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Not Every Question Has an Answer

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“If you could stay put, would you?”

No. Also, yes.

A friend, on a four-person Zoom call, asked the question as I cried my way through telling of my overwhelm cleaning out the family home I’m living in. Part of the reason I’m still here is because the task is not done. And maybe I’m dragging my feet, because it will be hard—and scary—to leave.

Last summer, at my 55th high school reunion, a classmate (a neighbor, living on the property where she grew up) asked if I like living here on the hill.

Yes. Also, no.

Some questions just don’t have simple answers. And here I am again, asking “what’s next” and “when.” I don’t know the answer to that, either. But every time we ask the questions, we get a little closer to answers.

It breaks my heart to think of this property, my family home for sixty-six years, belonging to strangers. And, I want to create another home while I’m relatively strong of mind and body. I love living among the trees; the view of sky, valley, mountain; the coyotes howling in the night. And, I’ve never aspired to take care of acres as my father dreamed, recreating his childhood farm life. Two weeks ago, I scraped and stomped down 197 mole volcanoes in the meadow ahead of the mowing appointment, a twice-monthly task until the grass stops growing for the season.

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I drove by a sweet house for sale in Olympia the other day. I would have liked to live in Olympia, in a home of my own again. But, I’ll be 74 this week; there is precious little time left to get established closer to the younger generations of my family in Seattle (grateful that I have younger generations). There’s no longer time for intermediate moves. Sand is quickly passing through the narrow neck of the hour glass. I was a little wistful—Olympia is closer to my hiking life, and my sisters.

What if I’d left here right after my mother died, eight years ago? How would my life be different now? No answers.

A novel I enjoyed a few years ago, The Midnight Library (Matt Haig), explores lives the protagonist could have lived, but didn’t. It’s intriguing to consider life’s twists and turns, paths chosen, trails not taken. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. . .” Or, perhaps, it wasn’t a choice, but circumstances that set the future, as in the 1998 movie, Sliding Doors.

Last month, I traveled with my daughter’s family to Sisters, Oregon, for my grandson’s baseball tournament. The Airbnb was in a development with houses and townhomes, manicured grounds with a greenway running through. Olders and grandkids, parents and strollers, dogs on leashes and kids on bikes went by the patio where I sat reading. I walked to the coffee shop in the mornings, bouncing with chatting olders when it opened at 6am. That’s what I want next on this aging journey: connection. No need for manicured lawns, but also not with an acre of mole tunnels.

Will I get to choose? No answer. I hope so. Tick tock.

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My sisters and I, trying to gather regularly to clean out the house, tackled the sewing and quilting supplies this month. Collecting needles from cabinets, drawers, shoeboxes, pincushions, sewing machine stools into a give-away box was like sifting stardust. My mother, my mother, my mother.

I sit on the deck and a pair of Anna’s hummingbirds hover around my head, on their way to and from the feeder, nearly empty again. I sense the presence of my parents. Are they here for me, or because this was their home? Will I leave them behind when I go? We’re here. We love you. Stardust.

We could hire someone to throw it all in a dumpster, but we would miss the stardust.

We put in the recycling box multiple sheets of paper on which our parents played Jotto—or Five-letter Word—on game sheets they created, and my mother’s lists of possibilities. Decades ago, they played it on trains and planes and at the dining room table. (Millennials did not invent Wordle, they merely wrote a computer program.) They kept the game sheets and lists, of course they did. Stardust. 

Last week, I gave 150 picture postcards from the desk drawer to a friend to send reunion reminders to her classmates. I’ve mailed two letters with decades-old, unused stamps from my mother’s obsessive saving. Slowly, surely. Repurpose, recycle, re-home. Get it out of here. So I can get out of here. When will that be? The third act comes with Social Security and Medicare (for now) and a lifetime national parks’ pass (mine has an image of wildflowers, thank goddess), but no crystal ball.

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If I could stay, would I? I do know the answer: No. That doesn’t mean it will be easy to leave. A friend says, what good is a life if we don’t miss the people and places that once inhabited it.

I would love to hear from you! What plans are you needing to get into place? What are your unanswerable questions? Leave a comment below.

