are barriers, and around the world still greater ones to overcome. Our strength lies in our ability to honor and love who women are, and not hate ourselves for what we are not. I feel my daughter has become empowered (overused word, but apt) by her experiences at her college, and is being supported in doing her work not just well, but in a woman's way. Social connections are life blood to us, and seeing how we all depend on each other part of our basic daily operations. We live and die by the support of our women friends, mothers and daughters, and independence doesn't mean isolation. For us, it means freedom to carve out our own identities without having to meet outmoded expectations. We're proud of ourselves; we're different than men, but we function very well indeed. The path to respect in the world is self respect, and I'm so happy to see my daughters far along it.

Old Age Day by Day May 14,2010

This morning I realized our family is absolutely riddled with teachers. Our younger daughter is getting her teaching certificate tonight, and we're really proud of her. But then, what choice did she have? Her older brother and his wife are teachers. Her older sister and her husband are teachers. I'm a teacher. Only her dad and our younger son are holdouts. And they do meaningful work in science and art for equally low salaries. Of course this means a lifetime of being underpaid, underappreciated and struggling with massive stress, but there is some gene in that pool that keeps popping up. My Dad's mom was a teacher, and she was one tough lady. I think she got the lion's share of the genetics. So here we all are, in a profession where you have to have a huge sense of humor and an arsenal of stress management techniques to survive. We do yoga, meditation, lots of nature walks and staring at lakes and mountains.

None of us will ever get rich, but we know what we do matters. One teacher, one moment can save a kid - just give a glimpse of an alternate universe, where he/she is seen and heard. We witness, and give voice to each person's desire to matter in the vast universe. Powerful stuff, but unsung in our culture, where the worth of a person is based on salary and the accumulated toys.

I honor our family tradition, and am proud that we face a cautious economic landscape with determination and our heads screwed on straight. I'm happy for our daughter, who cares about others, and has enthusiasms she wishes to share. Here's to teachers, the social glue that makes children into citizens, and adults into people who can think critically and serve our country well.

Old Age Day by Day May 13,2010

My house has more leaks than I do. This morning on a bright and sunny day, I heard the drip, drip, drip of disaster. The shelf above the kitchen door was leaking onto the mat. This was deeply mysterious, as the shelf holds baskets, and none of them are filled with water. Was it somehow the gutter outside? I left the french toast and went upstairs to the bathroom directly above. It looked dry. It's seldom used, as it is for the guest bedroom. We had no guests. I went back downstairs and did the logical thing: I put a pan under the leak and continued with the french toast. When my husband came down he was very calm. Strangely calm, you might say. He high tailed it to said bathroom and found the leak under the sink. He could not shut off the safety valve because that was what was leaking. Kind of like the oil explosion in the gulf. I called the trusty plumbing company, who know us intimately, and they will come out this afternoon (not likely, considering past experiences). I will be waiting. The bill will be depressing. We put a bigger pot under the sink, so my husband says I only have to empty it about every two hours. Oh, frabous day!

I'm beginning to think a well and outhouse would be a nice solution to this falling apart house. They could be made attractive. Morning glories draping the well and a wisteria covering the outhouse. I'm adaptable.

After all, when I get dressed up these days, it's similarly challenging. Must have sleeves to cover the arms, and a long skirt to hide the legs, as well as a scarf, hat and bright colors to distract from the basic deterioration. Flowy is good, as are earrings and glasses. And maybe a fleur motif to compare myself to a summer's garden. I need to hunt through the dressing up part of my closet for materials and disguises. Don't worry, I'll come out smelling like a rose.

Old Age Day by Day May 12,2010

My husband and I drove (well, he was doing the driving) our daughter-in-law to the airport late last night. She's visiting our son and they are off to a huge family wedding as well. So my in-laws from my first marriage were there and we all hugged and wished each other well. One of my big achievements has to be keeping my attachments to my first husband's family, at first for our two kids sakes, then just out of sheer affection and connection. My first husband has been dead close to 30 years, but I love his widow, his son from his second marriage and all my former relatives. I am still South Asian in spirit and Muslim in respect for their values.

But it was a flurry to get our daughter-in-law off on time. She had a long drive to get to us, then she noticed a splinter in her finger, I had to hunt up a needle, we went upstairs and she sat on my bed, where the light was better, she got the splinter out but dropped the needle, then we were both crawling around on my unvacuumed rug trying to find it. No luck, so we used a flashlight. After a few minutes we gave up, rushed downstairs, stuffed the clothes I'd gotten for our son in her huge overweight bag (his books, mainly), and rushed off.

