Becoming a Classic—for Ourselves and Others

Wishing you joy in your journey

Becoming a Classic means aging into ever-expanding meaning and value to ourselves and others. We can be like great works of literature that expand over the decades in their ability to give pleasure, inspire, and teach.

I now want to focus this blog more directly on inspiring readers and myself to grow in joy and wisdom as we age.  I’ll begin by listing my own current goals in four categories:

Being Useful to Others
Expressing My Soul
Engaging My Mind
Living Healthfully

I encourage you to glance at my list and then to identify and write down your own goals for Becoming a Classic.

I’ll regularly share my progress for one or more of my goals and hope that you will do the same.

Being Useful to Others

  • Seize opportunities to encourage others.
  • Refocus my blog so that it is useful and encouraging to readers.  Post at least once a week.  Build an online community, with online conversations about the topics covered.
  • Help friends and acquaintances with their computer projects, including self-publishing.
  • Continue leading a writers’ group and strive to make it motivating and encouraging to participants.
  • Teach a lifelong-learning course.  (Course for the spring semester: Where Do I Go from Here—Next Steps for Legacy Writers)
  • Through deeds as well as dollars, find more, and more meaningful, ways to contribute to my church and other causes that matter to me.

Expressing My Soul

  • Continue to see friends as among God’s greatest gifts.  Help close friends any way possible as needs and opportunities develop.
  • At least once a week, write an essay or poem about experiences past or present that matter to me.
  • Improve my dulcimer playing.
  • Improve my ukulele playing.
  • Play the piano at least once a week.
  • Play the flute at least once a week.
  • Work on a beading project at least once a week.
  • In my journal each evening, write anywhere from a sentence to a short paragraph each on five experiences, scenes, ideas, emotions, and/or impressions from the day.
  • Continue with the steps needed to disseminate my parents’, my close friend’s, and my books.

Engaging My Mind

  • Improve my French through reading and lifelong-learning classes.
  • Improve my Italian through reading and lifelong-learning classes.
  • Keep three books going: one for fun, one for spiritual growth, and one for renewing and building my love of literature (English, French, or Italian).
  • Practice and learn my part for any upcoming show or presentation.

Living Healthfully

  • Keep my apartment in a reasonable state of cleanliness and good order.
  • Find ways to display and enjoy my most meaningful keepsakes.  Downsize as appropriate.
  • Improve my financial security.
  • Develop and follow a healthful routine, including meditation and regular going-to-sleep and getting-up hours.
  • Keep up with dancing.
  • Continue to walk regularly.
  • Use technology as a tool and source of pleasure, communication and self-expression, productivity, and satisfaction—not as an escape.
  • When my to-do list and other challenges threaten to overwhelm me, allow myself to relax as needed but not to seek escape such as playing interminable electronic games or staying up half (or more) of the night.
  • Never shortchange time with friends.
  • Nurture connections with friends and family.
  • Seize opportunities to be out in Nature.
  • When a significant challenge erupts, mentally step back, breathe deeply to stay calm, and take one action at a time to deal with the challenge.  Deny myself the right to imagine possible negative outcomes.

And now: what are your goals?

Time

“I am illusory,
But yet you worship me;
I am real as a dream is real:
With meaning
But without substance.

“Why do you bow down to me
With fear and anxious hurrying?

“The Universe asks me to serve,
Not to rule,
To give moments, memories,
The years of your life.

“Walk with me
As I walk with you:
Gently,
Although unceasingly.

“If you slow your pace,
I will not drag or push you;
I will beckon, but patiently,
Cushioning the future with beauty
From the past you have known.”

Between Sisters

In this short story, two sisters confront memories and their strained relationship.

Wildcat - Watercolor
View of the White Mountains, New Hampshire, watercolor by Mason Hayek, from Growing to 80

Sarah Bright opened the door to her sister and gave her a welcoming hug.  Hugging Rebecca was like hugging a straight-backed chair.  Rebecca had never been affectionate, even as a girl, but Sarah tried to act as if the sisterly bond she so much desired actually existed.  “Your house smells like cats,” said Rebecca before she removed her coat.

“How’s life at Westside Manor these days?” said Sarah, trying to rescue her sister’s visit from early disaster.

Rebecca rejected Sarah’s offer to hang her coat in the closet.  She painstakingly draped the pale-blue coat over the back of the chair nearest the front door, as if to be ready to leave any time.

“I’ve joined a new duplicate-bridge group.  They were eager to have me, but I didn’t know whether I’d enjoy a group Marge Amstel organized.  She always has to be the center of attention.  I decided to go ahead since Helen Clark was joining too.”  Rebecca finished smoothing the pleats in her gray skirt and sat down with her handbag beside her on the chair.

“Relax, Rebecca,” Sarah wanted to say.  “You look as if you’ve come for a job interview.”  Rebecca did not take kidding well, so Sarah said instead, “I don’t believe I met Helen when I visited you last summer.”

“Yes you did.  She was at our table for at least two meals.  She’s the tall, well-dressed woman—a little younger than you are—who always wears beige.”

