Category Archives: Aging

The Sublime Gift

Beltane                                       Waning Planting Moon

” Life can’t bring you the sublime gift it has for you until you interrupt your pursuit of a mediocre gift.”

Woolly brother Tom Crane sent this to me.  It took me back to my recent post about Siah Armajani and his personal commitment to staying within his skill set.  When I worked for the church in the now long ago past, I had a boss, Bob Lucas, a good man, who had several sayings he used a lot.  One of them was also similar in spirit, “Don’t major in the minors.”

Stop focusing on the small things you might be able to do well to the exclusion of being challenged by the prajaparmita400serious, important matters.  Stop your pursuit of a mediocre gift.   The tendency to judge our worth by the accumulation of things–a he who dies with the best toys wins mentality–presses us to pursue money or status, power, with all of our gifts.  You may be lucky enough, as Kate is, to use your gifts in a pursuit that also makes decent money; on the other hand if  your work life and your heart life don’t match up, you risk spending your valuable work time and energy in pursuit of a mediocre gift, hiding the sublime one from view.

This is not an affair without risk.  Twenty years ago I shifted from the ministry which had grown cramped and hypocritical for me to what I thought was my sublime gift, writing.  At least from the perspective of public recognition I have to say it has not manifested itself as my sublime gift.  Instead, it allowed me to push away from the confinement of Christian thought and faith.  A gift in itself for me.  The move away from the ministry also opened a space for what I hunch may be my sublime gift, an intense engagement with the world of plants and animals.

This is the world of the yellow and black garden spider my mother and I watched out our kitchen window over 50+ years ago.  It is the world of flowers and vegetables, soil and trees, dogs and bees, the great wheel and the great work.  It is a world bounded not by political borders but connected through the movement of weather, the migration of the birds and the Monarch butterflies.  It is a world that appears here, on our property, as a particular instance of a global network, the interwoven, interlaced, interdependent web of life and its everyday contact with the its necessary partner, the inanimate.

So, you see, the real message is stop pursuit of the mediocre gift.  After that, the sublime gift life has to offer may then begin to pursue you.

Bees, Latin and Learning

Beltane                                       Waning Planting Moon

A sleepy, rainy day.  After a very busy Monday, I settled into the Latin and finished off chapter 18 in Wheelock.  It took most of the day with a couple of instances (well, maybe more than a couple) of head scratching and paging back and forth to find out what I was not understanding.

Kate and I have settled into our familiar and comfortable routines.  She went out today to have her nails done while I labored in the scriptorium.

Tonight is the Minnesota Hobby Beekeepers Association meeting at Borlaug Hall.  I feel both mildly competent and wildly confused with both the beekeeping and the Latin.  I’ve now overwintered a package of bees, made a divide into parent and child colonies and hived a package of bees by myself.  The smoker stays lit for the duration of my work in the bee yard and I have not repeated my various stings event.

Yet.  When I pulled the frames from the parent colony and moved one to the package colony and one to the divide, I felt very unsure of what I had done.  Still am.  I look at the frames and I can tell the pollen filled cells from the honey filled cells.  I know what larvae look like and I can identify a drone cell and its unique domed structure.  Queen or swarm cells are also apparent to me.  Even so, I cannot tell healthy frames from troubled ones.

I get addled about what I’m doing because of the bees buzzing around and forget what I’ve done like I did yesterday with the reverse of the parent colony.  I have no clue about what to do with the honey the bees are making, I’m just imagining that I’ll learn about that in time to do it.

In the Latin I miss obvious things and pick up on some obscure ones like word meanings, verb forms and case endings for nouns and adjectives.  I have two index cards filled with words, mostly adverbs and conjunctions, that I can’t remember.   I puzzle over a translation, no luck, no luck, no luck, then a bright light.  Ah ha.

Learning has this daunting vulnerability to it.  Without placing yourself in a situation where you don’t know what you’re your doing, you cannot learn.  It keeps a guy humble that’s for sure.

