Category Archives: Aging

Passing Another Mile Post: 39,195,000,001

Imbolc                                                                Valentine Moon

Tomorrow night Kate and I head over to the Heartland Restaurant, a place I’ve wanted to IMAG1288try for some time.  The occasion is my 67th birthday.  The odometer clicks over then to 39,195,000,000 miles. Getting to be a high mileage vehicle.  Won’t get much at trade-in.

(aging man shoots selfie.  kicked off facebook.)

When I posted about Sid Caesar’s death yesterday, I referenced live black and white television as a generational barrier.  Made me wonder what others I’m on the other side of.  Dial telephones.  Telephones with wires.  Telephone poles, too, I suppose.  Gas prices under twenty-five cents.  In loco parentis.  The draft.  Legally segregated schools.  Cars without air bags, computers, cruise control.  Organic food.  Genetically Modified Crops.  Round Up.  The moon landing.  Kennedy, King and Malcolm X.  Drive-in movies. Available abortions.  Housewives.  Small town newspapers.  A total closet for gays.  Pre Super Bowl. Home milk delivery. I’m sure any of you could add more.

And yet.  There is still infancy, childhood, adulthood and old age.  We still breathe and procreate and eat, just as humans have done since the first homo sapiens emerged from the hominid line.  We still love, experience joy, delight, anger.  Injustice frustrates us, just as it has humans in community in all times.

The most essential, the most fundamental parts of our humanity remain regardless of time or culture.  Yes, their expression and their understanding have particular nuances shaped by era and culture, but the fundamentals remain.  In no time have we been immortal, remained children or been passionless.

We have never lived in any but the present moment.  We have never been other than on our own in our inner lives.  We have never been able to know the real inner life of another, so our lives have always included depth and mystery.  We have never been other than a part of the natural world and we have never been other than dependent on it.

So my birthday, any birthday, wraps all this up and celebrates it, one person at a time.  I’m almost past the 39,195,000,000 mile post and tomorrow morning at 9:30 am or so, I’ll tick over to 39,195,000,001.

 

Injured

Imbolc                                                                 Valentine Moon

Been feeling like a creaky old man.  The fall I took last Saturday produced a first class large bruise on my inner left elbow which I believe took, for a moment, all of my weight. The resulting motion wrenched my left arm away from my body, tearing or pulling something where muscles insert to my sternum.  I mention this not to be gruesome, but to explain why I’ve been feeling creaky.

It matters.  I don’t mind being an old man, not one bit.  Older is what I am.  What I am is ok.  Except.  My chest hurts, up high around the sternum.  Each time I lift anything aversive conditioning sets in.  The pain itself is not such a big deal, definitely manageable as pain.  But the pain, and this is why I’m writing this, erodes my sense of myself as a healthy, fit old man.  That makes me anxious.  I wonder, what else is wrong?

This is not a conscious process.  It took a couple of conversations with Kate to get it.  The pain changes my self-image and that changed image chips away at my self-confidence.  Yes, sure, in time I’d get used to this, if it were permanent.  I’d compensate, as I imagine many of you have had to do at one point or another.

This post is about getting it out in plain sight, claiming what I’m doing and telling myself that, as Kate said, I’m injured and injuries heal.  True that.

I already feel better psychically, just from realizing what I was doing as I reacted to the pain.  Now I want to shed the anxiety and let it be.

Old man, yes.  Injured old man, yes.  Creaky old man?  Not right now.  Not yet.

 

Kick the Bucket List. Live As A Eudaimoniac.

Imbolc                                                            Valentine Moon

Friend Tom Crane was talking about how the bucket list might be different.  “Imagine if your bucket list was things like looking in the eye and telling everyone you cared about that you loved them deeply and had for a long time.”

In my view you better have your bucket list imprinted in the daily way of things or it means little.  Why save up to the end things you can do today?

A bucket list is a close relative of the finish line model of retirement.  Wait until you no longer have work dragging you down, then do all the fun stuff.  Bucket list.  Wait until you know you’re going to die, then do all the fun stuff you didn’t have the courage to do before.

Tom’s idea is better.  Let’s consider those things that would make our life and the lives of those around us more rich, more peaceful, more fruitful.  Then, do them.