Sarah recalled a woman who had not spoken to her except to request something from across the table.  “How come your friends seem so unfriendly?” she asked, knowing she was venturing into a risky area.

“I prefer friends who know how to keep their distance.  Rebecca looked around at Sarah’s tidy but battered living room.  Sarah was still using some of the same furniture their parents had brought to the cottage when it had been the family summer home.  “I suppose we’ve each selected friends appropriate to our personalities.  That woman I met at your house last year—what was her name—Louisa something?”

“Louisa Sewell.”

“That was it.  She looked as faded and sagging as some of your furniture.”

“Louisa’s my closest friend.  You’d like her if you got to know her.”

“I can’t imagine wanting to get to know her.”

“We’re picking at each other already.  Come sit over here by me on the window seat.  I want you to see how pretty the mountain looks with snow on it.”

“I saw snow on the mountain last year,” said Rebecca, but she moved over next to Sarah.  Rebecca brought her purse with her to the window seat and placed it between her sister and herself.  She straightened her skirt again.  “I’ve got to look decent for dinner.  I’m sure I won’t get back in time to change.”

“You only come to see me once or twice a year, even though we live just fifteen miles apart, and then you can’t even stay through dinner time.”  Sarah gave up pretending to be pleased with her sister.  “Every time we finally make arrangements to see each other, I hope this time the visit will be different, but you never change.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  You don’t come to see me any more often than I come to see you.”

“That’s because you can never find time for me to visit.  In the past year I can think of at least five occasions when you called at the last moment and told me not to come.”

“Things come up,” said Rebecca.  She examined the nail on the ring finger of her left hand, took a file out of her handbag, and repaired a corner of the nail that had not been to her liking.  “You know how busy I am.  I have responsibilities.  Why don’t you give up this place and move out to Westside Manor yourself?  You complain about not seeing me.  Seems to me you couldn’t see much of anyone way out here.  One reason I don’t come more often is that terrible road.  I’m sure it’s damaged the suspension on my car already.”

“I have lots of friends, and Louisa lives less than half a mile away.  We walk over to each other’s house nearly every day.”

“You’re not a young woman anymore, Sarah.  If you’re not careful you’re going to turn into one of those eccentric old ladies who live in some forsaken hovel with a dozen cats—the kind who keep money in the mattress and never wash the dishes.”

“Perhaps I am an eccentric old lady, but I keep one cat, not twelve, and you know I’ve always been as neat and clean as anyone.  You’re the one who never straightened her room when we were growing up.  As for my home being a hovel, have you forgotten that our own father built this house?”

Evergreen branch
Branch from a New England evergreen, sketch by Mason Hayek, from Growing to 80

“For a summer place.  It was never intended for year-round living.  What if you were sick or fell?  Who would find you out here?”  Rebecca picked up the cat that had jumped on the window seat to greet her and threw him to the floor.  “After I visit you, it takes me a week to get the cat hairs out of my clothes.”

“Why do you dislike my home so much?  Every time you come to visit you try to talk me into coming to live in your retirement community.  I can’t believe it’s because you’d like to see more of me.  When we were little, you never could stand it when I made up my own mind about what I wanted.  I don’t think you’ve changed a bit.  I was your big sister, so I was supposed to be ready for all your commands.  If I wanted to ride my bicycle and you wanted to play princess, I had to play princess with you because you needed me to be the ugly stepsister, or the prince, or some other undesirable part.  If I didn’t do what you wanted, you ran to Mother, and together you shamed me into compliance.”

“I won’t have you criticizing our poor mother,” said Rebecca.  She had turned in her seat to face out the window at the snowy meadow, with the woods and mountain beyond.  She stared at the scene as if it drew her into it.  Sarah had seen that vacant, distracted look many times before, however.  Rebecca was not absorbing the natural beauty; she was doing her best to shut out a discussion she did not want to continue.

“I’m not criticizing Mother,” said Sarah.  “I’m talking about you and me.  You even told me where I had to go to college.  I was accepted up at Bates, but you fixed it so I had to stay home and commute.  That way I could continue to be at your service.”

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

“You got Mother and Father to talk to me about responsibility and how you needed me.  Sure you needed me—to do your homework for you, to do your chores, to drive you on your dates.  I think you still can’t stand not to have me standing by just in case I might be useful.”  By now Sarah, too, had turned toward the snow and the mountain.  She looked at the scene for the courage to keep trying to tell her sister what she had been attempting to tell her for more than fifty years.  At eighteen Sarah had finally begun to understand that Rebecca was controlling her life and that—as much as her parents believed it and forced her to believe it, too—Rebecca was not helpless.