The Residue of Sacred Time

Beltane                                           Full Planting Moon

I’ve done some weeding, well, a good bit of weeding, but the heat, now 89 and direct, drove me back inside.  At least the dew point is reasonable, but over 80 and I begin to wilt.  Three cheers for central air conditioning.  Over the years I’ve adapted to the Norwegian lifestyle, that is, living like we were in Norway with no windows or doors.  Now it’s important to me.

That holiday penumbra has fallen over time, a sense that fireworks and hot dogs, or gods on pedestals carried by shouting crowds, or parades with car after car of  young women doing the wave or a hushed night filled with candles and quiet might break out at any moment.   Sacred time comes to us in many guises and its residue, as we grow older, collects on our soul, offering us a taste of eternity each holiday, birthday, anniversary.  This residue is one of the unexpected and great joys of aging.  I can hear the marching bands passing, the quiet congregation praying, family members talking while decorating the offrenda, the winter winds howling on a solstice night.

A weekend to remember.

Small Towns

Beltane                                             Full Planting Moon

As a cold winds down, the body’s defenses leave sludge from the war behind, most of it right now parked  behind my cheek bones.  I don’t know whether I really haven’t had a cold in two years or whether my memory isn’t what it was, but I know it’s been a while.  I remember why I don’t like being sick each time I get sick.  It feels yucky.  My plan is, next cold, 2012, just in time for the apocalypse.

A classmate from Alexandria High wrote on my facebook wall inquiring about my health.  Larry Maple has gone to a lot of effort planning a big reunion for our class, our 45th, this fall.  To have someone from home ask about my health created an unexpected warmth.  In a small town like Alexandria people know you, know how you are, care about how you are.  These small gestures, inquiring about health, being aware of a child’s graduation or birthday, remembering communal events create a web of concern that is community.

(Larry volunteers here, as did my Dad.)

In the teenage years this scrutiny can seem overwhelming and intrusive, invasive, so it’s no surprise that many small town teens, myself included, can’t wait to leave and to leave for a more anonymous environment like a big city or a big college campus.  As we age, though, those small gestures can make the actual difference between health and illness.  Then, the small town doesn’t seem invasive, rather it seems supportive and caring.

Of course, neither end of the continuum is the truth.  Small towns are networks of caring; they are also webs of prejudice and rigidity where your past never leaves.

To the weed front.  With hoe and clippers.

Sheepshead

Beltane                                      Full Planting Moon

Sheepshead tonight.  We get in lots of jokes and laughing during the game.  The best story came from Dick Rice, who says he got it from a relative of Flannery O’Connor.  He told it in response to Bill mentioning Vega and the rabbit.

This guy’s dog brought home the neighbors pet rabbit, a pet she prized.  The rabbit was dead and the guy felt embarrassed, wasn’t sure quite what to do, so he wiped off the rabbit, washed it off in the sink and dried it carefully with a towel.  His neighbor had not come home from work at this point, so he snuck over to her house.  In her backyard he carefully took the now clean, but obviously still dead, rabbit and placed it in the house she had built for it.

The next day he saw her crying and went over to her yard.

“Oh, my.  You’ll never believe what happened!” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“What?  What happened?” he said.

“Well, my rabbit died the other day and I buried her in the backyard, but somehow she came back and ended up in her house again.”

True or not, it’s a great story.

Baby boomers, angels or devils?

Beltane                                           Waxing Planting Moon

Baby boomers, angels or devils?  As part of the bleeding edge of the boomer generation, born in 1947, and step-parent to a Gen-Xer who often articulated his frustration with us all, I have had the full boomer experience plus listened to and read many critiques:  self-involved, cowards, greedy, idealistic (in a pejorative sense), hypocritical.  You might summarize it by this phrase:  Not the Greatest Generation.

