Category Archives: aging

Apr22

tick tock

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This might be one of the most difficult posts I have written in the 13 – 14 years I’ve had this blog. I’ve lost my mojo. I am taking a class to get it back. Seriously, a class. Maybe group therapy would be more accurate…for aging women like myself who can’t seem to find their way. It’s called Wayfinding. I’ve missed the first of the six weekly sessions already. This past week it’s pneumonia trying to take me out; but isn’t it always something?! So, I’ll have to keep you posted. I have catch-up homework, and I don’t mean that metaphorically.

Suffice it to say my motivation took flight with my self worth somewhere back near the beginning of winter. Okay, maybe right after the election last November. And life hasn’t felt the same since. You never imagine you are going to live through the things you studied in high school history, like pandemics. And brutal fascist regimes. Life was so….so….mmmmm…not easy by any means…maybe the term I’m searching for is naively optimistic.

But here I am, in my seventh decade, feeling somewhat ignorant and defeated. Before you ask – thanks for your concern – yes, I’ve consulted my doctor. Switched antidepressants. Tried generic Adderall. Yuk. Therapy. Then no talking. Eating more meat. Eating no meat. Giving up sugar along with my will to live. “Mojo…where are you?” It’s gone like Car 54.

If you’ve read this far, I’mma sume you are experiencing some of this yourself. Congratulations. We made the shift to hyper-space. It feels like we left our soul back in the previous galaxy when we came through that wormhole. Like not all our particles beamed up in the transporter. I want to posit something for your consideration here: maybe – just maybe – we actually left behind every molecule of ourselves we NO LONGER NEED.

Now, nobody dislikes a Pollyanna more than me. I’m a supreme skeptic. But what if – and I know I’ve said this before, but really – what if we are right where we need to be doing exactly what we need to be doing? Because I didn’t come this far just to come this far.

Let me say that I am unequivocally uninterested in re-inventing myself. Been there, done that, got a closet full of those tee shirts. But this is different. You feel it, too. THIS. IS. DIFFERENT. All that psychobabble about 3D to 5D reality aside, you hippies…WTF does this mean?!

It means we drop the pretense. Pretense being anything and everything we pretended was real. Or significant. Drop who you think you are. Let yourself fall apart at the seems.

Let’s try an experiment: question everything you thought you knew. Everything you thought you knew about yourself, about who you are. Who you were, where you came from, why you’re here. Why that family? Why this country? Why that interest? Don’t assume anything. Dig deep. Where did that belief come from? Why do you think that? Draw the line at this boundary: Do I trust that I know right from wrong? Start there and come back to this exact moment in time. Question everything up to now.

And now answer this: what do you want? What do you want?

Mar16

…don’t jinx it.

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Hahahahaaaa…it’s so true. Here in NW lower Michigan we only have 2 seasons: winter and July. But I know it is spring because of the light. Ah, the light. I do not mind snow; it’s beautiful. The cold is refreshing. But the dark wears me down. The relentless weeks on end of short dark days with tiny, fleeting moments of sun feels oppressive. Well, it is oppressive. And I deteriorate. I do my best to nurture my energy, but it dissipates quickly. And so by March I am weaker and meeker. And then the light returns…the days brighten and lengthen, as does my stamina – both physical and mental.

So flying west and driving east came at exactly the right time. As was spending time with a dear friend on that trip. It was very healing. My cat sure was mad at me, but he is considering forgiveness. He was well cared for and loved. Because I am old enough to know that anything can happen, I updated clear arrangements for he and my son in the event of my untimely death. That feels very freeing, and I recommend you do the same to the best of your ability. If at all possible, don’t leave that kind of crisis for your loved ones to deal with if you can help it.

Of course, I had no intention of dying. I’m not done here. In many ways, I feel like I’m just getting started at 71. I’m fortunate not to have any major health issues, and I wouldn’t trade my expensive education in the school of life. I wouldn’t go back for anything. Only forward. I was this many years old before I truly began to appreciate what a magnificent privilege this life has been, and is becoming. I am becoming.

Mar15

obstacles in mirror may be closer than they appear

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This little reprieve away I went south – literally. I flew from Michigan to Arizona to help a friend make the trek back. As we are in our 70’s now, and our priorities have changed, she was moving from Tucson back to Traverse City to live close to children, grandchildren, and friends. To lend support and be supported; that’s what it’s about now that we are aging.

We finished up the last little bit of packing, and once the movers had the house cleaned out, she and I left to drive back to Michigan in her car. We left Arizona in a blizzard, which seems perfectly appropriate. Why wouldn’t we drive through the steep mountain passes of Salt River Canyon in a blizzard? Because as we know, WWASOS (white women ain’t scared of shit.)