For more than fifty years her relationship with her sister had shifted back and forth from anticipation of her visits, to tolerance of her insults, to determination never to see her again.  She did not know what had made her feel so resolved to try once more to explain, unless it had been going through the old picture albums yesterday with Louisa: all those pictures of people who were gone; all those people she had loved, tried to understand, and too often resented for the ways they had sometimes made her childhood difficult.  Her mother had been a woman who never seemed to want anything but what was best for her family.  She had not seen that by making Rebecca the eternally helpless darling, she had doomed her daughters to spending their adult lives as distant acquaintances.  Their brother, Jeremy, had left home as soon as he was eighteen because he thought he was a failure in his parents’ eyes.  Her father had loved his older daughter best and then, because he was ashamed to have a favorite, had expected more of her than she could give.  Her father had never forgiven his son for leaving them and had never stopped blaming himself.

She and Rebecca were the only ones left, but when she looked at the photographs, Sarah could barely connect Rebecca to the tiny girl in the white ruffled dress and pink hair ribbons.  They had all loved her so dearly.  And finally Sarah had seen photos of herself, almost as tall and big boned at fourteen as she was now at seventy.  After Louisa had left yesterday, Sarah had gone through the pictures again.  It was something much more than a little lingering resentment that made her ache.

“Do you think Mother was happy?”

Rebecca seemed startled by the question.  “I imagine so.  She loved our father.  She loved us.  I suppose Jeremy’s leaving so young and moving across the country hurt her.  She never talked about him much after he left.  I guess she was about as happy as most women of her day.”

“Yes, but what did she want out of life?  What did she want to achieve?  You wanted the prestige of a wealthy husband and socially prominent friends.  That wasn’t for me, but I always assumed you found pretty much the life you were looking for.  I wanted a career, and the chance to be as independent as I pleased.  I’m still living that kind of life.  I even feel I’ve been a little bit useful to some of my students and not such a bad friend to my neighbors.  But what was Mother looking to find?  We always just expected her to be our mother, even after we were grown.  The year before she died I was still calling her up for advice about handling my students.”

“What’s gotten into you, Sarah?  I think you’re making a whole lot out of nothing.  Women’s lives were different then.”

“Their lives were different, but were the women themselves so different?  Inside, what did they think and feel?  We never asked ourselves that about our own mother.”

“I’m getting uncomfortable sitting here,” said Rebecca, who had turned back away from the wide window.  She picked up her purse and moved to an overstuffed chair by the stairs.  She sat forward in her chair, as if she were waiting for a convenient moment to stand and say goodbye.

The big Burmese cat settled into Rebecca’s vacant spot on the window seat.  Sarah scratched him between his ears.  She forced herself to keep talking.  She had lost the chance to say all she wanted—all she wished she had said—to her parents and brother, but Rebecca was alive.  “For years I’ve been saving some things to show you.  Come with me.  Don’t worry about your purse or your coat.  Willy doesn’t claw things.”  Sarah walked over to Rebecca and extended her hand.

Rebecca stood but ignored Sarah’s hand.  “I really can’t stay long.  I promised to pick up a pair of gloves for Helen at the new shop that just opened next to the bookstore.”

Sarah led Rebecca up the stairs to the large bedroom over the living room.  “I bet you haven’t been upstairs more than a dozen times since the summers we spent here as girls.  This was our parents’ room.  Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.  I’m not senile, although I’m beginning to wonder about you.  You’re starting to live in the past.  The past is dead and gone.  Why bring up what can’t be changed or brought back?”

“Mother and Father kept this wedding picture here.  I’ve tried to keep everything on the bureau the same as it was.  I guess it’s because Mother’s fancy little bottles, and Father’s mirror and brush, and the wedding picture are part of the people Mother and Father were, part of the complete human beings, with likes and dislikes and disappointments and plans for the future that I never thought much about because they were just Mother and Father.  They fed me and kept me safe and made me be nice to you when I wanted you to disappear.  In my world they were just parents.

“Now when I touch this little violet perfume bottle, I see Mother picking it out and setting it here so the room will be pretty and homey.  I imagine Father brushing that wavy dark hair of his each morning so he’ll look handsome for Mother.”

“What else do you have to show me?  I don’t have much more time.”

“Remember that wicker chair by the window?  You probably hated it because Father made you paint it once.  That was the only real work I ever remember him asking of you, but I had the flu and for some reason he wanted it painted right away.  Do you recall how you and I used to pretend that chair was a throne?  We’d put our dolls in it so they could hold audiences with their subjects.  Of course your doll always got to be the young queen.  But we didn’t fight every time.  We made up some lovely stories using that chair.  Beyond the mountain was the Kingdom of Flavoria, and we had to protect our people from the evil Flavorian count.”  Rebecca looked at the chair, but Sarah could not guess what she was thinking.

Wicker chairs
Although “Between Sisters” is not autobiographical, I thought of a wicker chair because of these much-loved chairs, which were originally in my mother’s girlhood home.

“Come across the hall a moment,” said Sarah.

Rebecca stood at the door, and at first Sarah thought she would refuse to enter the tiny room that Sarah now used as a study because it had the morning sun.  “I told you I don’t like to think about the past,” said Rebecca.  “Why have you kept my room this way when you hate me?  I think you’ve planned this little tour so you could have lots of opportunities to remind me how awful I’ve been to you.  Do you think I need reminding?”  Sarah was not sure, but she thought Rebecca’s voice was a little unsteady.

