Is older really wiser?

 A patient I was visiting the other day in the hospital showed me a newspaper column written by a 90 year old reporter containing a list of 45 (!!) things she had learned about life.  It was all really cool and wise stuff. 

 What is it about growing older that compels us elders  to share our wisdom with everyone else? Maybe it's our way of compensating for the indignities of the aging process.  There has to be some pay-off for having lived this long.  But as I recover from the shock of turning 63, I remain unconvinced that wisdom is a requirement much less a measure of advancing age. Speaking solely for myself, I still seem to be grappling with those existential matters I was supposed to have learned way back in kindergarten.  As anyone brave enough to have lived with me will attest to, I'm not all that generous about sharing my toys and I have been known to impetuously plunge into certain situations before looking in both directions.  But I do love my afternoon naps.             

 I have learned a few things which (of course) I now feel compelled to share. For example,  after years of spending a lot of time and energy looking for “it” and trying to get “there” I’ve finally concluded that there is no “it” to find and there is no “there” to get to.   It took a lot of tortuous detours and dead ends before I figured out that everything meaningful I’ve ever searched for “out there” is inside of me and I am always right where I need to be even when I’m stumbling around in the dark. If that sounds suspiciously like the adage, "It's not the destination, it's the journey that matters" I offer no apology.  I'm not too proud to rip off other people's wisdom when it suits me to do so.    And I have come to believe that a certain amount of denial is actually healthy.   If it weren’t for my buddy Denial, I wouldn’t  be able to cling to the fantasy that I’m in charge of my life and I probably wouldn’t bother to get out of bed each morning.  I've also learned that failing eyesight coupled with denial is a definite advantage when it comes to looking in the mirror everyday. 


The truth is that the longer I live, the less I really know.  But the beauty of this age is that I'm less obsessed with the need to find answers to life's mysteries and am way more comfortable sitting with the questions.    Experience has taught me that if I’m willing to go with the flow  eventually ( albeit after some whining and self-pity) I’ll land on my feet.
  

 Maybe in another 27 years (I should be so lucky), I’ll have 45 nuggets of profound wisdom to share with the world should anyone care to listen, meanwhile, it's all I can do to remember what I had for breakfast. But sometimes the wisest thing of all is to laugh and unabashedly admit one's limitations. 

Dancing with the Gorilla

This morning, while I am suspended between sleep and awakening, I have the disquieting sense that something is out of whack.  It is eerily still with only the occasional melancholy wail from a passing train.  I finally realize that I am missing the sweet notes of a love sick robin floating thru the chilly pre-dawn hours.   Around the end of February, I begin to anticipate this annual rite of passage because it symbolizes the continual cycle of birth and renewal; the fulfillment of profound yearnings and promises kept.

Every spring, the robins bring me a special message assuring me that no matter what is going on in my life, all is well.    But this year, since they’re late, my over-active imagination suggests that maybe there’s a message in the silence.  Maybe it’s a reminder that rarely does anything in life happen on my or anyone else’s time schedule.

The longer I work as a clinical chaplain, the harder it is to buy into the illusion that we humans are in charge of much of anything, much less the timing of things.   Regularly confronted with the unpredictability of life, I have become all too aware that our human existence doesn’t come with a foreseeable shelf life.  It is all too common for a day to begin like any other and end in devastating tragedy.  The wife goes to the mall with a girlfriend and comes home to find that the husband, who has never been sick a day in his life, has suddenly collapsed and died.  On the other end of the scale, an infant is born and the first tender shoots of parental love take hold in front of my eyes.   To be sure, it can feel like a scary out of control carnival ride, which is not necessarily a pleasant sensation for those of us who are prone to motion sickness.    