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Over the Hill: Knocking on the Door of Seventy-four

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I’ll be seventy-four soon. Which means I turned forty . . . well, a long time ago. Forty is the over-the-hill birthday, right? Decorations are black, balloons have dire messages, life is pretty much over. As I approached that birthday, though, I felt like life was beginning. Maybe I would finally feel like an adult, an imposter up until then. I was about to complete a master’s degree, and (I thought) begin a career after being a stay-at-home mom—an occupation that was dying even then. There was hard stuff on the horizon—a big hill, unrelated to age—but I felt alive and ready for the world. “No over-the-hill napkins,” I told my family, who were planning a party. Nothing was going to hijack my thunder.

     Life goes on after forty, and no one mentions that phrase again. Until elderhood, the third act. Author Abigail Thomas—who is eighty-five, which makes me feel youthful—wrote on the topic a few months ago. I quote her brief Substack post in its entirety:

 

“Over the hill“ is a weirdly dismissive way to say one has grown old. Which hill, I want to know. All of us old people have climbed more than one, some of us negotiated the first in our teens, long before we made it to old age. Some hills we had to climb two or three times before we could get to the top and slide down the other side, only to be greeted with another even steeper hill. But we climbed that one too. Maybe luck was part of it, but there is always more to learn. Life is complicated and hard. Old at last, we may know how to keep still now, to look around, to listen, to lend a hand. As you will be too, one day, if your luck holds. A little respect, please. We deserve red ribbons and lots of flowers, and maybe a cake or two.”

 

I left home at twenty-four, and moved across the country. It felt like a small hill then, albeit adventurous. It wasn’t until decades later that I’ve realized how it changed the trajectory of my life. Seven years later, we moved to Mississippi—a friggin’ mountain I didn’t get over the top of for four years, when we  finally left. Forty was no hill on its own, but two years later, I became unmarried and I came out—huge elevation change, many obstacles. “Where is the evidence you won’t get through this?” a therapist asked, when I was sure it was a hill I would literally fall off of, long before reaching the top. Guess what? I survived. At sixty, with another cross-country move, I began the never-ending switchbacks of six years of mother care.

     At the turn of the decade, the whole world climbed, topped, and slid down the hill of the pandemic, in ways both solitary and communal. Now the world is climbing another hill. (Over the hill? Please, bring it.)

     As Thomas says, we olders have climbed, conquered, come off of many hills. We absolutely deserve ribbons, flowers, cake! And respect, thank you. There will be more, for sure, but we have much experience to draw on. I hate to burst your black balloon, youngers, but “over the hill,” as it relates to olders, is a sentiment that needs to be retired.

     Seminary Hill, my current and my childhood home, is not the hill I want to die on. And to leave will require navigation skills—which I have, thanks to experience. But for when I’m over my very last hill, I have signed a contract with Earth Funeral, to compost my meager earthly remains. I hope someone plants them on some hill. There’s no view if you stay on the plain.

 

I would love to hear from you! How do you feel about hills, literal and metaphorical? Leave a comment below.

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Making Mama Soup

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The dharma talk in yoga in October explored the word “progress.” I confess, I couldn’t hear a lot of it. Yes, I had my hearing aids in, but the HVAC fan drowns out all other sound. So I hear a bit, the fan comes on, and I riff on the theme in my head. (And then spend the rest of class hoping I can remember my brilliant thoughts until I can write them down.)

Progress, I heard Elizabeth say, might mean letting go of outcome. Not progress toward a certain goal, but forward from wherever you are. The endpoint (if there is a completion), might not be what you thought it would be.

Or it might mean, I thought, realizing you could be successful if you do “less.” Or if you do something differently.

Progress might be the acceptance of backward movement.

I’ve been practicing yoga—and doing downward-facing dog pose—for nearly twenty years. While some practitioners can push their heels to the floor,  a small dog could wiggle under mine. Also, some yogis can step one foot between their hands in one smooth move, as the transition is “supposed” to be achieved. I have to pull mine forward with my hand. Every. Single. Time. (I know, I know, you’re supposed to keep your eyes on your own mat, not pay attention to the abilities of others.)

Shortcomings are not failure. In yoga, you do what you can do, and it is enough. But damn, I thought I would “get better” over the years of a regular practice. I have not.

Until a few months ago.

In an online session from home, with no one (not) watching, I did down dog with blocks under my hands. You couldn’t put a cat paw between my heel and the floor. I brought my foot forward in one gliding motion. Success!

One simple adaptation, one acknowledgement of what my body can’t do—will never be able to do—and I made progress. I have hated down dogs all these years, and suddenly I don’t! When offered the choice, I’m choosing it, now, over child’s pose!