Sarah sat down on the single bed in the far corner.  “I know you won’t believe it, but I kept your bed just as you had it because I like to think of you in this room the way you were when we first started coming here.  You were the daintiest, prettiest little girl I’d ever seen.  I was so proud of you.  I wanted all my friends to see my beautiful little sister.”

“I was five when father finished this cottage,” said Rebecca.  “Mother and Father let me pick out the bedspread and bring up my favorite doll to set on the pillow.  Why don’t you get rid of that spread?  It looks as if it will disintegrate with one more washing.  I don’t know why I liked that silly doll so much; she’s really quite hideous.”  Rebecca picked up the cloth doll and turned her over to examine the back.  “There’s the place where I ripped her dress trying to yank her away from you.  I wouldn’t stop crying until Mother made you mend the hole.  I could be a brat sometimes, couldn’t I?”  For the first time all afternoon, Rebecca smiled.

Rebecca continued to speak as she sat down on the bed next to Sarah.  “The first summer here doesn’t seem like over sixty years ago, does it?  I don’t remember when I stopped playing with this doll.  One day she wasn’t a toy anymore, just a decoration for my room, and then before long my room wasn’t my room any longer.  I married Jim, we made a life together, and then that life was over.  You think I’ve just bulldozed my way along, getting what I want and not caring about anyone but myself.  If I’m so selfish, why is it I feel so terrible right now, thinking about everything that’s gone by?”  Rebecca stood and walked over to the side window, where she looked down at the brown remains of the garden poking through the snow.  Sarah came up beside her, and Rebecca let Sarah put her arm around her waist.  Unlike earlier, Sarah felt she was holding a living woman and not a piece of furniture.

“Even by the time we started coming here, the losses had begun.  Jeremy had left the year before.  That’s one of the reasons why Father wanted to build this cottage, so Mother could get away from our house where he had grown up.  We only saw him once after that, so I always felt I’d lost my brother before I could ever know him.  At least you were old enough to remember him.”

Without conversation Sarah led Rebecca into the third bedroom and sat down on the battered hope chest at the foot of the twin bed that matched the one in Rebecca’s old room.  Rebecca sat beside her.

“Sometimes when I was sure you wouldn’t catch me, I used to come in here and just sit,” said Rebecca.  “I used to imagine that I was you, that I was tall and sophisticated and beautiful like you, and that I was smart in school and had lots of friends.  I was sure you’d marry someone handsome and rich and then you’d leave me.  I thought I’d be stuck at home and be the baby sister forever, always waiting for you to come back and pay attention to me so I’d be happy again.  I envied you because you always knew what you wanted to do without asking anyone.  Mother even helped me choose my clothes until I was married, and you told me which boys were nice and which ones to watch out for.  Except for painting that one chair, Father never made me do any real work.  I just helped with little chores like making beds and setting the table.  I remember when you and Father built those bookcases you still have in your living room. I thought I’d never be old enough or smart enough to do something like that.”

Sarah and Rebecca sat quietly.  Sarah could hear the old clock downstairs tick and then strike the quarter hour.  When they had been girls that clock had stood on the mantel in their home outside Manchester.  Sarah remembered early mornings when she would get up before the rest of the family in order to sit on the red velvet sofa and read while the clock made its comfortable, family sounds.  Sarah had liked being up alone but knowing her parents and sister were just up the stairs.

“I could never live here,” said Rebecca eventually.  “There are too many ghosts.”

“It’s because of the ghosts that I want to be here.  I can look at the mountain and think of climbing it with Father, and whenever I bake bread I imagine Mother’s perfect loaves in place of my lopsided ones.  Even Jeremy’s here a little.  That desk in your old room used to be his.  And just as much as I think of Mother and Father and Jeremy, I think of you.”

“I’m no ghost.”

“Until today, you were to me.  I sometimes walk through the house thinking of all the things I might be able to tell you to bring you back so you’d be my sister again—not just some woman who disapproves of me and whose life I can’t understand.  Mother and Father and Jeremy are gone, but we still have time together.”

Once again Rebecca was quiet.  She let Sarah take her hand.

The clock struck the half hour.  “I have to be going,” said Rebecca.  “I promised Helen I’d be back through town before that shop closes.”

Sarah followed her down the stairs.  Rebecca checked her coat for cat hairs, let Sarah help her into it, and picked up her purse.  She was almost to the door when she turned back to Sarah and gave her a tentative hug.  “I may have a free afternoon next week,” she said.  “Do you still have those picture albums Mother put together?  I might like to see them.”

 

Emily’s Summer Evening

Here is another of my short stories about an older woman who is determined to stay fully involved with life, in spite of the challenges.  I envision Montreal as the setting for the story.