In a lame effort to protect ourselves, we’ve collectively agreed that it’s really bad form to talk about the two ton gorilla sitting in middle of the living room-- i.e. our mortality.  Much as we'd love to ignore the furry beast, consider for a moment how our approach towards life would shift if we were to openly acknowledge the holy uncertainty of life. Would we go through a day with our eyes open and our senses alive?  Would we more fully enjoy the simple things we so often take for granted?  Would we tie up loose ends, forgive ourselves and others, and use up every ounce of love we have to give? Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you look at it), the landlord never gets around to issuing a notice with the exact date we’ll be evicted from these rented mobile homes we call our bodies.  I once met a veteran chaplain who was diagnosed with inoperable throat cancer.  When asked how it felt to be handed what amounted to a death sentence, she calmly replied, “I felt relief at finally letting go of the illusion of control.”   She didn’t live to be ninety, but once she started dancing with her gorilla, she waltzed through the time she had left with grace and joy.  

Life never makes promises it can’t keep but it does ask us to trust that everything comes to pass in its proper time, like it or not, accept it or not,  understand it or not.  The robins will get here when they’re ready, not a second before.  Meanwhile, the silent spring is bidding me to wink at my gorilla and cherish what I have in front of me now.          

The Perfect Wedding

When Frank and I wake up on February 13, 2010, neither one of us has a clue that it is our wedding day. It is, in fact, my niece Erica and her fiancée Steve’s wedding day-a supposedly perfunctory legal affair preceding her more elaborate destination wedding in Todos Santos Mexico the following month. Despite Erica’s insistence that the fuss over her civil ceremony in Colorado be kept to a minimum, nothing in my family has ever been done on a small scale. Family members and friends who can’t attend the wedding in Mexico have assembled from all parts assuring the usual raucous and chaotic Varela family goat rope. As I stand in front of my closet, contemplating the day's attire, I must know on some unconscious level  that something is in the air because I am as nervous as a bride-to-be.  After frantically searching for a lost earring, I have a complete emotional melt down. "What is my problem?" I sob to Frank's bemusement as he spies the earring on the floor and calmly hands it to me,  "It's not like I'm getting married or anything."

On the way to Colorado Springs, where the ceremony is to take place, Frank and I discuss our own fuzzy wedding plans, which have stubbornly refused to take shape, no matter how many times we visit the issue. After two happy years together, we are ready to take the next important step in our relationship, but when it comes to wedding logistics, we are completely stymied. We don't like the idea of the three ring circus that will  inevitably ensue if we involve my family so we're leaning more towards a private and intimate ceremony, but somehow that doesn't seem right either.

When we arrive at the elegant Southwest Studies building on the Colorado College campus (Erica’s Alma mater and also where Erica’s aunt, my oldest sister Maria, is an adjunct professor) we find one of the meeting rooms transformed into a warm intimate space, complete with candles, fresh flowers and yards of turquoise tulle framing a graceful fireplace. I grin at the family interpretation of ‘perfunctory’ because it is clear that Maria and her daughter Sabina have spent hours working to make this occasion anything but. There are bottles of champagne, fresh strawberries, a platter of wedding cookies and chocolate truffles. Three out of a possible four sisters and their husbands, Erica’s Dad, her step-mother, brother Gabe, his wife and two little ones are all present and accounted for. The groom’s parents, grandmother, aunt and a group of friends and co-workers have also assembled. Introductions are made, pleasantries exchanged and last minute preparations are completed. Frank has gotten hold of my great niece, baby Zae and is walking around gently cuddling and soothing her. The sight of Zae trustingly gazing into Frank’s eyes melts my heart. How many times can you fall in love with a big, goofy guy with a giant heart?
None of the chaos I have anticipated is forthcoming. As Ginger, the officiating chaplain  guides the young couple through the ceremony which will legally bind them together as man and wife,  a sense of the sacred quietly begins to enter the room. The bride and groom  appear to be surprised by the profound emotion that the simple yet timeless ritual is eliciting. There is not a dry eye in the room as snivels punctuate the promises that Erica and Steve are making to each other. Frank and I hold hands, totally resonating with the words that are being spoken-silently making our own promises to each other. When Ginger asks our small group to indicate willingness to support the couple in their marriage, a resounding “WE WILL!” led by my three year old great nephew Kai fills the room. I feel a pang as I realize that Frank and I will not have any family to witness the private ceremony that we are contemplating.