She was driving. We had a hotel reservation and a deadline. We got through the mountain blizzard and both said, “well, that wasn’t bad.” The next morning I overheard two older truck drivers in the hotel lobby talking about that drive being the scariest thing they’ve ever done. We were in Gallup, New Mexico, headed to Santa Fe, and were informed by the hotel that our highway east was closed temporarily due to a semi pileup. The roads were icy and it was snowing. So we lingered over breakfast before taking off, and that drive was a breeze.

We were reminded what a spectacular country this is. Wow, it is beautiful. Very inspiring. My dear friend treated us to lovely hotels and meals. We drew tarot cards and we cried a little and laughed a lot – and solved all the world’s problems you’ll be glad to know. Only a little witchcraft was involved…some reiki, some prayers (aka spells), and a good deal of coffee…

And I am home, my favorite place to be in the entire world. I am once again reminded of how addicted I am to my routine, my creature comforts close at hand (not at the bottom of a bag) and how I do so love the trees and the birds and the lush rolling hills of Michigan. The topography is soft and undulating here, like me. This is my land.

Jan6

a gathering of lost parts

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For decades I’ve been told that I am hard on myself. I’m not convinced. I am unequivocally uninterested in lowering my standards. For anyone. Including myself. If anything, I think that I let myself off the hook too easily.

But perhaps they are referring to my self talk. It isn’t nice. I once had a telephone conversation with my sister about my other sister. She said, “I’d much rather talk to you. At least you don’t start your sentences with ‘you know what your problem is?” I replied, “No. But I do often end them with, ‘what were you thinking, you stupid idiot??!!!!!” We laughed.

How do you talk to yourself? Do you know? Do you catch yourself saying things you wouldn’t say to anyone else? I often start my self talk with, “well, if you’re so smart…” followed by whatever the current mess happens to be.

I will say this changed a great deal when I was so sick a few years ago. I was hospitalized with Lyme disease, and I was in the worst pain I had ever experienced. Intravenous Dilaudid (morphine) was not helping and I could do nothing but lay as still as possible, tears flowing down my cheeks, barely breathing. I remember thinking that I had never been in that much pain. Now mind you, I gave birth to a 9.6 pound baby completely naturally. I’ve had laparoscopic surgery with no anesthesia, and extensive dental work without novocaine. None of those things touched the pain from the Lyme infection.

The nurses who were caring for me that week were so enormously kind. It was dramatic and astonishing to me how different it felt. I felt like a little child being nurtured by a kind and loving caretaker – and I had to admit to myself that I had no conscious memory of ever feeling that way before. I left the hospital days later just wanting to learn how to live more softly. Wanting a softer life. Not an easier life, but softer in all the ways possible. I wanted to eat softer – more fresh fruits and green veggies. And lay in softer, warmer, sheets and blankets. I wanted to move slowly through the world; quietly. I wanted to speak in whispers. Kindnesses…just kindnesses…

I was changed. Sickness does that. Grief does that. I lost a lot of weight that summer; I shed a lot of grief. I have to admit today that I have fallen back into a lifelong habit of being rather unforgiving with myself, let alone others. And I am not happy about that. But today I am reminded that I want to live softly. I need to learn to live softly. I want to find my magic again. Magic is soft. Magic is kind. Magic is a sweet child skipping through the world in awe of life.

I love my life. What do you need to love your life today? Do you have any idea how magical you are?! You are. And I appreciate you.

Dec20

the biggest bugaboo of all

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Early this morning I woke from a nightmare. A silly common nightmare, you know the kind…back in high school, can’t find my class, hearing snickering behind me as I realize that my shoes don’t match. And I also woke realizing that I am terribly dehydrated. So up, feed the cat, put the coffee on, and down a big glass of water.

Routine is my new best friend. I say new because, well…recently at the doctor we had the conversation about getting a formal diagnosis for ADHD, and trying some medication. I can’t stay focused; I am literally losing track of time. Like a living nightmare, I must admit to myself that this is a typical pattern for me around the holidays. And I am far too old for this.

I’m too old to be just waking up and seeing how debilitating this has been my entire life. Better late than never. I guess. It suddenly occurs to me that this is why wisdom doesn’t seem to stick; I repeatedly have to learn these patterns over again. It feels like psychological amnesia. Hence the school nightmare.