Montreal 3
View from a Montreal restaurant, with McGill University in the distance

Emily felt a little stiff as she climbed the steps to the restaurant, but she made a point of keeping up with the young couple ahead of her.  Saturday evenings were lovely at the restaurant.  Musicians came to entertain the patrons.  It was only a cafeteria, but a nice one with wholesome food.  Emily liked cafeterias because she could eat just what she wanted and not feel self-conscious about staying long after she’d finished her meal.

Two young men played flute and guitar duets.  Some of the melodies were familiar, though she didn’t know the titles of most of them.  The traffic on the street below was muted; the melodies drifted above the soft clattering of dishes and whispered conversations.  The flute player looked like the sort of young man she’d have liked for a grandson.  The smile he gave the audience between pieces was not conceited, and his flute had a sweet tone.  If she had been young, she would have hoped he’d notice her.

Over the musicians was a garish painting of a woman with two heads.  The pictures in the restaurant changed every few months.  Emily studied them to see if any would speak to her, but most were hard to understand.  Sometimes she could admire the colors or a whimsical figure.  Both faces of the two-headed woman grimaced, although one was young and beautiful.  The artist must have been very angry, thought Emily.

Emily placed her book and umbrella conspicuously on the table so no one would take her seat while she went for a second cup of tea.  She always had three cups of tea with her dinner.  Her little rituals, like the sliver of pie with the third cup, were part of the joy.  “Don’t you feel guilty taking up a whole table?” her neighbor Laura had asked recently.  Emily had told Laura she’d feel more guilty not getting out to enjoy life—and what was she supposed to do, stand all through her meals?

At a nearby table, a young family with two children finished their dinner.  The girl and boy had started a game of rock-paper-scissors while their parents listened to the music.  Emily had played the game when she was a girl, all those years before.  The woman was sturdy, not beautiful but healthy and self-possessed.  Her husband watched her as she watched the musicians.  The little boy, the younger of the children, whispered to his mother, and the family cleared their table and left.  Emily saw them pass on the sidewalk below, each child on a parent’s shoulders.

Roshambo-Myanmar.jpg
Rock-paper-scissors is an old and universal game.  Here children in Myanmar are playing rock-paper-scissors.  Photograph by Mosmas – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, from Wikimedia Commons.

Three girls sitting in a corner of the room stared worshipfully at the young musicians.  One of the girls was heavy, with long dark hair; she wore a startlingly skimpy pink top over her jeans.  Her companions were slim and attractive, a gift of their youth.  Emily wished the heavy girl would realize that she was lovely, too; it pained Emily to see young people trying too hard to be accepted.

Among the many couples were a man and woman of nearly her own age.  The man had plenty of white hair; Emily liked a good head of hair on a man.  The woman was smartly dressed in a blue linen suit that didn’t even look wrinkled.  She had artistically draped a gauzy scarf around her neck and anchored it with a gold sunburst pin.  To Emily’s mind, the most fashionable women were the ones who used scarves and jewelry dramatically.  Emily felt her own attempts at fashion flare were notably unsuccessful.  She always looked so prim: the perfect slim little old lady whose only extravagance was her refusal to wear sensible shoes.  Oh well, she didn’t much mind.  She was hardly unique.

During the day Emily saw many other older women alone.  Independent old men were somewhat rarer.  This morning, walking along one of the city’s most fashionable streets, she had passed a woman with jaundiced skin and dirty, torn clothes.  How long could the woman survive—certainly not through another long northern winter.  How long had the woman survived in the streets, with nobody?

Strictly speaking, Emily had nobody, either.  Most of her friends had moved in with children or found a retirement home to suit them.  Emily kept up with her friends, but she rarely got to see them.  An only child who had never married, Emily didn’t find it strange to be alone.

On Saturday mornings in mild weather, she visited the open-air market near her apartment.  She never tired of seeing the rows of flowers and lush fruits and vegetables, or of watching women from the city’s ethnic neighborhoods buy the ingredients they’d combine in a thousand different ways.  She had so many places she liked to visit, especially the bookshops near the university.  Tonight they’d be open late.

Université_de_Montréal_(Roger-Gaudry)
Université de Montréal, by Colocho – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, from Wikimedia Commons.

Fifty and more years ago she’d walked near the university with her young men.  She’d had her opportunities, but in the end she chose none of them.  Without a husband and children, she’d had more freedoms than most women of her generation.  Summers she had traveled, teaching herself to read a map and to make her needs known in other languages.

Young women who live alone have an easier time as old women, Emily believed.  She knew women who wouldn’t leave their apartments after dark, who were afraid to ride the Metro.  Until they were old they’d never been alone.  They didn’t know how to learn self-confidence now.

Métro_Acadie
Station in the Montreal Metro, by Chicoutimi – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, from Wikimedia Commons.

The evening world was a world of couples and companionable groups.  If she wasn’t on her guard, the useless melancholy would find her.  She was lucky not to be hiding in her apartment like so many of the others.

The young men were playing another familiar melody.  Her parents would have liked it here this evening.  Her father had loved music, and her mother had loved people.  It would be easy to be sad; they’d been gone so long.  The hardest times were early in the morning and late at night, just before sleep.  The trick was knowing which memories to let in.