But, as so often happens, the Universe has a much better plan for us.  From the beginning there are clues, like bread crumbs leading to a hidden prize. Before the ceremony, my brother-in-law Clyde winks at us slyly suggesting that Frank and I ‘make it a double’. My sister Frances (Erica’s mom)  pays me kind of a weird complement when she tells me I look good enough to be a bride.  We find out later that Maria dreamt of a double wedding months before. Her husband Zuni will also claim that he has known all along what is about to happen.

 It’s as if there are individual notes floating silently in the air, but no one can hear the music until the very last minute. At some point after the ceremony, amidst the frenzy of congratulatory hugs and smooches that are being lavished on the newlyweds, a surprising chain of events begins to unfold.

Like metal filings drawn to a magnet, Frank and I inexplicably find ourselves sidling over to Ginger the chaplain, jokingly asking her, “Don’t suppose you would be willing to conduct two ceremonies for the price of one, would you?"

And she, being totally attuned to the silent music, takes us totally seriously and replies, "Of course, I would be delighted to perform another ceremony."

"But what about the license," I stammer, "wouldn’t we need a marriage license?" Ginger assures us that this is a minor detail which can easily be taken care of after the fact. My sister Dolores, who has been eavesdropping, begins to screech. Still not able to fully grasp the unexpected turn that our conversation with Ginger has taken, I shush my excited sibling, worried that we would be stealing Erica and Steve's thunder should we carry out this impulsive course of action that has suddenly become available. A quick pow-wow with them promptly disposes of that concern and we get an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Do it!” Erica happily urges us with Steve nodding in vigorous agreement. My niece and I have always been close and she is obviously more than willing to generously share her special day with us.

My partner and I look into each other's eyes and silently ask, “Should we?”

As has been the case ever since Frank answered my ad for a hiking buddy on Craig’s list, the stars align into a single perfect moment and we absolutely know that we should. Suddenly, the din in the room ceases. It seems that everyone is hearing the symphony that has begun to play ever so sweetly. A quick thinking Sabina snatches a bouquet of flowers out of a vase and places them, dripping, into my shaking hands. Ginger calls everyone to attention and with a wide smile, undertakes the second wedding ceremony of the day.

Luckily there is still plenty of Kleenex left over from the first wedding and more tears are shed as Frank and  I take our own leap of faith uplifted by the love and support of the people in that room, some of whom we have only known for a short while. Months of planning could not have yielded a more blessed occasion than the one which is taking place on this particular winter afternoon, the day before all lovers are celebrated everywhere. Call it Divine Intervention, call it co-incidence or even sheer dumb luck.   No matter what you call it, I suspect that anyone present at this momentous event felt the invisible Something that gave Frank and I an exquisitely timed nudge into a wedding more perfect than anything we could ever have conjured up in our wildest imagination.

Words

Lately, I've been thinking that words are like money in the sense that we can either foolishly waste them or hoard them like misers. As a writer, I love to play with words but I admit that I am often guilty of using twenty words when a few would do just fine. I attribute that to the fact that I am the second youngest in a family of five girls and often got lost in the shuffle of my big noisy clan when I was growing up. You had to use a lot of words before anyone would pay attention to you. I did learn that funny words were acknowledged, so it didn’t take long for me to assume the role of the family clown. I could be pretty darn funny when I wanted to be heard.

When I hang around my two year old grand niece, Zae, I am reminded that sometimes less is more. She can fully convey a meaning and get all of her needs met with a few choice words.