I haven’t been hiking as long as I’ve been doing yoga, but I have learned a few things about progress on the trail. I once measured it in increasing strength and lung capacity. No longer. Now it’s in the willingness to adapt to changes in my body, to gauge my ability when choosing a trail, to thoughtfully navigate challenges, to know when to turn back.

. . .

What, you are surely asking, does progress have to do with “Mama Soup”? (And what even is Mama Soup?) Actually, they have nothing to with each other. Unless I figure it out as I write. But it’s National Family Caregivers Month, so I feel compelled to honor my mother, and those challenging years of our walk together.

My mama loved soup. And she saved unconsumed food from her plate. (Waste not, want not, a Depression-era holdover.) Two broccoli florets, a bite of chicken, a quarter serving of spinach. The refrigerator bloated with leftover containers (a.k.a. yogurt containers) and Ziploc bags. Eventually, she gathered all the dribs and drabs into a saucepan, added water (no seasoning), and voila: a half-cup of soup for lunch! (Insert major eye roll emoji.)

A couple weeks ago, I decided to try a version of Mama Soup. I had broth in the freezer made from last holiday season’s turkey dinner. I had a chicken thigh, beets, broccoli, mushrooms, half a sweet potato, a few garlic-roasted fingerling potatoes, and the last of the tomatoes from my garden. I had sriracha, and parsley I purchased for something and forgot to use.

It made a whole bowlful and was quite tasty!

So here’s my connection of Mama Soup to progress: Her good idea—arguably, poorly executed—moved to a higher plane. Also, my acknowledgement that it worked for her, and I should keep my eyes on my own mat. Rather than making fun of Mama Soup, I respect her commitment to feeding her body and not wasting food. I honor her for adapting to what her shifting ability still allowed.

Sometimes progress is measured, not in physical movement, but in attitude shift.

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What adaptations have you made to shifting abilities? How have you reimagined progress? I would love to hear. Leave a comment below!

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The Hills We Die On. Or Not

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On a recent road trip, I listened to the audio version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, a book I read and loved ten years ago. It’s a good one to revisit. 
Gilbert writes of her childhood crippling fears about pretty much everything. In response to her mother’s unshakeable faith in her strength and abilities, Elizabeth would do almost anything to prove she was, in fact, enfeebled. She refused to thrive. For years.

One day, in adolescence, she woke up to the idea that defending her weakness was a really weird battle to be fighting. “Was this seriously the hill I wanted to die on?”

“Argue for your limitations and you get to keep them.”

The passage got my attention. 


My mother stepped off many hills throughout her life. Too many to name. Hills she could have allowed to limit her. It’s not fair of me to choose the one she did struggle with—and who wouldn’t—vision loss. She told me she couldn’t see—with her eyes—what I was describing in detail, encouraging her to pivot to seeing it in her mind, her heart, her memory. She led conversations with, “I can’t see.” “Why do you tell everyone you can’t see?” I asked. “Because people might think I see more than I can.” “What if they do?” I countered, to no response.

Thank goodness I don’t argue for my limitations. (Insert raucous laughter.) Okay, here are a few.


  • I can’t draw/play my ukulele. (Either take lessons and practice, practice, practice, or let it go.)
  • I’m lousy at making friends and nurturing relationships. (How can you be a better friend? Now go and do it.)
  • I can’t take care of this property. (Hire someone. Move. Let go of what you can’t do. Stop bitching. Above all, appreciate what you have while you have it.) [Aside: God love her, how many times did my mother say, “I just need to move.” Note to children: Say to me, “Let’s make that happen.” Accept no shit from my passive aggressiveness.]
  • I’m not good at anything. (Anything? Really? Make a list of what you are good at—not perfect, but good enough. Or do it for love, even if you aren’t good at it.)
  • I was a terrible caregiver to my mother. (You had shortcomings for sure, but did you ever stop trying? Forgive yourself.)


I enjoy good health at 73. I’m in no position to judge people who struggle. And I’m not judging. But I wonder, when the time comes—which it most certainly will—that my body weakens, how will I deal with it? Will simply deciding in advance that I’ll choose a positive response over a negative one, be enough? Where can I practice now?