Were there the yuppies who only provided the then current manifestation of suburban oxford cloth striving?  Of course.  Were their Vietnam War era protesters who were cowards?  Sure.  Did many who critiqued Emerson’s notion of the establishment end up part of it and indistinguishable from those there before them? Had to be.  I’m sure if we did a generational breakdown of the folks involved in the latest banking scandals we would find many boomers among them.  Greedy?  Hell, yeah. Clinton and Bush were our Boomer presidents.  Uh oh.  Did many boomers have dreams of a back to the land paradise that devolved into something much less?  Oh, yes.  I had the Peaceable Kingdom, for example.

All these critiques are valid.  And they would be valid for any generation.  They only express the ongoing critique of American culture as materialist.  It is a critique based in fact.

History will be kinder to the Baby Boomers than the keyhole history used to validate sweeping criticisms.  Why?  Because as a generation we sacrificed ourselves and our lives over and over again.  We provided allies to and were a direct part of the Civil Rights struggle.  When our country interfered in a millennia old civil war in Southeast Asia, using as a rationale a bankrupt understanding of communism, we stood against it.  When women began to push back against the leftists of the day and the whole patriarchal culture, we again provided allies and were a direct part of the struggle.  While many of us blended back into the cultural establishment we had critiqued, which is no surprise, many of us stayed out.  We joined the Peace Corps.  We worked in community organizing, community based economic development, community health clinics.  We stood in solidarity with working people and were working people.  We supported the poor and were poor.

We put our own beliefs and our own received values again and again into the alembic of radical critique.  We changed our hearts, transvaluated our values and moved on to the next struggle.  Yes, we were then and are now guilty of idealism, of believing we need a more just, verdant and peaceful world, as the NPR sponsor says.  Our lives have not been easy, they have often been painful estranged lives, wandering from one inner journey to another, searching always searching, traveling this ancientrail, then another.  This is the stuff of epochal change, of shifting the zeitgeist.

Has that change always gone in the direction we intended or hoped?  Never does.  Has much of the change we sought produced the conservation reaction we saw in Reagan, the Moral Majority, the Christian Right?  Yes, but always remember Alinsky, the action is in the reaction.  The view of history is long.  Once the reactions have settled down, as they may be beginning to now, it will become more obvious that baby boomers paid with the coin of their own lives to gain both victories and defeats.

We rode and shaped a shift from a manufacturing based economy to a knowledge based economy, from a white majoritarian male world to a world with an appreciation for difference, a world in which women have surged ahead, a world in which war no longer stands for glory and is questioned at every turn,  a world in which the world matters.  These are not bad things.  They are good things.  Very good things.

Were we responsible for them?  No.  Did we act as the agents of the change? Yes, we did.  We shaped and were shaped by the chaotic, violent, bigoted world into which we were born.  When the last boomer is dead, our legacy will be a different set of problems from the ones we inherited.  That’s the way culture and history works.

All Miked Up

Beltane                                 Waxing Planting Moon

I completed my last tours for three weeks this afternoon.  This was an Elderhostel group, now called Exploritas for some reason.  They fitted me up with a microphone and transmitter; I tuned to channel E and began the tours.  As a hearing impaired person, I know how valuable these things can be, especially if there is any echo or other transient noise.

The Asia tours went well with lots of questions, interest and stickiness in that some folks kept with me to one more set of objects after the tour had already gone over 20 minutes.  The second, a treasures of European art, felt less vibrant, but it was at 1:00 pm, after lunch and 3 hours into the groups stay at the museum.  I know I collapsed when I got home, tired from all the time on my feet.  My suspicion is that they were also tired.

Kate takes off on Tuesday for San Francisco, so I’ve planned a couple of weeks close to home.

Looks we may get some free irrigation, cloud style, not piped.  I’m in favor.

I’m awake now, my nap was deep.  Onto the treadmill.

