The old woman and the mouse

 An old widow named Helen lives in a small cottage in a small village in England. This is her hometown and she has moved back after 60 years living in Australia. She lives alone with her memories. She knows no one in the village and no one knows her.

She walks down the hill and into town once a week to buy a few vegetables, a meat pie, yogurt, and a pastry for a treat, all she can carry back home. Sometimes she stands in her living room and looks out the curtains, watching her neighbors. She has developed a strange habit of poking about in people’s discarded garbage, to see if there is anything interesting she can bring home. Just a strange old woman.

Helen is the protagonist of Sipsworth, a novel by Simon Van Booy (2024), a story of an old woman and a mouse. It has insights about aging that are worth reflecting on.

As the story opens, Helen has pretty much given up on life and is waiting for death.

“Returning after sixty years, Helen had felt her particular circumstances special: just as she had once been singled out for happiness, she was now an object of despair. But then after so many consecutive months alone, she came to the realization that such feelings were simply the conditions of old age and largely the same for everybody. Truly, there was no escape. Those who in life had held back in matters of love would end up in bitterness. While the people like her, who had filled the corners of each day, found themselves marooned on a scatter of memories….”

“She isn’t taking any medicine, nor does she need and creams, powders, tonics, or lozenges. The only real proof of her advanced age are a chronic, persistent feeling of defeat, aching limbs, and the power of invisibility to anyone between the ages of ten and fifty.”

One night things change for Helen. She watches from her window as a neighbor hauls some boxes out to the curb to be carted away as garbage in the morning. She waits until he leaves and all is quiet in the neighborhood, then she sneaks across the street for a peek. Among the assembled items she finds an old fish tank filled with plastic water toys and a few boxes. One of the toys reminds her of something her son once owned. So, with a great deal of effort, she lifts and carries the tank back to her house and deposits it on her living room floor. She then goes upstairs to take a bath, worn out by the activity.

Once recovered from her adventure, she discovers a mouse in a box in the bottom of the tank. It shocks her; she has no desire to share her home with a rodent. But over the next two weeks, the woman and the mouse make a mutual connection. She names him Sipsworth. Her new responsibility to care for the critter forces her into the village to meet people—the clerk at Ace Hardware, the librarian (for a book on caring for mice), a vet, and, eventually, medical personnel in the local hospital as Sipsworth has an emergency that needs surgery. The book highlights the need all mammals (including humans) have for relationship and the possibility for change at any age.

But something else in the story spoke to me. In the beginning we have the picture of a solitary old lady, set in her ways, living in her memories, and developing some strange habits. It’s a stereotype of a typical old person and, although I felt sympathy, I perceived her as pathetic. But as the story nears its climax, the nurse in the hospital recognizes her name, Helen Cartwright, and realizes that she was once the Head of Pediatric Cardiology of the Sydney General Hospital and inventor of the Cartwright Aortic Stem Valve, used to save the lives of hundreds of people. She was famous in her day.

This, of course, changes the way people now see this strange old woman. And it certainly changed the way I had been reading the story. I was surprised, but I noticed there were hints all through the story that things were not as they seemed.

I’ve experienced being treated as an “old person” in the doctor’s office and the grocery line. I’ve experienced being invisible in other social settings. I’ve wanted to say, “There’s more to me than my wrinkles and walking stick!” But, of course, I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

And I take joy in the fact that where I’m living now, I’m surrounded by friends and people who take the trouble to know one another. Age doesn’t matter, since we’re all old!

But more than wanting people to see me as a person rather than as a stage in life, I’m asking myself how I see other people, especially other older people I don’t know. I’m realizing that I often look at them with the same stereotypical perspective, especially if they “look” old and grumpy and mussed up. I don’t feel compelled to get to know them. They aren’t attractive.

(How I perceive young women with purple hair and noses rings is much the same problem.)