So my husband and I get home at eleven, and commence crawling around the bedroom floor looking for the proverbial needle in a messy bedroom. No luck again. We're thinking about stepping on it in the middle of the night, or the dogs getting it in their paws, but finally my husband vacuums up and still no needle, though a large tube of lip balm was found in the bag. We are going to have to live with that needle somewhere lurking in our sanctuary, waiting to surprise us. I put my clogs by the bed last night, but when I had to pee, rushed in to the bathroom barefoot. But this morning I remembered, and slipped right into them from the bed.

There may be bigger dangers that await me, but right now, that needle is giving me the heebie jeebies. I remember be told a story as a child about an old lady who stepped on a needle, didn't know it, it went up into her heart and killed her. I've never forgotten it, though it was probably all nonsense, and think of that story a couple of times a year to this day. If I could find the kid who told me that story I'd read her the riot act. So if next you see me in combat boots, it's because I'm no longer safe in my own home. The needle awaits my tootsies, and I've got my own homeland security plan.

Old Age Day by Day May 11, 2010

I had a great Mother's Day, planned by one of my kids, and it was goofy and fun. I talked to the son who's abroad for an hour in the morning, my husband brought me breakfast in bed, my daughter who's in the next state called and I wished her happy mom's day and talked to my granddaughter, who's one great talker for barely two years old. Then the two kids who were around and one partner drove me to a powwow. We went by the baseball stadium, where normally I go to the ball game, but it was raining, and we thought it was a bad bet, so we drove on to the powwow, ate fry bread Indian tacos, and watched some fantastic dancing and looked at the wares in the booths. I do love fry bread, lard and all. Since I only have it about once a year, it seems safe. I can make the stuff myself, but never allow my little hands to get close to doing so. On the way back, we saw the word "perfect" on the billboard by the baseball park, and quickly turned off the radio. Sure enough, the one time in about 25 years I hadn't gone to the game, the pitcher had a perfect game. Oh, no, I cried, knowing my older son would never let me live this one down. Sure enough, the minute we got home, my husband said he'd called from the other side of the world and teased mercilessly. Thank goodness I wasn't there to receive the call. We laughed and laughed! Lost my one chance for bragging rights.

Then we went to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D, which I loved. Johnny Depp is amazing in it. And then we met my husband for pizza at a great place, and a good time was had by all.

Now, if I can just develop some baseball karma so I can see another perfect game this season, by my beloved A's and hopefully catch a fly ball at the same game. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so.

Old Age Day by Day May 7,2010

Last night my younger daughter and I left chorus rehearsal and spontaneously broke out into song as we walked the busy streets to get to the car. We didn't care how we appeared to others, we just belted it out. We sang pieces of several songs we love and then "As I Walked Down to the River to Pray".

As I walked down to the river to pray
studying about those good ole days
and who shall wear the starry crown
good lord show me the way

Oh, sisters let's go down
Let's go down
come on down
oh, sisters lets go down
down in the river to pray

We gathered force and volume and sang our hearts out. It was a weeknight, we'd each had busy days, and yet the world was glorious and we praised it with song. What is more fun, more grounding, and more spiritual? I've sung in church choirs and school choirs as a kid, in acapellas and music camps, around campfires, on car trips, to soothe my babies, to be goofy with my children, and to click into a throbbing universal heart.

When I was visiting my friend with my granddaughter, and we were coming back in the car after dark from her son's house, we soothed the little overexcited toddler with singing, and it's the first time my friend had sung with me. After over thirty years, we had never sung together. My granddaughter chimed in, and we were looking at the big full moon in the black sky through the car window and singing with every ounce of joy and faith and love we possessed. We were singing the praises of granddaughters and our beloved children now grown and interesting and good people in every sense, and we were singing our own praises for having done a good job of raising them despite divorces and illnesses and setbacks and the deaths of our parents.

"Who shall wear the starry crown" indeed. All shall wear it, all do wear it, and all share in our common humanity and connectedness. "Show me the way".