I’ve been a hiker for the past decade plus. I’ve gotten good at it. Not female-elder-hiker-record-worthy good, just committed-day-hiker-on-modest-trails good. I got stronger and smarter over the years, as I gained the expertise that only comes from sticking with something. In the past couple years, though, I’ve begun to experience the decline that comes with elderhood. I’m listening to what my body is asking of me, and weighing my choices. 1. Quit hiking, or moderate my trail choices? 2. Stop hiking when I can’t do it solo, or join a hiking group? 3. Join a group now? 4. Grumble about aches and pains, or accept them—queue up ibuprofen and a heating pad. 


There are endless decisions to be made in the third act of life—at whatever age that comes. We can say “I can’t” and give up, or “I can” and keep going with altered abilities and expectations. And if vision loss is my hill, I hope I will be brave and lead, not with “I can’t,” but with “I can see it if you describe it to me.” 


Meanwhile, I do more yoga and get a monthly massage. I hope to be a hiking grandma for a few more years.

P.S. I saw the hiking grandma graphic on a t-shirt on a trail a few years ago. I never got the shirt, but I’ve had the graphic on my laptop for a long time, waiting to use it!

 

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Your turn! Are there, or have there been, limitations or fears you’ve clung to rather than find your way past them? Care to share? If you’ve overcome a tough one, how did you do it? Leave a comment below.

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Every single day you live, you make a difference in the world.
And you get to choose the difference that you make.
Jane Goodall (1934-2025)

 

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I Will NOT Do It Myself!

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“I do it myself!” It’s a frequently heard declaration from toddlers, much to the frustration of parents who don’t always have time for their kid to put shoes on by themself. The move toward independence is a critical developmental stage in childhood. But what does it mean when we are olders? Could giving up the need to go it alone—perhaps even before we have to (gasp!)—be a developmental stage for us?

 

Yes, I am capable of painting the doors leading off my family room myself. I did the walls to prepare a “pandemic classroom” for my two grandsons. Now it’s five years later, and I haven’t finished the task.

 

Every winter I dream of removing the laundry room’s beige-ness, the only room (with its many oil-base-paint cabinets—ugh) in my childhood home I haven’t painted in the seven years since my mother died. But I haven’t done it.

 

Yes, I can still climb the ladder to clean tree debris off the flat roof of the house, clearing downspouts and sweeping pooled water down them. As I’ve been doing for the past nine years. (Nothing to prove.)

 

I have a small chainsaw. I could make firewood of the small tree that fell last winter, that I dragged off the trail in May and left for later.

 

I’m pretty sure I could put new washers in the bathroom sink. But it drips on, undone.

 

Or . . .

 

I could hire the young handyman/yard maintenance guy who has been mowing my meadow—which I cannot do—and give him work over the winter months. Work that will help support his family, including two little girls at the “I do it myself” stage.

 

Really, what do I need to prove at the age of 73? I’ve done many things to establish to myself and anyone watching—which is no one—that I can do it myself. I am privileged to be able to afford to pay someone to do some of it (which I never thought would be the case). And I can let some things go all together. (The yard doesn’t look like it did when my father took care of it.) I have other things I want to do before it’s too late.

 

When my mother didn’t “do it herself,” because she no longer could, she said she was “lazy.” It made me sad that she only saw what she couldn’t do and not all that she had done. She hated being dependent on others. I think of it as interdependence: we all count on others for some aspect of our living our whole lives. I think I would like to turn some things over before I have to, while it’s a choice. Maybe I can avoid being as hard on myself as my mother was. (I may feel differently when I’m 98, but I can only live my current age.)

 

I ran across a recent interview with actress Mel Harris. Remember Thirtysomething, the TV show in the late ‘80s? I was thirty-something, and I loved the show. Mel, who played Hope Steadman, is 69 now. She said this, when asked about downsizing to a smaller home:


“I don’t call it downsizing, I call it resizing, actually.
I think downsizing has a negative connotation.”


Amen to that! We are so good at ageism on our own behalf. Is choosing to ask someone else to do tasks you can do yourself—maybe have been—a form of resizing? A developmental milestone? Unless, of course, you really love doing it yourself, in which case, I applaud you. There is certainly satisfaction in having done it yourself. Currently, I’m finding more satisfaction in it just being done.

 

I just returned from a ten-day road trip to Canada, visiting six national parks. I’m much more interested in continuing to do things like that by myself—things no one can do for me—as long as I’m able. (You can find my Canada adventure stories and photos here.)

 

As I settle into fall—my favorite season—I’m making a list for Jordan. Maybe I’ll make cookies for his little girls while he cleans the roof.