I feel a sense of conviction. Helen looked old and grumpy and mussed up. And I think I do too at times. Learning how to see people as God sees them isn’t automatic. It’s hard. It’s something to be aware of and to work at.

A person’s age and how they look don’t define them. People are full of surprises. Especially old people. I don’t want to miss out on any of it.

A baby, a book, and playing with words

 I know I’m a bit old for this, but I gave birth last week. So far the baby is not doing much more than sleeping, but she’s about to wake up.

Her name is The Language of Light: poems of wit, whimsy, and (maybe) wisdom.

That’s right. The baby is a book. A new poetry book and I’m pretty excited about it.

Having a book published is very much like having a baby. First comes conception when a seed is planted and gets fertilized. And then come the work and the long wait. This period of labor took about two years and involved a certain amount of pain. But now it’s over. And she’s lovely. I can’t wait for you to meet her. (I’d even say I’ll sell her to you, but that’s taking a metaphor too far.)

This book is a little different than my previous collections of poetry. It’s not mystical, heavy, or complex. (Actually, neither were the others.) It’s light in the sense of laughter. It’s a recognition that humor produces a certain lightness of spirit. It lifts us up and gives a more gracious perspective of reality. Humor can also turn stuff on its head, helping us see people/problems/culture (especially our own culture) from a different viewpoint.

But it’s not just laughs I hope to achieve. I also use the word light in the sense of illumination. Often laughter precedes insight. I hope some of the poems in the book do that.

You can decide for yourself. I’m having a book launch this coming Friday at 3:00 in the auditorium of the Retirement Community. I’ll be reading poems from the book. These events always give me the jitters beforehand. I ask myself silly questions: Will anyone come? Will they like the poems? Or will they throw lettuce? (You would never do that, would you?)

More than anything, I think the book is playful. I love language. I especially love the English language. And I love playing with words. So I hope the event will let us all participate in some lightness and play.

Rather than share some of my poems in this blog, I’m going to post a poem my granddaughter Gwen wrote a year ago.

Grandma’s Poems

A small collection of Grandma’s poems
lay scattered over my bed.
As I soaked in the rich creativity
I happened upon a small poem.
It was a silly play on words
and I could hear her laughter as I read it.
At the bottom in her
curvy haphazard handwriting
were the words,

“Play. Just play.”

Advice from her I will
hold with all seriousness.
Play is no joke
for genius is born from it.
I have the proof right here,
scattered over my bed.

 

[Note: speaking of Gwen and babies, my granddaughter recently gave birth to a real baby and is now learning the joys of motherhood. She’s finding that playing with little Ariah is even more fun than playing with words.]

 

Grandma goes camping

 Hal and I went on our last tent-camping trip just before the pandemic hit. We were five-years younger than we are now and beginning to feel the physical challenges of “roughing it.” In fact, we came home one day earlier than we had intended. That was then.

The camping trip I went on last week was not anywhere near wilderness camping. I attended a women’s retreat at a Christian campground. Only mildly primitive. But, even so….

The grounds were rustic, something a group of middle-school kids would relish. I’m years removed from middle-school, and “relish” is not a word I would use about last week. I’m speaking of the physical realities, not the spiritual experience. I had to take my old sleeping bag out of storage. It had been a while and I had not remembered how restrictive sleeping bags are. I’m a restless sleeper these nights, so as I turned over, parts of the bag turned with me and other parts stayed put. I ended up in a twisted tunnel of bedding and had to pull and tug a bit to get comfortable. This happened multiple times throughout the night.

The simple wooden bunkbeds were arranged in rows in cabins. Five of us slept in my cabin, which meant none of us had to occupy a top bunk. (In that case, I would have gone right home.) It also meant little privacy, which one can live with for a limited time. But the bathroom was housed in a separate building which presented a problem. As you all know, older bladders shrink, along with other internal organs, which can mean multiple trips to the bathroom. But one can also adapt to that situation if it’s for a limited time. I just kept my slippers, robe, and flashlight close to the bed. However, those forays out into the night made it harder to get back to sleep. (Stop, grumbling, Nancy, I told myself over and over. It could be worse. You’ll live.)