This, by the way, is the guiding notion of eudaimonia.  Here’s a repeat passage from a post last summer:

Composed of two Greek worlds, eu (good) and daimon (spirit) Aristotle and the Stoics after him promoted it as the end of human life. As such it has often been translated as happiness or welfare, but perhaps a better phrase is human flourishing.  Or, without getting fancy, why not good spirit?  Both have an active turn, taking us toward enrichment, fullness, striving within a humane ambit.

Now there you have an internal state worth cultivating.  It’s the difference between a noun and a gerund.

 

39 Billion Miles + On This Older Body

Imbolc                                                             Valentine Moon

Realized the other day that our age in years is actually shorthand for an odometer of sorts. This odometer measures our lifespan in miles, miles around the sun.  585,000,000 miles or so a trip.  At 67 that comes to 39,195,000,000 miles on this old body.

Looked at that way the 32,000 miles we have on our Rav4 doesn’t amount to much, does it?  That’s roughly 1,600,000 miles–a day.  Or, we may as well keep going, I have the calculator warmed up, 66,700 miles an hour.  Better speed than I get out of my Rav4, too. But, what the heck, lets do a minute: 1,100.  And, for a complete picture.  A second: 18 miles.  Each second.

That means, when I count off 6 seconds for my first infusion of Master Han’s 2013 pu’er, I’ve traveled 108 miles while I waited.  That’s a different perspective on how long it takes to make a cup of tea.

All of this is a convoluted way of saying that my 67th birthday is only 12 days away.  It has me thinking about that annual pilgrimage waypoint we all celebrate as our birthday.  It’s really a cairn stuck beside the imaginary line we travel as our home planet rockets its way around the nearest star.  It is a reminder of the cyclical, rather than the linear nature of time. Yes, we count the trips, but in fact each trip is the same as the last one. (sort of.  astronomical realities may vary.)

 

 

Mature Adults

Winter                                                                 Valentine Moon

Necessary but not necessarily pleasant work this morning.  Kate and I went through our health care directives, making sure they still reflected what we wanted.  Mostly.  We then read through our wills with a similar purpose in mind.  They’re seven years old.  We need to ask the boys what, if anything, they might want in our estate so we can enter that in a list for them.  We knew this seven years ago and somehow haven’t gotten around to it.  Is that Denial I hear rushing by?

We looked, too, at our trust instruments.  They, too, are mostly ok, but I still haven’t added Kate to our Vanguard account.  Again, I’ve had seven years to do it.  I promised I wouldn’t take any more than that amount of time before I got it done.

We also discussed funeral/celebration arrangements, coming to no firm conclusions, but with progress.  Asked some time ago to donate my body to medical science so they can investigate my inner-ear bones–no, seriously, I intend to but haven’t gotten around to filling out the forms.  Can you hear the beautiful blue Denial in the background?

After this we made a list of matters around the house that need attention.  We’ve lived here 20 years and though we’ve kept with major things:  new furnace, air conditioner, roof, siding, dishwasher for example, there are many smaller things.  Our outdoor trim needs painting and in some places replacement.  A lock here.  A light fixture there.  Handyman sort of things.  We have a guy.  A few garden things.  Laying down woodchips in the vegetable garden.  Pruning the orchard.  Javier work.

Painting living room, kitchen, hall and master suite plus repairing that settling crack we’ve had for, what?  20 years?  Finishing Touch painters.

Changing light bulbs and cleaning out the garage.  Kate and me.

After all this responsible adult stuff, we went for lunch at Azteca, our favorite Mexican joint.

2013: Second Quarter

Winter                                                            Winter Moon

The first day of the second quarter, April 1st, is Stefan’s birthday and was a gathering of the Woolly’s at the Red Stag.  I made this note: “Here we are seen by each other.  Our deep existence comes with us, no need for the chit-chat and polite conversation of less intimate gatherings.  The who that I am within my own container and the who that I am in the outer world come the closest to congruence at Woolly meetings, a blessed way of being exceeded only in my relationship with Kate.”

The “doing work only I can do” thought kept returning, getting refined: “With writing, Latin and art I have activities that call meaning forward, bringing it into my life on a daily basis, and not only brought forward, but spun into new colors and patterns.” april 2 On the 13th this followed:  “Why is doing work only I can do important to me?  Mortality.  Coming at me now faster than ever.  Within this phase of my whole life for sure.  Individuation.  It’s taken a long time to get clear about who and what I’m for, what I’m good at and not good at.  Now’s the time to concentrate that learning, deepen it.”