Old Age Day by Day May 6, 2010

Having a grandchild brings back memories of my own grandmothers. One was Indian, on a midwestern farm near a river, alone, except for her father, who helped out after her German immigrant husband died young. My great grandpa sat on the porch and doled out sugared orange slice candies to us, when he wasn't driving his Model T Ford across the fields to get some errand done. Mom's mom had 13 children, and as my mother was in the middle, she was still raising some of them and slaughtering hogs, chickens and forcing a garden to grow, with buckets brought from the river. She was too busy to play with me, but I had plenty of fun anyway. With my cousins I rode the old plow horse, watched her hack a chicken's head off, ran in the fields, and watched biscuits baking in the hot kitchen. I was said to look the most like her of any of the grandchildren. I also sat by her bedside many a time as she was dying slowly and painfully of bone cancer. She was 60 when she died (I was 12), worn out and tired of fighting, probably, but still a vibrant presence. She was a "good" woman, who prayed and sang at her Baptist church, stood out on a dirt road with eggs in her pocket to sell to the occasional car that came by, so she could feed her brood. I don't much like any meat, though, because the screams of the hogs and cows and other animals slaughtered right there, made me know their suffering. They were bled out and hung. I'll eat an occasional chicken and seafood and fish, but I won't touch pork or beef or lamb.

My other grandmother and grandfather lived in a bigger town a couple of hours away, but out on a road by the fairgrounds, so it was still country. They had chickens, too, and parakeets and a big terrier dog called Mitzi. She saved boxes and containers for me so I could play "store", and had a dress up box for myself and the neighbor girls down the road to have fun with. There are pictures of us in big hats with feathers and scarves and dresses whose waists were to our feet. Sometimes my little brother dressed up, too. He'd do anything to get to play. She filled tin animal buckets so we could play in the water on the lawn in our bathing suits. I liked to sit on her porch and have her rock me. She told me I'd say, "Nice beeze, granma", just to be sociable. I loved her cellar with it's cool, damp smell, and the shelves and shelves of canned tomatoes, pickled beets, green beans, pickles, peas and other delights. She had a huge vegetable garden. I loved pulling up carrots and hunting for eggs.

I was left regularly, as a toddler and preschooler with both grandmas and various aunts and uncles. I adored the visits. I loved chasing fireflies, eating watermelon on the grass, going to the fairs and looking at quilts and paintings and cakes and pies. Both my mother and I won blue ribbons later, when I was about 10, me for an apron I'd sewed and my mother for a lacy white shawl she'd crocheted. I was left with a feeling of resourcefulness and a lot of useful survival skills, and the assurance that I was special to those grandmas, and now, here I am, upteen years later, passing on the love.

Old Age Day by Day May 5, 2010

I volunteered to go buy pants for our older son, as he is out of the country right now. His wife is going to visit him and can take them. So it's Macys in the Morning (I believe you know that musical). And I might as well pick up some black pants for my husband, as he has none. He needs them for the chorus concerts he's in, and he actually thinks navy blue is the same color as black. This is not your exciting shopping experience. Men's clothes are boring, deathly boring, and once they have brown, khaki, gray, black and blue pants, what's left? Fuchsia? Paisley? No wonder they don't like to shop. I made my husband wear a colorful shirt for an anniversary party we had a few years ago, and that's the first and last time he deigned to put it on. He tries to hide it in the closet, but I hang it front and center when he's at work. At least I can look at it and sigh a little. He prefers shirts that are flannel plaid, with the colors so similar you can't tell if he ever changes his clothes. And he is sentimental about these drab and dreary clothes, so you have to cajole him to get rid of the ones with rips, missing buttons, and those now too small. I once had to get rid of a sculpture I loved to trade for his recycling of a car coat he'd worn since 8th grade. No, it had no historical value whatsoever.

So, what can I say? I may be forced to glance at women's shoes or toddler clothes or something in the humans' section, just to liven up the trip. I feel it is my moral obligation to colorize the planet, as these men just haven't got a clue as to the function of clothing. It's hardly for practical reasons, especially in this season when we could all traipse around naked without harm (well, without catching a cold). Obviously, clothing is a response to the marvelous colors of nature around us and a message to the flowers and the birds that we DO participate in the glory of our planet, and I don't mean the brown part under the grass.

Old Age Day by Day May 4, 2010

As I get older, I find myself able to revisit old wounds or traumas without all the turmoil of emotions that would sweep me up before. I can touch on something, pause, feel sadness arise, even weep a bit for myself having to go through that event, and then slip back into here and now. My practice has helped me be able to revisit without reentering that past place. So when I was telling someone yesterday about an upsetting time in my life a few years back, she, at the end, looked nervous and said, but you're really good right now and having good feelings about your life. She was uncomfortable and wanted to see me back to my usual cheerful self before we parted.