But what I do have is a toolbox, a repertoire of resources, developed over the decades. At 70, I finally have a doctor I trust and love. That only took way too long. I have a therapist who knows me now, 3 years into treatment. A support system of friends. I know who has my back. Those things take a lifetime to develop when you are dysfunctional. And they are precious.

That’s the only gift I have for you this Christmas – learn psychological self care. Learn to recognize when you are being gaslit, yes. More importantly, learn to catch yourself when you are gaslighting yourself. When you are undermining your self esteem, or making compromises that threaten your integrity.

Will I continue to have nightmares of being back in school all my life? I suspect I will. I am certainly committed to being a student all my life. I would never want to stop learning and growing. I would never want to stop being curious. Just a little more curious than scared. That’s all it takes to keep moving forward. As my Mom Doris would say, “move along smartly now.”

You’re in the constant company of God. Act accordingly.

Oct15

I’d rather be a crooked tree…

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My friends and I are all getting old. Our children are middle-aged; our grandchildren and nieces and nephews are no longer young adults. And, sadly, I have to report that I do not personally know anyone who isn’t struggling. We are all finding it increasingly harder to make ends meet; we are having to make difficult decisions every month, or week…or day. For me, still living relatively comfortably, albeit paycheck to paycheck now, it means I drive an older used car. I’ve long since given up vacations. I eat out far less often. I cannot afford to adopt another dog after losing my darling companions, and if Medicare doesn’t cover the prescription I look for a natural alternative. Uncomfortable, yes; life-threatening, not thus far.

When we are honest with ourselves the future is rather scary. When we are honest with ourselves, we must confess that the middle class is gone and our leaders haven’t had our back in decades. Our food and water supplies are largely toxic to us now. You heard it here first – I’ve been saying this since I was a young woman. I began acknowledging that we are living in a military state here in the U.S. when Reagan was in office. No one was listening. That awareness came to me in a dream. Wurnt nobody listenin’ to that woowoo…

Among my closest friends, including those who don’t know one another, there is a profound concern for the welfare of our children and grandchildren. But I am having to talk most people I know (and sometimes, myself) down off a certain ledge – the concern that our children are not self-sufficient. And no one seems to be aware of the scope of this phenomenon. Yes, the most recent census told us that over 50% of baby boomers are helping to support their offspring. More than half of American households now house at least two generations.

I suspect those numbers are conservative, for we don’t understand much of what the increasing poverty is telling us. Poverty causes depression – and depression means that the people behind the doors of those little houses do not care about your survey. Even I have a No Soliciting sign on my front door. I am 70 years old. I do not need you to help me decide how to vote; I have been politically active since 1972. Go away. I especially do not need you to help save my soul. Go away. But I digress…

WHY are the younger generations not trying to improve their lot? What is wrong with them? Well, I will argue that there is, in fact, something RIGHT with them. Weren’t we idealistic back in the 1960’s?! We thought we would change the world. We thought we would end the Vietnam war and save the planet and the polar bears. We would change the government leadership. We would wake everyone up…and here we are, old and sick and tired. We had no clue what we were up against.

Now, before you think me too cynical, let me tell you why this is exactly as it should be. This is not, I repeat NOT, the end of the world. It is the end of the world as we know it. And baby, that sucker needs to burn. The systems and infrastructures and cultural expectations of the past must be transfigured. It won’t be pretty. It won’t be easy. It has to happen.

And the revolutionaries and shamans and visionaries that will bring a new way of life into being are your children, and my child, and our grandchildren. They already woke up – while you and I were scrambling to make ends meet, arguing over who is woke, and subconsciously functioning in “what the everloving fuck is happening?” mode. They are biding their time and not wasting precious resources (including themselves) trying to fit into in our dead culture.

Molly Tuttle was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease at the age of three. It causes her hair to fall out. While I am whining about my achey joints and not feeling creative, she’s years past worrying about what might get in her way. She isn’t letting anything hold her back.

“And who am I to wish I wasn’t just the way I am?!” she sings. And who are you? Insert here my stubborn argument for A) healing our codependent addictions before they kill us all, and B) while we are at it – HELP SUPPORT OUR CHILDREN to the best of our ability. Any way we can. If you haven’t got any children, help support someone else’s. Any way you can. Because who do you think you are that you know how to fix this mess? And don’t you DARE give up on anyone, let alone everyone. Don’t you dare lose heart. Don’t come to my door selling your beliefs and your outdated culture. You won’t like me when I answer.

Meanwhile, back here at the ranch, it’s gonna be a big week. So buckle up, buttercup. A hard rain’s a-gonna fall. And trust me – you need to trust your children. They are a crooked tree.