 

Happy autumn!

 

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*Jordan did clean the roof last week, which I could have done. (Blah, blah. Someday I’ll stop adding that qualifier. I haven’t reached full enlightenment yet.) He also cleaned the pitched roof and gutters over the carport/workshop, which has rarely been done—and never by me. (I’m not stupid.) I hadn’t asked him to, but he’s just that wonderful. He discovered a broken tree limb had punctured the roof and emerged through the ceiling of the workshop above the carport. He will remove the offender and patch the roof, preventing a disaster when the rains come.

 

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Your turn! What do you love doing yourself? What would you like someone else to do? What are your thoughts about hanging on and letting go? Leave a comment!

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The New Year: Aging Out, or Aging In?

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At the beginning of every new year, my in-box is full of bucket list and intentions posts. I’m thinking about mine. Or, rather, I’m thinking about not thinking about them.

 

Two Sunday bloggers were in my lineup last week, and they got me considering this third act of life—which is not a new thing, obviously. One writer (I’ll call her Ms. Energy) is nearing 50. I won’t detail all she does, you would be ready to nap well into spring just reading it. The other (a friend of Ms. Energy, I’ll call him Mr. Ancient) is turning 60, sandwiched between me and Ms. Energy, twelve years on either side. I’m well past feeling remorse that I can’t channel Ms. Energy (not that I ever could), but it turns out Mr. Ancient has something to teach the more elder me about what I do—or don’t—want.

 

He writes this: “I have projects I want to complete, and I even have visions to learn new art forms . . . but I don’t want to live my final days to the staccato rhythms of the Urgent. It just doesn’t sound like much fun, for one. I want to pause and meander and savor and wonder and drift.” (I want a bumper sticker that says that.)

 

This is me with my mouth hanging open. Is that okay? Can one let go of feeling, at the not-yet-old-age of 72 (much less at 60), that shit must get done tout de suite before it’s too late? It’s not too late, but by the time it gets done—or let go of—might I have missed the window of opportunity to “pause and meander and savor and wonder and drift” because I am, I don’t know, dealing with health stuff or the end of democracy or whatever? Did we buy into this sense of urgency and “must do” when we were younger and now our arthritic fingers have it in a literal death grip?

 

Bucket lists (a little different from annual intentions) are defined as life lists, things to check off before one dies; but mine have always been serial. I replace things rather than add to the list. My bucket list used to include Eat Pasta and Pizza in Positano. I let go of that with no regrets, replacing it with “Visit ALL Western National Parks.” I’ve revised that to visit some national parks. Currently, I’m thinking about taking the Coast Starlight to visit a friend in California next autumn, and maybe getting into Death Valley, which I missed in 2023. That could add a park and replace bucket-listed Take Train Trip Across Canada.

 

But couldn’t bucket lists and annual intentions also (or alternatively) include “write a letter to a friend,” “savor the sunrise,” “consider the shades of brown in tree bark.” You know, downsizing the lists. Last week I drove 90 minutes out my favorite state highway to the historic hotel I love, walked the labyrinth at the wildlife refuge again, and sat by the fire and read, returning home for dinner. Going there every autumn/winter is on my bucket list. For now. I might try snowshoe meadow roving (my volunteer gig at Mt. Rainier), or not.

 

A recent epiphany pertains to the tendinitis/arthritis in my left hand (well, and my right). I spent months in 2023 winding through the medical maze: primary care doctor so I could waitlist to see an orthopedist so I could get referred for occupational therapy. A year after eight OT sessions, my hand is no better. I was panicked back then, “Oh my gawd, this is how it will be, this aging thing. Must Fix Now.” Today, I am not panicked; this is how it will be. I’ve adjusted. Not everything can or must be fixed.

 

Mr. Ancient writes at the end of his post: ”I don’t want to battle age, but stir it around, bathe in it. All of Time’s orneriness asks for celebration, acceptance, not resistance. Acceptance can be its own type of celebration. Loss can be its own song. And therein lie the gains of this peculiar state.” Don’t you love that?

 

That’s what I want to be doing in this act, both this year and this decade: celebrating, not arming for battle. Paying attention to the small things, letting go of the big ones. No tick tock. I’m turning off the clock.

 

Disclaimer: I’m trying this on for size. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll put it in the back of the drawer and take it out when I grow into it. Because, really, isn’t that the joy of elderhood, the freedom to try on ways of being in the world?