The best bee year we’ve had started on April 16th with discovering the death of the colony I thought would survive.  While moving and cleaning the hive boxes, I wrenched back and the pain stayed with me.  That same day the Boston Marathon bombing happened.  In addition to other complicated feelings this simple one popped up:  “The most intense part of my initial reaction came when I realized what those feelings meant, the emptiness and the sadness and the vacuum.  They meant I am an American.  That this event was about us, was done to us.”

Another theme of this quarter would be my shoulder, perhaps a rotator cuff tear, perhaps nerve impingement caused by arthritis in my cervical vertebrae.  Maybe some post-polio misalignment.  But over the course of the quarter with a good physical therapist it healed nicely.

Kate went on a long trip to Denver, driving, at this time, for Gabe and Ruth’s birthdays. While she was out there teaching Ruth to sew, Ruth asked her, “Why did you become a doctor instead of a professional sewer?”  When Kate is gone, the medical intelligence of our house declines precipitously.  That means doggy events can be more serious.

Kona developed a very high fever and I had to take her to the emergency vet.  She had a nodule on her right shoulder which we identified as cancerous.  This meant she had to have it removed.  At this point I was moving her (a light dog at maybe 40 pounds) in and out of the Rav4 with some difficulty because of my back.

This was the low point of the year as Kona’s troubles and my back combined to create a CBE (1)dark inner world.  The day I picked Kona up from the Vet after her surgery was cold and icy, but my bees had come in and I had to go out to Stillwater to get them, then see my analyst, John Desteian.  That day was the nadir.  I was in pain and had to go through a lot of necessary tasks in sloppy slippery weather.  That week Mark Odegard sent me this photograph from a while ago Woolly Retreat.

By the end of the month though Kate was back and April 27th:  “Yes!  Planted under the planting moon…”

For a long time I had wanted to apply my training in exegesis and hermeneutics to art and in this time period I decided to do it.  In the course of researching this idea I found I was about 50 years late since the Frankfurt School philosophers, among them, Gadamer and Adorno, had done just that.  Still, I patted myself on the back for having thought along similar lines.

Over the last year Bill Schmidt, a Woolly, and I have had dinner before we play sheepshead in St. Paul.  His wife, Regina, died a year ago September.  “Bill continues to walk straight in his life after Regina’s death, acknowledging her absence and the profound effect it has had on his life, yet he reports gratitude as his constant companion.”

By April 29th the back had begun to fade as an issue: “Let me describe, before it gets away from me, submerged in the always been, how exciting and uplifting it was to realize I was walking across the floor at Carlson Toyota.  Just walking.”

Kate and I had fun at Jazz Noir, an original radio play performed live over KBEM.

In my Beltane post on May 1st I followed up my two sessions with John Desteian:  “John Desteian has challenged me to probe the essence of the numinous.  That is on my mind.  Here is part of that essence.  The seed in the ground, Beltane’s fiery embrace of the seed, the seed emerging, flourishing, producing its fruit, harvest.  Then, the true transubstantiation, the transformation of the bodies of these plants into the body and blood ourselves.”

Then on May 6th, 5 months into my sabbatical from the MIA:  “The third phase requires pruning.  Leaving a job or a career is an act of pruning.  A move to a smaller home is an act of pruning.  Deciding which volunteer activities promote life and which encumber can proceed an act of pruning.  Last year I set aside my political work with the Sierra Club.  Today I have set aside my work at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts.”  That ended 12 years of volunteer work.

“When you recover or discover something that nourishes your soul and brings joy, care enough about yourself to make room for it in your life.”

— Jean Shinoda Bolen 

It was also in May of this year that Minnesota finally passed the Gay marriage bill.  Gave me hope.

May 13 “Sort of like attending my own funeral.   All day today notes have come in from docent classmates responding to my resignation from the program.”  During this legislative session, I again became proud to be a Minnesotan.

As the growing season continued:  “If you want a moment of intense spirituality, go out in the morning, after a big rain, heat just beginning to soak into the soil, smell the odor of sanctity…”

On May 22nd the Woolly’s gathered to celebrate, with our brother Tom, the 35th year of his company, Crane Engineering.  The celebration had something to do with a crystal pyramid.  At least Stefan said so.