Oct13

how to be alive

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Remember Sark’s famous poster of 1990, HOW TO BE AN ARTIST?! When I first had one I crossed out the word Artist at the top and mimicked the colorful font, writing Alive above it. I thought it was great.

Life was so much simpler then. The poster gave us directives that were actually…do-able! Now I’m an old woman, and most of the directives on that poster seem very childish to me. Never mind impossible. I wouldn’t go back in time; nor would I trade places with anyone. I have so much to be grateful for. But I would be remiss were I not honest with you – the losses have taken their toll.

And honesty, or it’s new buzzword, authenticity, is the only way to live. But like all of life, it takes on a deeper meaning as we age and hopefully, mature. We learn too late in life to take people as they are. Most people will never live authentically. They don’t know themselves well, and although they might believe themselves to be honest people, their honesty is superficial. It means they aren’t living a life of crime; it doesn’t mean they are going to be emotionally vulnerable. Or see any value in that.

Here’s the thing about vulnerability that is hard for me to grasp: it requires everything of me, and nothing of anyone else. This morning as I write millions of people are struggling to survive in horrific conditions, still and again. As it happens, here in the United States, much of the country has been devastated by back to back hurricanes. One of my dearest friends is fighting for her life in Florida. She is terribly ill with RSV, and days without power, food, fresh water. Her daughter has tried to drive the hour to her only to be turned back by police. The roads are not passable. And this is not where the worst conditions exist.

Life is daunting. I guess that I naively had some romantic notion that it would get easier as I got older. That’s because I was shielded from the harshest realities of life – from the honesty of it’s brutality. I believe that was probably true for many of my generation. In our elders’ defense, I think they believed that medical science would save them from suffering. If only that were true.

Let me tell you, I am far more fortunate than most, and I know it. It is almost impossible for my body and mind to contain my gratitude some days. I cry my way through many days. I’m scared much of the time. In many ways, life is harder – but it is also simpler. When it gets real, and it will, it gets distilled right down to the bones. That’s where I want to live now. Stripped of defensiveness. Authentically vulnerable. No more pretending that everything is going to be alright here. It’s not. Let’s just accept that and go from there, and see where life takes us.

The poster did get some things right, gave us some useful advise, especially DO IT FOR LOVE.

Sep30

Beam Me Up

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One of the rabbit holes I’m down lately is longevity. Of course, I follow Peter Diamandis, and have for over a decade after reading his book, Abundance: The Future is Better Than You Think. His TED talk of 2012 is life changing. As he often says, just try to not die from something stupid. Apparently advances in medical science are about to give us the ability to live much longer. With improved quality of life…because, well, who would be interested in anything else.

On the surface at least, it would seem this improved quality of life and lifespan are intricately intertwined. And relatively simple to replicate for even us struggling masses. Diet and exercise are key. And good mental health. One of the basic things the doctors agree on – get outdoors every day as early in the day as possible. Hmmmmm….

First of all. Where do you live, Doc?! Here in rural Michigan, well…I’m up 3-4 hours before daylight. Not walking outside then. I have bears, wolves, coyotes, bobcat…inside my fenced back yard. They go wherever they want. Here at the mid-mod ranch, I’ve had to fight off a pair of bald eagles with a snow shovel. They were using my low-pitched roof to hunt from. And at five foot six and 175 pounds I looked like lunch. They were actually swooping low over my two small dogs, but they were staring me right in the eye. I felt endangered.

Never mind the microscopic deer tick that almost did do me in. Didn’t see that coming at all. Does that count as something stupid? I suspect it would, as being bit by a tick is somewhat preventable if you are careful and know what to look for. Aware, as I certainly am now. My son was aware but still got bit and contracted Lyme. Fortunately he caught it right after infected. He had the bullseye rash show up and was able to get immediate treatment. They take this seriously where I live.

Okay. Enough with the doomsday report. Do check in with Peter Diamandis every so often. He will keep us focused on a hopeful future. He is undaunted by my negativity. He talks about a science called Longevity Escape Velocity. It is the study of how to extend our lifespan faster than we are aging. He says we only have to live a little longer in order to live a lot longer, and therefore “don’t die from anything stupid,” meaning anything preventable. I’ll be staying indoors this morning…

Sep21

the journey to 100

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The PBS series is called Brief But Spectacular, to which I must respond, “yes.” Just yes. I became 70 years old this year. I was already intimately familiar with ageism; it’s been tedious for the past 20 years. Recovery from c-PTSD has taught me nothing if not how harmful it has been to skirt the issue of my invisibility. Like Grace, I refuse to be irrelevant:

But I’ve also dealt with gender inequality all of my life. And being raised to stand against racial prejudice in Detroit, I’ve certainly had first hand experience with racial discrimination. I remember being denied a table in a nice restaurant with Black high school friends – as one example among dozens. I remember how that felt. Firstly, the dissonance of questioning what was happening. How I was horrified by it and my friends didn’t blink an eye.

