Wallowing at the Threshold

My mother suffered from macular degeneration and glaucoma for decades before she finally lost most of her vision in her late nineties. And the family suffered her suffering. She was far more than her health issues, but she didn’t talk to me about her courage, her conquests, her activism. Just her health, chiefly her eyes. I don’t think much about my own vision, what can I do? My only risk factors are genetics and age. I am diligent about an annual eye exam, though. Last month, my optometrist—who was also my mother’s doctor for decades—told me my eye pressure is perfect and the macula shows only very slow degeneration over the past five years. I think it’s safe to say I did not inherit her vision issues. That leaves age; but since I can’t stop the march of time, I can forget about it for another year. (Well, I could eat more dark, leafy greens.)

I’m wondering now, why she was so focused on it for so long. Fear of being blind in the future? Self-pity? An exultation of pride that she was carrying on without vision? She told me once she thought if she didn’t tell people she couldn’t see, they would think her vision was better than it was. I didn’t really understand why that was a bad thing, but probably you have to walk in a person’s shoes to know what makes them tick. Now that she’s gone, I’m better at not judging her. But it makes me think about what kind of elder I want to be. If I am lucky enough to continue to be able to choose.

That story came to mind recently when I read Grant Faulkner’s Substack post about self-pity. (Grant is the executive director of National Novel Writing Month—NaNoWriMo.) He writes:

“Our culture disparages self-pity . . . [and] rewards the stoic response . . . But here’s the rub: wallowing in self-pity is a key part of self-restoration. It’s a vital part of my creative process. I’ll hazard to say that it’s even nourishing. In wallowing, I’m gathering my forces, unconsciously planning a Plan B, reaching for acceptance of a ‘new world order . . .’ I go to the edge of the cliff of despair and peer over it, but I don’t jump. Crying releases oxytocin and a bunch of other feel-good chemicals, and my guess is self-pity does the same (hence the wallowing).”

Maya Angelou seemed to agree, but provided a caveat: “Self-pity in its early stage is as snug as a feather mattress. Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.” My mother missed that bit.

I’ve been thinking about thresholds for the past couple newsletters (here and here, if you missed them), and probably will continue to. Perhaps it’s the work of the third act of life, this edging into elderhood.

I went for a hike recently that really kicked my butt. I’ve hiked the trail to Spray Park in Mt. Rainier National Park twice before and didn’t remember it being so hard. Maybe it wasn’t. I was moving so slow on the return, I don’t think movement would have registered on an infrared motion sensor. It’s the first time I’ve linked the exhaustion with aging. These past twelve years as a hiker, I have gotten stronger and stronger. Now, I think, I’m coming down the other side of the mountain. It was a burning bush moment. A little shocking, if you must know. (You can read more about that hike and the startling revelation on my blog.)

You may be at a different threshold; the questions are the same. John O’Donohue said: “At anytime you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing? At this time in my life, what am I leaving? Where am I about to enter? What is preventing me from crossing my next threshold? What gift would enable me to do it?” (To Bless the Space Between: A Book of Blessings)

I love hiking remote trails, beginning with long drives up forest roads, where most people don’t go. I love hiking solo. I love exploring new trails. I’m not afraid of longish trails with elevation gain—within parameters I’ve set for myself. I think the time to change the parameters is coming soon, and in the future to hike familiar trails not so remote. And maybe not alone. I’ve given up hoping someday a son or daughter or grandson will hike with me, but would it be so terrible to join a hiking group . . . someday? I met such a group on Mt. Rainier while I was doing my volunteer gig this month. Eight women around my age who were delightful. I could do a new thing, right?

I may not be ready to cross the threshold quite yet, but it doesn’t hurt to think about it as I come up the trail toward it. In fact, it would be a gift to prepare myself.

O’Donohue also said,
“You stand on the shore of a new invitation
To open your life to what is left undone;
Let your heart enjoy a different rhythm
When drawn to the wonder of other horizons.
(For Retirement, To Bless the Space Between)

A new invitation to other horizons. Find a new rhythm to enjoy. I can do that. After I finish wallowing in self-pity.

Here’s to thresholds, new paths, new horizons, and maybe a moment or two of self-pity. As always, I would love to hear from you. What are your musings about what’s coming, and what you will leave behind? I hope you will comment here and read (maybe respond to) what others are thinking about.

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