Hostel Elders

Beltane                                  Waxing Planting Moon

Two tours today with an elderhost group from Portland, Oregon.  The first involves the Asian collection, the second highlights of European art.   I enjoy Asian tours since I have spent a lot of time with the collection, Asian history and literature.  I also enjoy the freedom of selecting objects for a highlights tour, which can include objects that seem interesting at that time.

My brand new router acted up yesterday and I lost my internet connection.  Minny, an Indian young woman working at 8:30 pm her time, walked me through how to resolve the issue.  Took the usual hour or so after calling Comcast, eliminating the modem or their servers as the problem.  They connected me to Netgear.  It was, as far as tech service goes, a quite reasonable process.

Looks like we’re about to have hot, muggy weather.  That’s the good part about living in Minnesota, without leaving home we can visit several different climates over the course of the year.  This week we will imitate the muggy south.

The I Get Big and Strong Story

Beltane                                    Waxing Planting Moon

In this month’s Atlantic an article investigates teen-age girls and the hook-up culture they now must navigate.   Written by the daughter of an early feminist the article identifies the reason girls swim in this often self-destructive ocean is the Boyfriend Story.  Teen girls today, as teen girls yesterday and of years ago, want to find a real, true, pure love–the Boyfriend Story.  Never having been a teen-age girl and not having raised a daughter, I don’t feel qualified to assess the accuracy of the author’s premise.

It did get me to wondering though.  What’s the story that propels teen-age boys?  It’s not the Girlfriend Story, I know that much for sure.  It might be the I Get Big and Strong Story.  In this story the hero does not seek real, true, pure love, but the vehicle for becoming a man, usually a career focused drive, different in substance and in direction than the Boyfriend Story, but a story that puts teen-age boys on life’s highway like deer in front of an oncoming 18-wheeler just as surely as the Boyfriend Story puts girls on the same highway, facing down the same oncoming truck, just one carrying a different load.

I remember high school, hoping good grades would make the I Get Big and Strong story happen for me.  If that wasn’t it, maybe it would be acting.  I did Our Town and had to learn to walk like an adult.  If neither of those worked out, it could be leadership.  The class president had to amount to something, didn’t he?

The I Get Big and Strong story is a not we story, it is an I story.  As the teen-age girl runs up on the shoals in search of a partner, the teen-age boy hits the rocks alone while fending off the competition, making himself bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, cleverer.

What do you think?  What is the boy’s equivalent of the Boyfriend Story?

Death Came Calling

Beltane                                     Waning Flower Moon

Yesterday death came to call.  Dizziness and nausea took over my body while my mind raced back to October, 1964, trying to inhabit, again, the mind of my mother as the stroke hit her, trying to imagine the transition from vitality to powerlessness, wondering what thoughts came to her as she fell to the floor in the basement of the United Methodist Church.  Pushing this thought back, far from me, get thee behind me death, I wondered if she had done the same, imagined that this was like all the other times, a bit more severe than most perhaps, but surely something that would lift.  It didn’t.  She died a week later.

Death had come to call on me as a reminder of the future in the guise of a dark moment of the past.  All that work on Latin, I thought.  Then, just as quickly, would you have done something else?  No.  The answer is no.  At that moment a peace settled over me, if this was my time, so be it.  It’s just fine.  If not, I’ll get downstairs and study my i-stem nouns and ablatives.

Then, today, in a lecture, Nietzsche posed a hypothetical:  What if a demon came to you and said, “You will live and relive your life.  All of it.  The pains and the sorrows, the joys and accomplishments, all of it, even this visit from me.  And you will relive it not only once, but over and over.”  What is your response?  If you can say, Thank you, oh divine one, then you have lived an authentic life and have come to rest with who you are.  Nietzsche called this the myth of eternal recurrence.

I find I’m on the Thank you side of the demon question.  Yes, I’d like another helping please.

Much of my attitude toward life seems to have its roots in Nietzschean thought.  Strange that I’m just now discovering this.