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What are you trying on for size in this new year? Or, what are you aging out of and/or into?

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Read Grant Faulkner’s (Mr. Ancient) post here.
Read my post “Lessons from a Labyrinth” here.

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Book recommendations (there’s a theme here, right?):

Still: The Art of Noticing, by Mary Jo Hoffman. This title caught my attention, I have it on library hold. “Every day (every single day) for over a decade, Mary Jo Hoffman has made a photograph of found nature – no subject too small or too ordinary.”

Still Life at Eighty: The Next Interesting Thing, by Abigail Thomas. Currently reading, laughing out loud.

I’m excited about the coming audio version of Mother Lode, from Tantor Media! Coming in May.
I’ll keep you posted.

 

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What’s in Your Toolbox?

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Many years ago, my young children gave me a tool kit for Mother’s Day. It contained a small hammer, a Phillip’s screwdriver, a flathead screwdriver, and pliers—each with a blue handle—as well as a measuring tape in a blue case. The tools were nested in a latching box—blue, of course. It ranks among the most meaningful gifts I’ve received. Were they saying they believed I was capable of using tools other than “girl tools,” e.g. sewing machine or mixing bowl? That I could hang a picture and fix stuff myself? And I would always know where the tool I needed was! (Truthfully, I suspect their father suggested it so I would stop being irritated at never being able to find his tools; but, decades later, I’m sticking with “mom is badass.”) I have better tools now (well, actually, I don’t), but I hang onto the blue-handled ones to remind me that, with the right tools, I can step beyond my comfort zone.

I was reminded of the tool set gift as I listened to Michelle Obama’s book, The Light We Carry, in the car last week. Her father lived with multiple sclerosis and walked with a cane, even when Michelle was a young girl. She writes, “. . . that cane symbolized nothing. It was just a tool, the same way my mother’s spatula was a tool in the kitchen, or my grandfather’s hammer got used any time he came over to fix a broken shelf or curtain rod. It was utilitarian, protective, something to lean on when needed.”

When I came to live with my mother, she was 96 and carried an old broom handle when she walked outside. She used it for balance, yes, but I think she wanted me to think it was for (ineffectively) whacking down dandelions that grew in the center of the driveway where she walked, or pushing sticks out of the way. Maybe that was the story she told herself too. She did carry a fancier floral print cane when we went out in public. A few years later, she replaced the cane with a walker; and for a few weeks, after she broke her arm, she replaced the walker with a wheelchair. Mostly, she made the adjustments with grace; well, sort of. She also insisted that she did not need a caregiver, or me; that was a tool too far.

I have supportive tools of my own. I’ve worn glasses since my early 20s. Every few years, I get a new prescription, a tool upgrade. A few years ago, I began using trekking poles when I hiked; I’m on my third set, now, up-trading in quality when the previous ones broke. Then I got ankle braces before putting up the funds for ankle-supporting boots. Later I began using knee straps. These are the tools I need to keep me safe so I can keep hiking as I age. Three years ago, I got hearing aids, the tools I need to function in the world as my hearing diminishes. They symbolize nothing. They are just tools.

Those are physical tools. But Michelle goes on to talk about other obstacles for which tools are needed, like her fearful mind, which makes public speaking scary. (Wait! What? Michelle Obama, who rocked her speech at the DNC, is afraid of public speaking?) She has taught herself to accept that the fear is part of who she is, and by getting to know Fear’s agenda, she can ambush her. Elizabeth Gilbert tells her own fear it can come along on the adventure—since it’s going to anyway—but it has to stay in the back seat, and it can never, ever drive.

When my memoir was published, I said I would never be a guest on a podcast, that was too scary, a challenge too far. Then I was a guest on a podcast. I loved it! I was on several more, and it became my favorite way to talk about my book and caregiving. Had I let Fear drive, I would have missed out. There are two quotes still stuck on my study wall. One, by Michelle, in fact, says, “Am I good enough? Yes, I am!” The other says, “You are an expert on your own experience.” They are my tools, and I read them over and over as I waited for the podcast host to come on my screen.

People ask me if I’m not afraid to hike alone. Sometimes I do feel fear as I plan for a hike on a trail where there might not be other people, or as I drive to a remote trailhead. Once I put my boots on the ground though, I’m nothing but ecstatic; Fear stays in the car. I have my tools: sturdy boots, poles, a whistle, most of the “ten essentials,” knowledge of the trail and of best practices to stay safe; I’ve told someone where I am. I will not let Fear keep me from doing what I love, for as long as I can physically do it.