“Bunny!” she commands when she wants me to read her favorite bed time story. When I make an animal noise to amuse her, she wrinkles her nose and levels me with an appraising stare before voicing her approval, “You bein’ funny!” Sometimes she will abandon words all together and simply grab me by the legs and push me towards the kitchen when she wants a snack. The loving adults in Zae’s life are constantly encouraging her to use her words, but personally, I enjoy her adorable though primitive communication methods. Soon enough, she’ll probably be using her words to argue and talk back.

Few of us realize much less appreciate the full scope of our innate creativity. Our words are the artist's tools that enable us to create a unique and authentic life. Just a single word can be incredibly effective.  The word “Yes” can open up new opportunities, just as the word “No” can block us from realizing our full potential. When Zae’s older brother Kai was two, he often used the time honored Socratic method to stimulate profound discussions simply by asking “Why?”

Words combined with powerful emotions can actually affect the molecular structure of water. (Check out Dr. Masuru Emoto’s groundbreaking work in “The Hidden Messages in Water”) Words of gratitude can  keep us focused on our blessings in the face of adversity while worry and negativity serve to bog us down in a perspective of lack. Careless words spoken in the heat of the moment have been known to cause long standing family rifts. Just as damaging are the unspoken words which so often can lead to hidden resentment and false assumptions. And let us not forget the power of those three little words that we all long to hear, "I love you!"

We are all taught to speak, but rarely are we taught how to listen. One of the most loving and compassionate things we can do is to give an individual the benefit of our full attention when he/she needs to be heard. As a chaplain working in a hospital setting, I’ve learned that there are some situations in which words are useless. At those times, an empathetic touch or a look can convey more comfort than a thousand words.

No matter what language we speak, the ability to communicate our thoughts and words is a huge responsibility and a gift which we mostly take for granted once we get past our early childhood. Learning how to use words is really not all that different from learning how to handle money. The trick is to know how to spend them wisely and when to save them up for a rainy day.

The Year of the Slug

One evening, shortly after New Year’s Eve,  I arrive at my fitness club only to find that virtually every life cycle, elliptical, treadmill and StairMaster has been commandeered by sweating Lycra clad fitness buffs all sprouting ear buds. There is a long line of people impatiently waiting for  the next open machine extending all the way from the locker room.  A frazzled staff member with a plastic grin tattooed on his face is standing at the head of the line in an attempt to discourage a stampede. I sigh and make my way past the grumbling crowd to the weight machines upstairs, hoping that at least I can get in some stomach crunches.  It’s this way every year. There seems to be a tsunami of people who might have indulged just a little too much during the holidays, then over-compensate by making well-meaning resolutions to get back into shape. By February, the numbers drop off, the gym gets back to normal and the regulars who have been working out all year get it back to themselves again.

 While I applaud the good intentions of those determined souls who are brimming with new resolve, I believe that it goes against our basic instincts as mammals to be so frenetically active during a time when we should be holed up in our caves. Speaking for myself,  I just don’t have it in me to introduce a new habit into my schedule when all I want to do is curl up in front of the fire and snooze with my kitties.  After the holiday frenzy, I normally feel sluggish and unmotivated but  justify my lethargy by making the case that I'm simply giving into a natural inclination.  When I look outside, the backyard  is brown and still  as if nature has hit the pause button until the warm breezes start encouraging growth and productivity again.   I reason that I am a human being, not a human doing and the long cold nights provide me with the perfect excuse to withdraw and just be.

 This is a time to be still-- to cultivate a nurturing internal environment in which the seeds of my dreams can percolate and flourish before beginning to sprout; it is a time to regroup, to replenish,  to reflect on all that has transpired during the last twelve months; the perfect time to spend a  leisurely morning or two in bed watching chickadees at the bird feeder while reading journal entries from years past to track how far I’ve progressed, or to detect any old patterns of behavior that I might want to correct.

 My hat is off to those individuals who ritualize the beginning of the new year with firm resolutions to become their  best and sleekest selves. I bow to anyone who finds the motivation to organize a closet or clean out the basement when I can only seem to find more excuses to put off taking down the Christmas tree.   Call me weird, but I prefer to make my annual resolutions in October, around my birthday, because it is so much easier to make a fresh start at a time of year when I imagine that the warm blue days and flaming autumn colors are applauding my resolve. 