When she was twenty, she’d had long hair, and at least a couple of boys had thought her pretty.  One had wanted to marry her.  They’d picnicked by the river and played duets on her parents’ old upright.  Silly girl—it had seemed so important to her to be pretty and to have a fiancé.  But he’d had a temper that she knew one day he’d turn on her, so she had broken the engagement.

Her parents had paid for her to go back to college when she was twenty-five.  Already she had a teaching degree, when many girls of her time never had a chance to go past high school.  The master’s degree made her more determined to be an independent and strong woman, but then she turned thirty and the longing for a child grew more instead of less.  Still the men were not right for her, and she turned forty and moved forward into spinsterhood.  She had a career and parents who loved her and never pushed her to be like other daughters.  Nearly every fair Saturday night up through the summer of her forty-fifth year, the three of them had gone together to hear the orchestra play in the park.  The smell of warm August nights still carried on its fragrance the memory of her family and those Saturday evenings.

It was better not to walk down the street where she’d grown up, at least not to pass the house after the lights were on and Emily could glimpse the life going on inside.  It was too easy then to believe her life had ended in another era.

She wouldn’t let herself feel like an intruder in the young people’s world, in the world of couples.  From where she was sitting, Emily could see the old couple holding hands under their table.  She turned and looked at the girls.  They had so much life to get through.

While Emily was finishing her third cup of tea and slice of walnut pie, the musicians put away their instruments.  Maybe in one of the shops she could find a good copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry.  She’d never read enough from the reclusive poet who shared her name.  In her master’s degree, she’d concentrated on Wordsworth and Coleridge, Keats and Shelley, never realizing then that no man, no matter how perceptive, can prepare a woman for the life she will live.

Near the bookshops she would watch young people milling around outside their music clubs and hear their rhythms spill out on the sidewalk.  The floating flute and guitar melodies mustn’t make her forget that life still drives forward.

Keep On Dancing

I am reading the novel Trick, by Domenico Starnone (New York: Europa Editions, 2018, trans. Jhumpa Lahiri).  The original title, in Italian, is Scherzetto (Rome: Giulio Einaudi, 2016).  The novel is told from the point of view of an aging artist who fears he has lost his edge.  My own version of that feeling has been having a starring role in my life.

May 30—Memorial Day each year before it was moved in 1971 to the last Monday in May and became a national holiday—was Lower School Field Day at Wilmington Friends School.  I liked Field Day, on which classes were canceled and the whole elementary school took part in races and other competitions.  I have a vague sense of having participated in burlap-bag and three-legged races, but the clearest recollection I have is of taking part in the long jump.  We had a sand-filled long-jumping pit that I can still see in my mind.  I was good, that is for a small grade-school girl.

My friend Lee was better, but she was taller and a year older—and anyway, I was a close second.  Other children must have taken part in the long jump, but my memory houses only Lee and me, jumping away and feeling good about the results.  I liked being good at things.  Long jumping, dancing, playing Becky Thatcher in our fourth-grade production of Tom Sawyer, and beating the boys in math were an antidote to ostracism by the class bully and her court.

Ballet

All these decades later, I continue my mix of feeling socially inadequate but hoping to win notice for some physical and intellectual skills.

May 30, 2018,  brought the first of this year’s three performances of The Follies, our community’s annual talent show.  For the sixth time, I am tap dancing as part of a small group.  This year three of us are dancing to “I Got Rhythm.”  I always get nervous when I dance or act in front of an audience, and now I have let my nerves unbalance my confidence even more than usual.  The root of the problem is my reputation for dancing competence—I’m afraid of not being able to live up to this reputation.  (The syncopation in “I Got Rhythm” adds to my fears because it makes timing the steps somewhat more difficult.)

Each year, of course, I am a little older and a little more tired.  I think to myself, “I may not be able to do as well as I did last year.  And [here’s the key] people may talk about me and say, ‘Winnie’s slipping; her dancing isn’t as good this time.’”  Do I think my right to a place in the world demands that I never lose a step, literally or figuratively?

That is exactly what I’ve been thinking.  Not surprisingly, I let my nerves sabotage me during the two full-cast rehearsals for the 2018 Follies, experiences that then added to the pressure I felt for the opening show.  The mistakes I made during the full-cast rehearsals did remind me that audiences pay more attention to the overall pizzazz in a performance than to the exactness of the details.  Nevertheless, I was worried.  I knew I could do the dance when no one was watching, but my close friends would be in the audience for the opening show, and the production was being filmed for our community television.

On May 30, 2018, I awoke feeling good, in spite of the ongoing sleep problems I’ve been having—largely from agonizing over the focus and purpose for my writing.  For a show day, I was even reasonably calm.  Showtime came, and the dance went well.  The timing was a little suspect at a point or two, but the three of us were together and the steps were solid.

Did I love the compliments that followed, including a kind woman’s saying, “You could be on Broadway”?  You bet I did!  My confidence roared back into life.