Aging is a scary new trail too. But there are plenty of tools and guides. Once we identify what it is we are afraid of, we can get to know it. Then we can find the tools we need to banish it to the back seat—again and again if necessary. We cannot, of course, banish aging—try as we might—but we can fend off fear of it. 

 

As always, I would love to hear from you. What tools have you employed to help you through life? What fears—including about aging—do you want to challenge? What have you already conquered? Leave a comment below!

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Wallowing at the Threshold

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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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Between a Rock & a Hard Place

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It’s June! In the northern hemisphere, that means it’s finally summer pretty much everywhere, even in the Pacific Northwest. Well, some days at least. June is a big month in my family. I will be 72 this week, on the summer solstice. It’s also the birth anniversary month of my mother, my son, one of my grandsons, and my sister. My birthday is sandwiched between Father’s Day and my father’s death anniversary. It will always be between a rock and a hard place, a celebration accompanied by grief.

I wasn’t present for my father’s death, it came suddenly, with no time for goodbye. I lived far away, and we were emotionally distanced too. My mother’s death was a different story, as you know. There were years of anticipatory grief, of living with a long ending. I was as present as it is possible to be. Back then, I often wished I were less present. Now, I’m glad I was here.

A friend is accompanying both of her parents on the long journey. Recently her mother had a crisis that landed her in the hospital—on a holiday weekend, of course. You want your parent not to suffer; you want them not to die. You’re grateful to be with them; you’re resentful. You want them to live forever; you want your life back. All legitimate emotions; the very definition of between a rock and a hard place.

Aging is the same. I love being seventy: the freedom to do what (and when) I want to do; and the option to simply be, to sit in the chair in the corner window and read and nap all afternoon if I want to. Lately a squirrel, eternally hopeful to be able to jump from the deck rail to the bird feeder hanging from the overhang, has taken to sitting on the window ledge and—from a foot away, through the glass—looking me in the eye, begging for access. I look back into its big brown eyes, and say, “sorry, no.” (I wonder if I should put out a squirrel and chipmunk feeder.) To live and be in these moments is a gift. It’s not only having time to do so, but having the will not to tell yourself you should be doing . . . something, there’s a long list. It takes practice.

I’m grateful for the freedom, and the energy and good health (I know I’m lucky in that) to hike in the mountains and drive to the beach; and I did both a couple weeks ago—ahead of what turned out to be two days of jury duty, my first. And, I’m slower, my body aches sometimes. I wonder if every pain is a forever one. I’ve been treating myself to a monthly therapeutic massage; surely at 72, I have earned that treat, and my body thanks me for it. Sometimes I notice my brain is slower to kick in, and I forget little things more often. My hearing aids need an adjustment. I wonder when the cataracts will show up—not if, when. Is joint replacement in my future? But I’m not borrowing those troubles right now.

Another friend, closing in on seventy, is approaching the milestone with dread. One thing she noted in a recent blog post is that the grandchildren who have been such a blessing, and for whom she moved to a new state, are older now, and have less interest in the “old people.” I get that! Mine are so busy, they never visit. (Fortunately, I can still drive the two hours to visit half of them.) They no longer want to come to Camp Gigi. The younger one has apparently outgrown the “pretend stories” he used to ask me to do with him as soon as I walked in their door. I assured my friend, and myself, it’s not about our age, it’s about theirs. But we thought we had it all figured out, this grandchild immersion, and now we have to pivot again, find new interests, new joys, new ways to spend our time.

Remember that movie, Sliding Doors, how one’s life might be different if an alternate decision had been made at some point in the past? Or maybe it wasn’t even a decision you had control of. Had a particular event in my past happened differently—had I missed, or not missed, the metaphoric subway—my entire present would be radically other. I love my life and wouldn’t want it any other way. And, sometimes, I keenly feel the loss of what might have been.

[*Spoiler alert* If you haven’t seen, or don’t remember, Sliding Doors, in the end Gwyneth Paltrow dies in the alternate universe story, the one that seems like the better life. Things eventually turn out really well in the real scenario; plus, she lives. So, you just never know.]

Maybe we’re always between a rock and a hard place. If we are lucky, we learn to fully occupy the space we are given; maybe stretching it out to its fullest capacity, maybe being content just as it is.