A cultural highlight for the year was the Guthrie’s Iliad, a one person bravura performance by veteran actor, Stephen Yoakam.

Friend and Woolly Bill Schmidt introduced me to High Brix gardens.  I decided to follow their program to create sustainable soils and did so over the course of the growing season. I got good results.

Our new acquaintance Javier Celis, who did a lot of gardening work for us over the year, also finished up our firepit and we had our first fire in it on June 7th.  It was not the last.

On June 12th Rigel came in with a small pink abrasion on her nose.  She had found and barked, barked, barked, barked at a snapping turtle.  Kate removed the turtle from our property.  The turtle came back, hunting I believe, for a small lake not far from us in which to lay her eggs.  The next time Rigel and Vega still barked, from a safe distance.

And on Father’s Day: “Is there anything that fills a parent’s heart faster than hearing a child light-hearted, laughing, excited?  Especially when that child is 31.”

During her visit her in late June grand-daughter Ruth went with me on a hive inspection: “She hung in there, saying a couple of times, “Now it’s making me really afraid.” but not moving away.”

My favorite technology story came on June 27th when NASA announced that one of the Voyager spacecrafts would soon leave the heliosphere, the furthest point in space where the gases of the sun influence matter.  This meant it would then be in interstellar space.

And, as Voyager entered the Oort cloud Tom and Roxann made their way Svalbard and the arctic circle.  Thus endeth the second quarter.

 

 

On the Margins

Samhain                                                                  Winter Moon

We’re in the dark period of the year, the time when the Winter Solstice stands out even among long nights as longer and deeper. Tonight, all Solstice eve, it’s 4:30 pm and twilight fell a while ago.  Snow comes down, adding to an inch or so to what we got over last night, all accumulating on top of the snows of early December.

Let me demonstrate how odd my religious situation is.  When my doctor, Corrie Massie, asked me what plans I had for Christmas, without thinking, I said, “We’re Jewish.”  Now we’re Jewish in that I support Kate’s Judaism, but what I really meant was, “I don’t celebrate the Christian holiday.”  Didn’t want to start with the whole theological narrative in my doctor’s office so my unconscious answered.  Not a lie, just not the whole truth.

No elevator speech for following the rhythmic cycles of nature, for celebrating not transcendence but immanence.  No quick way to say I’m an outlier here, too, standing on the margins of religion.  So often I find myself in conversations where I just don’t want to go through the whole analysis to explain myself.

Yes, too much carbon dioxide is, will be a problem. The unseemly gathering of wealth threatens the fabric of our culture.  No, I’m not really a Democrat and am planets away from Republicans.  Tea Party?  Different universe.  No, I don’t use pesticides.  Yes, we grow a lot of our own food and keep bees.  Oh, and I have a son in the Air Force who now has aspirations to become a general officer, to make sure authentic folks have their say.  No, mining minerals on the border of the Boundary Waters Wilderness does not make sense.  Socialism and single-payer health from Mark Odegardcare?  Sign me up.  I’m glad China and the rest of Asia have begun to grow strong.  I love the U.S.A.  Cable television?  Cut the cord.  That sort of thing.

I guess I’m at an age where I’m living the life I chose and choose, yet no longer have that evangelical zeal for my decisions.  Maybe because I recognize more and more how many right answers there are.

 

NoSnowBirds

Samhain                                                            Winter Moon

They leave.  This is the time.  Lois, our cleaning lady, poked her head in and said, “Good-bye.  See you in April.”  Mark and Elizabeth leave on the 29th for Grass Valley in California.  Many others are already gone to Florida or Arizona or New Mexico or Mexico.

We call them snowbirds, though it should be nosnowbirds, since they fly away at dropping temperatures and clouds of frozen moisture.  The reasons they go are diverse, I imagine, but cluster around icy roads, slick sidewalks, the uninviting nature of cold air for being outside.

It makes sense.  At a certain age, one I’ve reached, driving on roads and navigating sidewalks slick with ice and polished snow can be scary.  To get outside requires more thought in dress and more intention.  Just going out for a stroll can mean preparation. There is, too, the lure of a different place.  The beaches of Florida, the culture of the Southwest and Mexico.  A way to break up the year, give it a punctuation when work no longer provides it.