Life in the Eruv

One Friday night, there is a gentle knock on my front door—so gentle, that I almost don’t hear it. When I step out onto the front porch, I see Benjamin, a young Jewish neighbor who has come to ask for my help. I live in what is known as an eruv in West Denver, an enclave with defined boundaries in which members of the Orthodox community can more easily observe the complex rules of their religion. I’m not sure how or why but years ago, my Jewish neighbors unofficially designated me the Shabbats Goy, which means that I’m a non-Jew who is often called upon to perform certain small tasks that are forbidden by Jewish law during the Sabbath. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the use of electricity is prohibited, so my duties usually involve the simple flick of a switch. This time, I follow Benjamin to his house anticipating the subtle clues which will circumspectly guide me to the task at hand. According to Talmudic law, to ask someone to complete a task is as egregious an offense as actually doing it.
We enter the house which is full of family members either sitting in the living room or studying scripture at the dining room table.  Benjamin leads me into the kitchen and casually mentions that the slow cooker on the counter was previously set on high. I look at the dial and notice that it is set on low so I turn it back to the high setting and look at Benjamin who grins at me conspiratorially and nods in satisfaction. He thanks me and formally presents me with a bottle of Zinfandel wine which I try to refuse.
“It’s not necessary”, I protest.
 “Yes” he pushes the bottle at me, “it is. We’re very appreciative.”
So I graciously accept the wine thinking it best not to mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clutching my gift, I wish the family a blessed Passover as I leave and walk home smiling because I am so grateful to live in a neighborhood where this unique religious tradition survives. But what makes my neighborhood so distinctive is that it not only accommodates the Orthodox Jewish community, but boasts a much broader cultural and economic diversity as well. In 1986, after separating from my second husband, I bought a lovely old brick house from an elderly Jewish widow. I was drawn to the inner city neighborhood because it was centrally located, but was also refreshingly different from the homogenous middle-class suburb in the foothills outside of Denver where I had lived during my marriage. I found the melding of Hispanic, Jewish, blue-collar and yuppie cultures exciting and the wide tree lined streets and brick homes charming.
 My soon to be ex–husband caustically asked, “How can you live down there with all the thieves and drug addicts?”
 I dismissed his opinion as narrow minded, but once I got settled into my new community, the charm wore off and I soon discovered that living in West Denver is not for the faint of heart. The police helicopter regularly patrolled the neighborhood at night, shining a bright shaft of light intrusively into my windows. I spewed when I heard loud music or worse, gun shots late at night. Prostitution was a thriving business on nearby West Colfax Avenue and I often found used condoms in the alley behind my house. Every time my next door neighbor parked a dilapidated truck on his front lawn, I cringed in embarrassment. Between tattooed bikers, incessantly barking dogs and a crack house two doors down, I felt like I was trapped in a darkly humorous Fellini film. I stood it for six years before putting my house up for rent and fleeing, vowing that I would never live in West Denver again. But after seven years of exile, during which I wandered the world, I decided to move back to my house so that I could fix it up and unload it for a profit. I did fix it up but twelve years later, I’m still here, passionately in love with my urban niche. I could claim that there are different people living here who have improved the neighborhood, but that is only true to a point. I attribute the shift in my attitude not only to my world travels but also to the inner changes that I’ve experienced as I advance through the lessons of my Earthly class room.


While I’m still not fond of loud music and barking dogs, I appreciate the authentic and vital energy created by the diversity that has organically evolved in my community over time. I have learned that it’s better to focus on the common thread of shared values that binds us together as neighbors, such as family loyalty, fierce individuality, and a respect for age old traditions. It’s still a quirky and eccentric little neighborhood, but then I’m a quirky and eccentric person and the more compassion I have for my own human foibles, the slower I am to judge others. If it’s true that my outer world is merely a reflection of what’s going on in my inner world, then I’m more at home here now because I’m more at peace with myself.

