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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!

 

🍁 🍂 🍁


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.

🍁 🍂 🍁


 

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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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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Big Questions, Shifting Answers

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It’s been twelve years this month since I arrived back in Washington, to the home of my childhood, after thirty-six years as an expat in the Southeast. If you have read Mother Lode, you know the intention was to help my mother move to assisted living that first year, where I would not abandon her, but also I would not be living in my childhood home permanently. But I didn’t have a plan. Inertia is not your friend when you want something to happen.

It used to feel like there was time to make big ideas come to fruition, but this third act thing is kinda kicking my butt. I’ve had a foot issue lately I thought might curtail my hiking, and I’ve been wearing knee straps again on the trail (and off). It’s not just the physical stuff though, right? Are you with me? It’s the urgency—real or perceived—that time is of the essence to try a new creative thing or take that big trip or learn to play pickleball.

What I’m struggling with is where I want to spend however many vibrant years I have ahead. Do I want to stay in the beautiful home on the hill my parents built and that has unexpectedly been my home for the past twelve years? There are certainly very sound reasons to stay. Or do I want another adventure in living. I’ve never, in my 72 years, lived in one house this long, and I’m restless. There are other things I want before I’m old-old.

I spent some time recently with my friend Joanna who is a practitioner of tarot wisdom. I asked her to do a reading with me (my first with a professional). The questions we asked are “should I stay?” and “should I go?” Three cards for each question, with a remarkably clear message. Put simply, the first two cards for the first question were each a contemplative elder (both men) looking peacefully into the distance, the third card was the wheel of life. Nothing bad, all would be well if I stayed  . . . and it felt like contentedly waiting for the last breath.

The second set were a young woman hiker looking toward adventure (yes, “the fool” in a traditional deck), a young woman looking into a well as if asking “what’s next?,” and the third an elder man (“the teacher”) peaceful and smiling. It  made my heart leap up. The interpretation: all would be well either way, but if I want something other than just living out my days, I should pursue the dream of moving toward a future that doesn’t feel easy or quite safe, and to see what else I have to offer the world.

“To not look for what is next would be like going into a library and not checking out a book. Life is a library, with endless stories waiting for us to slip inside,” (Claire Henley Miller, Mile 445: Hitched in Her Hiking Boots).

I’ve done hard and courageous things all my adult life. I’m proud of most of them. Not everything went as planned or as expected, but sometimes letting go of what you thought would be allows destiny to unfurl.

I’ve crossed streams on the trail before, I know how to do it scared. I’ve stood at the edge and scouted a route. I’ve tentatively poked a trekking pole into rushing water and felt the kick as the current flings it out. I’ve taken a deep breath and punched both poles hard into the rocky creek bottom, anchoring them into solid ground, and stretched—or even leapt—to the next rock or gravel bar. I’ve let my breath out while eyeing the next landing spot, taking as long as I needed. I’ve done it again and again until I reached the other side safely. I’ve also seen when the risk is too great and honorably turned back.

I don’t know how this will turn out; but step-by-step, my plan is to
make my way to the other shore. Maybe I will turn back, and that is not a
failure if it’s for sound or inescapable reasons. But I don’t want to
“chicken out” without giving the idea breath.

Here’s to dreaming and courage and to what we can figure out. One step at a time. As always, I would love to hear from you. What questions are you grappling with? Are you settled in for the duration or pondering a new experience? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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(Photo credit: Bonnie Rae Nygren, InSearchOfTheVery.com)

Over the Hill

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A few weeks ago, visiting my two young grandsons and their moms, I emerged from my bedroom for an outing wearing makeup, including tinted lip moisturizer. I rarely wear makeup, and it didn’t go unnoticed. “Why are you wearing lipstick, Gigi?” the nine-year-old asked. “Um, I guess so you won’t think I’m old,” I floundered. “You are old,” he replied.

I knew my grandsons—and anyone under the age of thirty (at least)—see me as old, with or without make-up. They accept that and would not have said so had I not appeared looking different. My mother always wore bright red lipstick (there are still several tubes in the bathroom cabinet), that was how I knew her and she looked odd without it. And when I caught a rare glimpse of her without her glasses in my young years, she didn’t look like herself. In the end, she wore neither lipstick nor glasses, giving in to her face being old and her vision unimprovable with corrective lens. Is that giving up or acceptance of what is? Is there a difference?

So why do I sometimes wear makeup? All I can come up with is that when  I look in the mirror, I don’t want to look old to my own eyes. I don’t feel old. I feel like forty or fifty, decades both difficult and empowering when I was learning to live my own life and truths. Now I want to look my inner age, at least to myself. Looking “old” scares me a bit, truth be told, especially after watching my mother’s transformation. It’s about fear, not vanity. It’s my own inner ageism.

I’m in the last third of life, there is no denying that and I am determined to live it mindfully. I’ve started reading The Inner Work of Age: Shifting from Role to Soul, by Connie Zweig, PhD, which addresses the issue of how we see ourselves as we age. 

I’m also reading Elderhood: Redefining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining Life, by Louise Aronson, which is more about how society views elderhood. The author tells of a med school professor who asked his class to quickly, without filtering, write down the words that come to mind when they hear the word “old.” And then to do the same when they hear the word “elder.” Try it! She continues in later chapters to talk about how medical professionals discount and disrespect elders. I think I’ve found a new passion.

Words like “over the hill” reinforce our inner stereotypes about aging. I recall telling my family, planning my fortieth birthday celebration, “no black, no ‘over the hill’ references.” Even then I knew my mind about that. Forty sounds so young at 70! Thirty years ago, I never gave a thought to being 70. But thirty years from now, if I’m still here, I will be the age my mother was when she died. And I think about it a lot.

But for now, I tell people I’m “restoryed,” not retired, which sounds too much like “done.” I’m not done by a long shot. I’m preparing for an epic road trip in October through California, planning to hike in eight of the state’s nine national parks. “Are you going by yourself?” I’ve been asked with incredulity. “Yes, yes I am.”