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But how am I going to use the fact that I got through the May 30 show?  Am I going to ratchet up the pressure for the remaining Follies performances?  I hope not: I have evidence now to tell me, “I can do this,” and the performance with my close friends in the audience went quite well.  More dangerous is the effect on me for next year’s Follies tap dance—and for all other future public displays of whether I still have it or not.

Really, am I going to live the rest of my life the way I’ve lived it since second grade: believing that I can hold my head high only through prowess in the skills by which I define my acceptability?

It’s long, long past time for me to live—and not just give lip service to—this principle: The reasons for doing something such as acting in a play, learning a language, writing poetry or prose, dancing, participating in sports, studying literature, or playing music include personal satisfaction and growth, the desire to create, and the wish to share aspects of ourselves and the things we love with others.  The reasons do not include proving our worthiness to take up space in the world.

I do think that enjoying congratulations for something done well or in a manner that is pleasant for others is okay: We naturally value another person’s appreciation of us and prize our own skills.  But if we are performing in order to impress or prove ourselves to others or to keep ourselves from sinking into the despair of not counting, we are probably addicted to praise.  Praise addiction brings with it the suffering of withdrawal when praise doesn’t come.  Praise addiction also brings a suffocating fear of aging and all other reasons for “losing a step.”

Okay, I get it: It’s in my power to stop letting the false gods of approval, expectation, and judgment trample my joy in self-expression, and any good my self-expression may do for others.  It’s a lot more important for folks to see an aging person who is still dancing, creating, and learning—and having fun doing so—than for them to see me getting every one of the steps right.

———–

Update: During tonight’s Follies (the second of the three shows), I didn’t entirely live up to my newest resolution.  I intend to keep working on it.

Playing with Gusto

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Age brings strength of many types.

Most of us tend to think of the second half of life as largely about getting old, dealing with health issues, and letting go of our physical life, but the whole thesis of this book [Falling Upward] is exactly the opposite.  What looks like falling can largely be experienced as falling upward and onward, into a broader and deeper world, where the soul has found its fullness, is finally connected to the whole, and lives inside the Big Picture.  -Richard Rohr*

I’ve been in a slump—hunkering down with a brick wall in my face: the brick wall of “I don’t have any ideas worth writing about”; “My friends are going to get sick of me, if they aren’t already”; “I’ve messed up so many things in my life”; and “If I don’t hurry and get it together, it will be too late.”

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Don’t get me wrong: all sorts of wonderful things have filled vast expanses of my most recent slump time: happy and deeply meaningful experiences with friends, the arrival of the beautiful weather and blossoming brilliance of late spring, the royal wedding (which I watched live and then watched again later in the day). . . .  But the sense of time ticking past with frightening speed while I fail to catch hold has once again thrown me up against that brick wall.  Life has been and is profoundly good to me, but I’m not doing my share, or so it seems.

Father Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest with an embracing and ecumenical spirituality, not only writes of the value and strength of later life, he also does the same for our mistakes: “Losing, failing, falling, sin, and the suffering that comes from those experiences—all of this is a necessary and even good part of the human journey” (Falling Upward, 21).  Richard Rohr’s books and daily meditations, available by e-mail, speak in harmony with my needs and personal philosophy.  They give me comfort and encouragement.  But I have continued feeling bogged down along the path of my particular journey.

And so, as I have before, I asked my Loved Ones in the Light to give me their perspective.  Here is what I think they told me today:

We think you’re doing pretty well, better than you recognize.  But there is room for improvement for the sake of your peace of mind and sense of purpose.  This is a prime time in your life.  You think that many possibilities are behind you—and they are, those of your now-past life stages.  But the possibilities available and offering themselves to you now are just as vibrant, interesting, and important as were those of your youth.  Such is the case for everyone.

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Evening is beautiful.

The key is in not regretting what has slipped through your life and into the past but, instead, valuing the lessons distilled from

  • Missteps, wrong turns, right turns, and byways along life’s journey
  • Opportunities—taken or not
  • Challenges—muddled or surmounted
  • Deep regrets
  • And dear memories

Who you were, you are now.  Your four-year-old self and your forty-year-old self are with you, transmuted but not abandoned or lost.

You know very well that if you spend your days mourning what no longer seems possible, fearing you cannot meet your own high standards and others’ expectations, and feeling like residue left behind after those you love have crossed to the other side, you will damage or destroy your health, your serenity, and much of your joy.

This evening, you have finally wrestled aside your fear enough to pick up a pen again after a long siege by the paralysis of self-doubt.  Look at the pleasure that writing even these few lines has given you.  This small success has reignited a sense of living life instead of merely bouncing around with its buffeting—back and forth between happy times, like those with friends, and the desperation of sleepless nights spent tangling with the What Am I Going to Do Monsters:

  • What am I going to do to bring life and purpose to my blog?
  • What am I going to do to become calmer and stronger?
  • What am I going to do to be a better friend to my friends?
  • What am I going to do to bring order to my days?
  • What am I going to do to bring stability to my finances?