I was 16 in 1970 when the movie Five Easy Pieces came out. My best friend’s family was moving to South Carolina that summer and they took me with them. We were staying in a hotel until the moving van arrived a day behind us, and to entertain ourselves we walked – as a family with her parents – across the street to see the new movie. When lawyer Dupea (Jack Nicholson) says not to worry, “they haven’t hung anyone around here lately – at least not anyone white…” the mostly Black audience let out a collective moan. Afterwards we went next door into a drug store to use the pay phone so that I could call home and check in with my parents. An elegantly dressed Black woman was on that phone and so I waited around. When she hung up and I walked up to grab the receiver the cashier let out a yell. She came out from behind the counter with disinfectant spray and a cloth and wiped down the entire phone before allowing me to touch it. What foreign country was this?! You think that cashier did that for everyone regardless of race? Don’t be naive.

In 1972 I became 18, legal voting age. As the descendent of a founding father and presidents who owned slaves, I was being courted by Daughters of the American Revolution and The John Birch Society. I didn’t contact them, they contacted me. (It would be decades before technology would show that I have African DNA.) But I had never heard of these organizations, and so sought to educate myself. Back then you did that by physically going to the library and The Detroit News archives. You had to be able to read, you had to own a car, know how to follow a map, and most importantly, be able think for yourself. I would take all of that for granted.

Many evenings I engaged in conversation with my parents about what this new responsibility meant and how to decide who to vote for. Bless their drug and alcohol raddled hearts, they both told me the same thing: always vote for the person you believe to be best qualified for the job. And so I did the logical thing – I volunteered to work for the campaign of Shirley Chisholm, certainly one of the most qualified people for the position of President the country has ever seen.

And then. Then she made that statement. I didn’t think much about it at the time, which proves how much I underestimated her brilliance. She said, “Of my two handicaps, being female put many more obstacles in my path than being Black.” Jesus. Let that sink in.

Fast forward a little over five decades, and I am still female and now I am also aged. Don’t be fooled, ageism is as real as any form of bigotry. It is just as invisible as my African blood. And my blood is boiling.

Sep14

are we there yet?

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OR, how to get there from here…I am nothing if not stubborn. But stubborn won’t get me where I want to go. Stubborn is a characteristic of defensiveness. Transformed into determination, however, it becomes a super power. My super power.

True confession: I’ve been in a funk. In case that wasn’t painfully obvious by the last few posts. And I have HAD IT with that routine. Remember, we aren’t havocing it anymore.

“Life can so suck, to use the theological term. It can be healthy to hate what life has given you, and to insist on being a big mess for awhile.” – Anne Lamott

When I am not honest with myself that I am grieving I become a royal pain in the butt. I won’t allow myself the grief, or make time for it. As if I have something better to do. It feels self indulgent, cloying. I judge it, especially if it’s been around for awhile. I judge myself. It gets ugly. For instance, I mention my mother here often. She’s been dead over 20 years. I miss her every day. I simply will never get over losing her. She was my greatest champion. Many days it feels like she was my only champion. Everybody deserves one.

If Doris exemplified anything her entire life, it was determination. She had limitless energy. She was like the energizer bunny. Actually, hyper. I didn’t get that gene. In many respects I’m much more like my father, who was quite the opposite. To the untrained eye most would consider him lazy. He kinda wasn’t willing to do anything he didn’t feel like doing. Least effort possible was his approach to life. In the wisdom of my old age I now understand that he, too, was a victim of trauma. He was always defensive.

I strive to be more like my mother as I am growing up. And therein lies the key that opens me back up – I’m growing up. I’m growing. I’m becoming. I’m a work in progress; a verb. That gets more difficult for me to keep in perspective as I am now in my 70’s. And I believe that I have unconsciously adopted some less-than-useful cultural limitations, such as: I am old. And done. And fully formed. Nope. Not done yet. Still growing. And always will be, right up until my last breath.

My father played the piano as if he were born at it. Mom struggled to teach herself the guitar. He sang loudly and lived defiantly. He had hubris. She was shy and soft-spoken. She had humility. He loved honky-tonk; she loved folk. She would close herself in the bedroom to practice and sing, and I would sneak up outside the door and sit on the floor to listen.