Still.  I love the snow, the cold, the quiet, the coming of the inside season.  The holiseason makes a good deal more intuitive sense with distinct seasonal changes, seasonal changes I find crucial to my own spiritual practice.  Putting the garden to bed, letting it rest for a season plus also feels right to me.  I would not want to continue my gardening season past the end of September, early October.

No.  We’ll stay.  Here.  In Andover.

.5%

Samhain                                                            Winter Moon

Last night Jerry, who has a big band show on KBEM, gave us some statistics.  “2% say jazz is their favorite music.  Another 2% say classical.  .5% like both.”  That puts Kate and me into the .5% bracket.

(Coltrane)

Jazz and classical music are an acquired taste.  Rock and roll and the other forms of popular music are, too, I suppose, but their acquisition comes laced into high school, i-tunes, radio.  Support of their sound comes through commercial channels that, though increasingly fractured, still provide marketing and distribution for them.  They also have youth culture on their side.

Jazz still has a certain underground feel, a music played off the main streets of American culture and by the marginal and marginalized.  It is a music that languishes if it becomes popular, witness the fusion era and the cool jazz played on easy listening stations.  Now, with it’s popularity dwindling again, it can regenerate, offer the lure of the hidden, the cult.

Classical music has a dwindling band of listeners, too, graying as are the jazz audiences. Classical music will find itself refreshed as it, too, becomes the province of smaller gatherings, people devoted to musicology, to the repertoire of yesterday.

Neither of the significant aural art forms will disappear.  Yes, the opportunities to hear them may diminish, but there will always be live performances somewhere for both. The availability of recorded and digital music ensures that they will survive until other audiences find them.

(Musical_Instruments  Evaristo Baschenis (1617–1677)

So it may be that classical music aficionados will attend trios and quartets in performance more than orchestras, though here the SPCO seems to be on firm footing at last.  Jazz followers will head to clubs and bars, much as they always have, and to the occasional festival.  Performers in both will gain renown in smaller groups, but they will be remembered.  Popularity is not the mark of good art, though you can’t deny its value for paying bills.

Subjugation and Submission

Samhain                                                                     Thanksgiving Moon

The nurse had a corner office.  “Yes, you can see Olive Garden over here and the Allina clinic over there.  Oh, and cars on the freeway.”  She’d had it all day.  When she handed me the gown and robe, she assured me that the glass had mirroring, “You’ll not be making a show.”  Didn’t bother me either way, though spread out immediately below the third floor windows were two large parking lots and people came and went from their cars.

After gowning and robing, I got a look in a mirror.  There was another old guy in hospital wear, slightly bemused.  Me.  This time the old guy in the mirror was me.  Took me a bit to acclimate that.

We make these visits once in a while as strangers from the non-medical world, visiting a world truly known and understood only by those who work in it daily.  Kate was among them.  It’s a world where the casual infliction of pain is part of the job. Like the IV I had inserted.  It’s a world where strong boundaries in our world are constantly breached.

People not known to us, or known briefly, may touch our naked bodies and may insert objects in different orifices.  These are acts that, outside of this special world, are crimes, even felonies.  Here we consent, play the masochist to the system’s sadist.

That system says it wants us as partners in our own health care but our lived experience of the medical world is one of subjugation and submission.  We take and do what the doctor orders.  Subjugation and submission.  Rebeling here challenges your own self-interest in a very direct way, so the penalty is high.

The TSA, as I observed last month, trains us in submission, too.  Take off belts, shoes,  empty your pockets, carry only this much shampoo, this much toothpaste, stand here, raise your arms.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.

These self-contained worlds, whirring and buzzing, act as they do for our benefit.  And I believe they do. He said, choking a bit on the TSA bone.

Still, for those of us with stubborn, strong personal boundaries and a high sense of self-agency, encounters with these systems jars the most basic and sensitive aspects of our psyche. They leave me tired and out of sorts unless I’ve been drugged.  As was the case yesterday.

My regard for the often maligned American health care is, paradoxically, quite high.  I’ve had generally good results, confounding my aversion to subjugation and submission.  Efforts I’ve made to make myself more of a collegial actor in my health care have helped.

Still, as I look at third phase life and its inevitable downward turn, the thought of entering the strange and often alien world of medicine more and more often is not a pleasant one.  It does motivate me, if I needed another motivation, to stay healthy.  Not sure what to do with this, but here it is.