I didn’t sleep at all the second night which was especially problematical since the following day was the all-day fast out in the wilderness. Actually, I had been looking forward to it. I fast at home sometimes, usually for 24 hours. This was a longer fast. We were all sent out to find private spaces in the forest or along the river. We were given a back pack with a notebook of spiritual teachings and prompts for reflection and writing, and a supply of water and sports-drinks. We also carried a folding camp chair.

I knew it would turn out to be a warm day, so I dressed lightly. First mistake. The morning was cold. I had chosen a large field with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. But the tall trees to the side kept the sun from reaching the field and I began to shiver. Then shake. My dizziness increased and I did not feel spiritual at all. I finally got up and went seeking another spot, finally finding a lovely place in the forest with sun coming through the trees and a view of the river. But two hours had passed in the meantime.

Our pack included sports drinks, which I usually don’t consume, but I thought that extra electrolytes would help me, so I drank both bottles, noting how much they tasted like colonoscopy preparation.

I made it through the day, fighting my lack of sleep and my dizziness the whole time. When we gathered at the meeting room at the end of the day, our leaders led us through some debriefing exercises. They went on longer than I had hoped for; I was anticipating a small nourishing meal to end the day. Then our leader told us our fast would end at breakfast the next day. Slight let-down. But sleep awaited.

And I did sleep well. After breakfast the next morning, I discovered why the sports-drinks had tasted like colonoscopy prep. They were colonoscopy prep. Or very near to the real thing. I experienced painless but uncontrollable diarrhea all morning long, meaning I could not participate fully in the teaching. I did manage to sit in the back of the room by the door in case I needed to dash out. The staff was understanding, even did an extra load of laundry for me. But I was exhausted.

OK. So much for this tale of woe!

In spite of the challenges, by the end of the week I had no doubts that the Holy Spirit had touched and refreshed me. I was meant to be at that retreat. I wondered why at different points. Most of the teaching and the experiences the staff led us in I had been experiencing all my life. It wasn’t new stuff. But I came to realize that certain spiritual practices never get old, that for the rest of my life I still need to seek healing for past hurts and wounds, to let the Spirit reveal areas of sin in my life that need confessing, show me people and events that I still need to forgive. This is all deep stuff and the Spirit ministered to me in all these areas.

Even during that long, difficult day of fasting. At one point near the end of the day, a phrase popped out of one of the readings and I felt God giving it to me, something to carry with me into the future. The phrase was Live the glory! I’m looking forward to understanding what that means. Near the end of the afternoon, we were told to open the packet of letters written to us by family and friends. Hal had collected them in the weeks before the camp. The letters were like light coming through the leaves, warming and blessing me. Through the letters, I received a second word from God: Write the glory! An affirmation of my life’s calling. Yes.

The blessing and refreshing touched all of us at the retreat, regardless of age. It’s good to remember that.

However, I need to consider the physical challenges the next time I have a retreat or camping opportunity. Hal and I are still hanging on to our little two-person tent, the camping stove and dishes, the blow-up mattresses, the sleeping bags, and other valuable paraphernalia. Sunday evening as I was telling him about my experience at the retreat, I added, I think it’s time to give away all that stuff to whichever grandkid wants it.

In fact, maybe we could exchange our camping equipment for a few nights at a resort hotel. That sort of camping I can still do.

Late bloomers

 It’s almost October, the time when flowers fade and leaves fall. But I’m amazed at the wealth of flowers still blooming here at the retirement center. It seems unseasonable, but I’m not complaining.

On the fifth floor where I live, we have a communal balcony. Three of my neighbors—Marlene, Phyllis, and Sarah—have voluntarily created and now maintain a spectacular garden of potted flowers. The geraniums, marigolds, daisies, petunias, and others make this a wonderful place to sit and read a book or visit with friends. Hummingbirds regularly flit about the feeder.