But every day is composed of moments, and not each of these is happy, or sad, or reflective or anticipation. A day has all the emotions of the rainbow, and I no longer fear getting stuck in any thought or feeling mode, because it's all changing, and summing up is for prosecutors and juries.

I am so kind to myself now that I can allow myself to feel what comes up, and then let it go when my mind and feelings inevitably move on. I, personally, thought it was great that I cried a few tears for stress and pain that I'd felt. I deserve some compassion, and those events are part of who I am. I'm not Ahab swallowed by the whale, I'm the writer of the story who can look back and see the paths that led me to where I now am, and be present with the pieces that make up my puzzle. I'm complex. We all are. And I'm resilient, as most of us are. I don't push away what arises, I respect it. There is probably a purpose, which my complicated self is working out.

Pain is inevitable, and sometimes it must be relived to remind us of where we've come from and where we're going.

Old Age Day by Day May 3, 2010

My friend and I went on a house tour yesterday afternoon, seeing nine houses with the same architect. It was blazing hot, but we soldiered through. It was a hot job, but somebody had to do it. I'm kidding, of course. It's fun to glimpse these houses inside, these old beauties, and no matter if their clothes are out of date, their hairdos retro, the makeup smeared. From one old dame to another - these babies have got character. And like people, a couple were lovingly preserved - they'd had their spa treatments and healthy diets and facials and pedicures - and others were overweight and still smoked and wouldn't know yoga if it smacked them in the face.

The window seats attracted me. I imagined myself Jane Austen looking out over the hills and dreaming of dances. Reading a book in a window seat is my idea of perfect luxury. In some houses the rooms were cramped and dark; in others the kitchens had been opened up and led to decks and afternoon sun. I admit it, I like the cramped small rooms. I like dark wood, and I like a door that closes and nooks and crannies. What this says about my mind is probably frightening, but there you have it.

When I was fourteen, my family and I spent a summer in Tidewater Virginia in an old 1700th century mansion, and though my parents and brother stayed in a wing that was one story and more modernly equipped, my best friend and I stayed upstairs in the two story main section, with a huge canopied bed, a walk in closet the size of a room, and ghosts traipsing up and down the stairs at night. I have loved old houses from that time, when we would hunt in the library for old books and their inscriptions in spidery handwriting, search through the dusty attic among the boxes of old clothes and letters. I love history, and am sad that most people today don't see the excitement of it. They want the walk-in shower and subzero. I like dilapidation and a sense of other people in other times sharing the space with me.

Maybe this is why my own aging is not causing more distress. I've been some places and done some things. I like other people with a bit of history to them as well. You don't get that by upgrading and remodeling. You get interesting by honoring your path and not turning your back on it.

Old Age Day by Day May 1, 2010

Last week my husband was in the middle of a bunch of other scientists when one of them commented to the others that a professor was moving his lab to France. Why would he do that? they asked. Another answered, Because he's old.

My husband is in his early sixties and so was the professor discussed. They didn't even whisper their comments, because, I suppose, they assumed he was too infirm to hear. Don't worry, I reasssured him, we are the baby boomers and we're taking over the earth. Let them rest easy in their false belief that they rule the world. We do. Why? Not just numbers, but the fact that we are politically active and they don't seem to notice when their rights go down the drain. They are busy facebooking and consuming and texting. You have to notice the world, and we come from a generation of rebel rousers and trouble makers. Whether we wore bell bottoms, or tie dye or business suits with those little bows, we thought the world was ours to change. And a lot of us haven't given up, not one little bit.

There is this myth in science that all your best work is done in your twenties. A lot of professions have this lie stirring around oppressing people who want to explore and find out about themselves and the world. But every day in the newspaper, with people I know, with strangers I meet I find late bloomers. What kind of a phrase is that anyway? Is it late when it comes and for whom is it late? There are opera singers who began voice at 30, writers who penned their first novel at seventy, fifty somethings who started businesses, sixty somethings who stood up and changed the planet. THERE IS NO TIMELINE.

You get to live your life as you see fit, and assess it only if and when you want to.
And by the way, my husband is writing papers for these geniuses in the lab, and figuring out what to make of their data. They'd be lost without him, even if he is ancient. And he's still singing, dancing like there is no tomorrow and learning new things every day. If only they had as much fun!