Change is Normal

     This morning as I go to check my e-mails, I discover, to my annoyance, that my Internet service has been ‘improved’. It is my opinion that the old system was perfectly fine, but then, no one asked me. I curse and swear as I try to figure out how to access my e-mail, but after fifteen minutes of acute aggravation, I am forced to call tech support. I navigate through the automated menu with gritted teeth and get put on hold forever before finally hearing a cheerful human voice which identifies itself as "Hello, I'm Ivan-how-may-I-help-you-today"? As the voice named Ivan patiently attempts to guide me through the new steps of the system, I maintain a running commentary on how inconvenient and confusing it is.
 “But, we added all of these extra steps to protect you”, says Ivan earnestly, “We did it because we love our customers.”
By now, I’m so firmly entrenched in my victim swamp that I need to put a face on my tormentors.
 “Who thought this whole thing up anyway?” I demand irately.
 “Why, the developers did.” Ivan promptly replies.
 Immediately I envision a group of twenty somethings all hopped up on 5 Hour Energy drink, plotting how they can have a little fun with us technologically challenged civilians.
“Well, the only thing they’ve helped me to develop is a giant headache” I snap back.
 Ivan apologizes profusely again. I manage to mutter insincerely that I know it’s not his fault.
 In a soothing voice he probably acquired in “Dealing with Hostile Customers 101”, he calmly assures me, “I promise you’ll get used to it. Change is normal.”

     Tell me about it. I’m sure I could teach my buddy Ivan a thing or two about change. I’ve been in transition for at least four years during which time I commuted to California to earn a master’s degree, changed careers, and got married. The only aspects of my life that have stayed the same are my cats and my 12 year old Subaru. I’m not complaining because all of these changes were self-imposed at the prompting of a strong intuition which insists on nudging me into the unknown. Even when an unexpected change has come from left field, there has not been a single lost contract, failed relationship, or disappointing outcome that hasn’t contributed to my wisdom and growth. On some level, I have always understood that change is an evolutionary force which keeps me moving forward into ever greater levels of expression. What I sometimes don’t handle so well is the discomfort and grief of letting go of the old as I’m making the transition into new territory. When my husband Frank and I made the decision to live together in my house a couple of years ago, I was a catatonic mess for the first few weeks after he moved in. I had cherished living alone in my female sanctuary and my ego kept harping that I was too selfish and inflexible to accommodate another person in my space. I would have been happy to maintain separate households indefinitely, but I would have skunked myself out of the full experience of intimacy--football games on Sunday, smelly gym socks, upended toilet seats, and all. I’m happy to report that marrying my guy has proven to be one of those elegant choices which has greatly enhanced my life and supported my growth.
    
    The process of changing careers, after almost forty years in the broadcast industry has gone somewhat smoother because I’ve been intent on entering a life of service as a lay chaplain and am willing to pay the price of admission. I gave up my old career with only a tiny bit of whining; managed to survive the culture shock of being thrust into the alien environment of a hospital; and have labored through yet another year of agonizing self-scrutiny without having a nervous breakdown. The only snag is that employment in this field continues to elude me, but I know there are no short-cuts, so I’m trying to regard this time in the neutral zone as a gift of rich creativity and introspection.

     Lest I should be lulled into thinking I have it all figured out, along comes the e-mail drama to remind me that my funny little habits are like a minefield riddled with active mines that have the potential to explode in my face and destroy my peace if I let them. From the level of upset I am feeling over the disruption of my internet service, it is painfully apparent that my daily routines are a stronghold for my ego-my ever faithful colluder in upholding the illusion that I have control of my life.
  
     I guess I should be grateful for this opportunity to defuse one more landmine in my consciousness. Next time I sit down at my computer, I’ll say the Serenity Prayer and forgive myself for behaving like a rabid dog.