You probably recall the rock climber whose arm got stuck between a rock and a hard place, who saved himself by leaving his arm behind. His name is Aron Ralston, and he offers this:

 

May your boulders be your blessings. May you be able to embrace them.
And may you find what’s extraordinary in yourself.

 

What might you need to leave behind in order to live your life more fully? Or add? Where do you feel stuck? Leave a comment below, and/or journal about it.

🌿  🌿  🌿

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The Shadow & Light of Life’s Third Act

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March 19, 2024, Spring Equinox

Ready or not, it’s the first day of official spring. Maybe, though, like me, you like the quiet coziness of winter and are not quite ready to release it to extroverted spring. While others loudly moan about the fickle weather, I quietly embrace a March snow shower. And, I want to get on the trails. It’s a shadow and light thing I grapple with every year.

Each Sunday, I draw a card from my friend Joanna Powell Colbert’s beautiful and intuitive Gaian Tarot. I knew nothing of the Tarot before I met Joanna more than a decade ago at a writing retreat and learned how it can be a useful tool for self-reflection. Which shook my uninformed understanding of tarot as fortunetelling delivered by a woman wearing flowing clothes, a headscarf, and bangles.

A couple weeks ago, I drew the “Builder,” a young man being creative and industrious, from my shuffled deck. “Hmph,” I sniffed, “doesn’t really speak to me.” Sometimes I draw another card if the first one doesn’t resonate, but this time I left it there on the table next to my father’s recliner for the week. Maybe something would come to me.

Later that week, I hosted a first gathering of “women of a certain age.” (Okay, so I was building something.) Eight of us met in a coffee shop to talk about this time of life we, rather surprisingly, find ourselves in: The Third Act. What are we thinking about? What do we hope this season holds for us? What are the joys, the freedoms? What are the fears, the restrictions? We talked about finding purpose, what that looks like, whether simple or complex. We expressed embracing silence, sitting and napping. Are those two ways of being in conflict with one another?

I’ve been reading The Inner Work of Age: Shifting from Role to Soul, by Connie Zweig, PhD. The day after the coffee klatch, I read about “positive aging,” or “successful aging.” The urging by the experts to be productive, to make a contribution. Be the light. In that way, we will age well, the gurus tell us.

But, Zweig writes, there is the shadow side to that. Ideals quickly become “shoulds.” We set ourselves up for failure as we value doing over being. If—or when—we lose the capacity to “do,” we feel shame. Maybe, for any number of reasons beyond our control, we can’t be “productive.” Or maybe we simply choose to slow down. Have we failed to age well? Bought into yet another societal expectation? Beware!, everything screams at us, if you aren’t productive, you are officially “old” and can commence being overlooked by the youngers. My mother (at 100) often said of her day, “I didn’t accomplish anything,” “I was lazy,” “I was worthless.” I was without worth. Really? Should we ever say that about our beautiful selves?

Mary Oliver writes:

“. . . Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing
still and learning to be
astonished.”

I’m with Mary. 

Back to the tarot. The following Sunday, I drew the Elder of Air. Suddenly the Builder made sense. (It’s really quite eerie how often this happens when I consult these cards.) This is a time of shadow and light, between both the seasons of the year and life stages. Sometimes we are gifted with ambition and creativity (the kestrel on the Builder card); and sometimes we are content to create purpose in quiet ways, creating sacred space and accessing wisdom (the luna moth on the Elder of Air card), which is also a gift.

Here’s a question to ponder, perhaps journal. Is there a difference between being productive and finding purpose?

As my yoga teacher says, some days we can access parts of our bodies that other days we cannot. It’s true of all ages, I think, physically, mentally, and emotionally; but in the last third we more often have the luxury of going with the flow day by day.

A true elder, Zweig says, holds the tension of shadow and light. She is both nourished and nourishing. She also says it’s important to practice stillness, even as we are being “productive.” Mary expresses it as standing still and learning to be astonished. In other words, we can’t wait until stillness is, of necessity, the bigger part of our life; embrace it now so it becomes a familiar friend.

When the opportunity calls to build something, I will rise to the occasion–if it brings me joy (the gift of the third act). Other times, I’ll be sitting in my father’s recliner watching the day break in the morning, napping in the afternoon, and watching the birds at the feeders. I’ll be worshiping creation on the trail, examining flowers, and embracing my own slowing pace. 

How are you practicing stillness, whether or not you have an unlimited luxury of time and space? Leave a comment!