Imbolc and the Snow Moon
Tuesday gratefuls: Ana. Furball Cleaning. Alan. Lucille’s. Learning a new city. Denver. Pain Perdu. Shadow. Amy, the trainer. Hospice work in Washington County, Maine. Paul. Cousin Donald. His cracked team of ideologues and greedy billionaires. Foxes. Henhouses. Black Bears and Mountain Lions. Red Flag days. High Winds. Low humidity. Dry fuel. The Wildland Urban Interface, the WUI. My home.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Getting lost
Week Kavannah: Social Responsibility. Achrayut.
One brief shining: Alan and I sat outside at Lucille’s, the inside din of pans and loud conversations too much, the weather 70 degrees and a big fire in their fire pit combined with the sun for comfort while I ordered chicory coffee, French toast, a poached Egg to go with my hot Louisiana sausage, enjoying my long term friendship with Alan.
Need to say a few things about aging and being old. Do not shy away from the truths of aging. It’s hard. Often.
Fingers might hurt from rheumatoid arthritis. That knee that buckles when you get out of the car. What’s that? You can’t hear as well. Me, too!
You might have Sjogren’s syndrome which dries out essential tissues. Your eyes might need cataract surgery or cornea transplants. Balance may not be what it once was. A problem with brittle bones from osteopenia or osteoporosis.
What’s up, too, with all that packaging? The heaviness of things that used to be light. Or the shortness of breath.
Here’s what I have to say about all of those. No fun. No fun at all. No romanticizing. These problems, like the ache in my back right now or the prostate cancer, make life more challenging, less easy. Every day. Sometimes every hour.
Yet most cultures, not ours but most, have honored, even revered those who grew old. Elders. Sages. Wise ones. The one who knows the stories, the knowledge of plants, the ways of battle and of peace. The grandmother who councils young mothers. The ones who bless and counsel. Who settle disputes, pass judgment.
Where does that leave us, the old ones of our synagogues and neighborhoods? OK, boomer. Not a request for advice. A slight aimed at those of us in the graying baby boom, some of us now in our late seventies.
I don’t want to be a gray panther, a senior Olympian, a ripped octogenarian. A silver fox or a pickleball champ. Good thing, too. Since I’m unlikely to fit any of those American Immortal archetypes.
I say we claim the role of elder. Like Tom bringing the young men together. Like Bill and his daily mitzvahs. Like Ode and Imogen. Like the Hospice work Paul does.
Let’s show that the real challenges of aging, as with all elders, only prove the road, the long road we have taken. The scars from hard won lessons, loves won and lost. Bullies faced down. Hard relationships resolved. Children raised.
Let us claim through our actions the role we have earned. We cannot, in other words, abdicate now to the golf course or the television or the trout stream. Especially at this time when the world needs us. Please.