And so on.

Richard Rohr reminds his readers of the value of mistakes.  To give our own analogy: wrong notes cue you about what the right notes are as you continue playing your life symphony.  As the late Adlerian psychologist Rudolf Dreikurs, an acquaintance of your family’s, said when someone pointed out a wrong note he had played on the piano, “But look at all the notes I got right.”  Besides, the “wrong” notes you have played may not, in fact, have been mistakes so much as modulations into valuable new improvisations, or into the development section of your current symphonic movement.

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Okay, so some of the notes you played really were sour.  Yes, entire measures of your life have been filled with missed accidentals and a failure to follow the key signature.  But you are now a much more skilled musician of life as a result.  While you may not be able to present your life’s music with the full force and vigor that you could muster when you were fifteen or thirty, you are able to play with greater finesse, passion, and virtuosity.  And remember that pianissimo moments can be captivating and lyrical; they complement the fortissimo, con brio, and con fuoco passages.

So play the melodies of your days with gusto, even in the minor keys.  Remember that while nothing, including practice, makes perfect, practice in interpreting life with determination and courage makes meaning, satisfaction, and fulfillment.  Play on.

Namaste

* Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2011), 139 (Nook edition).

Becoming an Oak Leaf

Dry, curled oak leaves, 8-10 to 11-95
Oak leaves – Drawing by Mason Hayek

Thanksgiving Day[1]
-Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880)
 Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
 Over the river, and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose
As over the ground we go.
 Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring
“Ting-a-ling-ding,”
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
 Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
 Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,—
It is so hard to wait!
 Over the river and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

A dear, dear friend—almost a sister—and I celebrated our Thanksgiving at The Gables, a restaurant near famous Longwood Gardens, in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania.  The holiday buffet was pleasing, the waiter entertaining and attentive, and the comfortably crowded setting appealing.  We missed our dear ones who are on the other side, missed them intensely, and also reveled in the warmth of each other’s company and a shared tradition just created.  After eating, we drove for an hour or more in the bright November afternoon, along country roads lined with already-winter trees.

To some extent we are like the brown oak leaves continuing to hold firmly to their branches while the branches of other species are now bare.  We oak leaves are transformed from what we were but are as much a part of the vibrant present and eternal scene as the cloudless sky, the fierce, magnificent sun shining in our eyes as we drive west, the coven of buzzards we see standing together by the side of a Chester County road, the small V of geese heading somewhere in the chilly but welcoming November air.  We are as much a part of it all as are the multigenerational families gathering in homes for turkey and stuffing.

Another deeply dear friend has kindly included me in her family’s holiday gatherings in recent years.  But with her mother’s passing this fall, the center for that family’s gatherings has broken into smaller venues, settings for blood-and-marriage-only participants.  I am grateful to have been included as an almost member of this family.  I cherish their generosity and kindness, especially the warmth of my sweet friend and her husband, also loved.  They are not the reason I always felt a little outside the gathered circle, no matter its members’ friendliness and warmth.  I felt a little outside the circle because I was this from fact, not from any deficiency in my friend.

I will continue from time to time to step into others’ lives with pleasure and gratitude.  Even yesterday I was with the treasured couple just mentioned while they and their son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughters sorted through Christmas decorations brought down from the attic.  And for next month, I have accepted the kind invitation of another friend to attend her family’s traditional Italian Feast of the Seven Fishes.  But in any such cases, I am the outsider invited in.  And I have always craved with all my being to be one of those at home within our circle—rather than privileged sometimes to step across a barrier into theirs.  I crave to be part of the family, my family, a permanent resident rather than a guest.

Mother, Daddy, and I were, to me, the essence of a family who loved each other.  And so I am profoundly blessed to have known such love and belonging.  I am vastly blessed, too, that any of my friends should find me pleasant enough to join their families on special days.  And my blessings extend infinitely.  As my sister-friend and I talked, ate, and gazed at the festive restaurant and our fellow diners, we thought not only of the encircling pleasure of the moment, not only of our loved ones in the air around us, but also of the millions and millions with no meal to sustain them, no peace, no security, no family or close-as-family friends.

But just considering me for the moment, in my life of relative affluence and ease, I now recognize the importance of creating new traditions, new ways of being whole, in spite of the tornadoes of loss and change—in spite of being an oak leaf left on the tree after so much beauty has drifted away.  As my beloved friend and I shared Thanksgiving, we were not visiting others’ lives; we were living our own.

And so I will decorate a Christmas tree this year.  I have not had the courage to do so since losing my mother from this life, and after losing Daddy from our lives, Mother and I only had a tree on our last Christmas together.  I should no more let myself live entirely through Christmases past than try to live entirely through the lives of friends who continue to be part of physically present families.

With my dearest friends of the heart and on my own, I will do my best to find and to create meaningful traditions and ways of being, including reaching out to others, as long as my leaf still clings to the tree.

[1] https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/thanksgiving-day.