Downstairs a terrace off the main dining room is my favorite place to eat when the weather cooperates (as it is so generously doing these weeks). But more than the weather, the boxes and pots of flowers add to the beauty. Again, a resident volunteer, Mary Sue, regularly waters and prunes these flowers.

The path down in the canyon is shaded and most of the wildflowers have died, but I still find blooms that make me stop and smile.

Our community garden has enjoyed an abundant summer season, outdoing itself in flowers and veggies, even a few fruit trees and berry bushes. Hal and I are not seasoned gardeners, and I was again surprised when plants actually did come up out of the ground and then grew. And grew and grew. We know we need to learn better how and when to prune. I loved the abundance, but the jungle-like appearance of our plot made me embarrassed. No matter. The flowers are still outdoing themselves.

Some would say that for us older folks our season of blooming is past. That we’re slowly pushing our walkers into the fall of life, with winter just ahead. And yet—I’ve never seen so many beautiful blossoms concentrated in one place. I’m talking about the people who live here. Funny people. People with rich stories to tell. People with colorful personalities and interesting lives. People who are facing the reality of growing older with courage and humor. What a garden!

And I’m a part of it. I’ve just recently realized that while I’ve never before faced the physical challenges I’m currently struggling with, the quality of my life has never been more rich, creative, colorful, or beautiful than it is right now. I feel this way most days (not all days, of course).

As a teenager, I was a late bloomer, a fact that caused me grief but got resolved over time.

And here I am in a retirement center, once again a late bloomer. Living among a bunch of funny bright blooming idiots. But we’re not crazy. We’re just having fun and enjoying our garden.

 

[Note: I’m posting this essay early this week because I leave tomorrow for a week-long retreat. Part of our discipline will be giving up use of all electronic devices. No computers, cell phones, iPads, etc. I think I’ll survive. Actually, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll report back next week.]

Cognitive decline and forgiveness

 Our Sunday school class has been going through a series on forgiveness. This week’s class focused on forgiveness and cognitive decline. (The majority of class members are over 60.) I found it enlightening. The teacher, Pat Stone, retired psychologist, gave me permission to share some of his material.

At the beginning of the class, Pat gave us a list of five words to remember, just like the nurse does in my annual wellness exam. The words were grass, computer, atom, lumber, fly. I can’t remember words or numbers out of context so I quickly made up a story I could visualize; I saw Adam (how I misheard atom) at his computer which was sitting on a piece of lumber out in the grass (the Garden of Eden), but he couldn’t get any work done because of a pesky fly. I managed to remember, but I couldn’t say the words without describing the picture. What does that say about my aging brain?

Pat told us that fluid intelligence is the ability to think, solve problems, and identify complex relationships. As our brain physically shrinks with age, this kind of intelligence decreases. This is true of everyone, whether or not they have dementia. The good news is that crystallized intelligence, the accumulation of a life-time of learning and experience, seems to become stronger with age. Wisdom can enter the picture. That’s hopeful.

Forgiveness, our teacher informed us, is a complex cognitive activity which is, of course, affected by age. Our ability to recognize we’ve hurt or have offended someone and therefore need to ask forgiveness can grow dim, as can our ability to remember that we have been forgiven. Along with that, the ability to forgive others gets more difficult as we tend to re-live old hurts.

Pat shared some characteristics of the aging brain, all of which affect our ability to forgive or to know that we need to be forgiven. These characteristics can increase as we grow older.

Perseveration is the retelling of the same thoughts and events that triggered negative emotions in the past. If it results in an endless mental/emotional loop, that makes forgiveness very difficult.

Confabulation is mixing the stories, putting together different unrelated events and thoughts from the past, resulting in a kind of personal mythology. How can one even know what to forgive?

Anxiety and depression can accompany the grieving process as the person faces what she’s lost. The inward focus precludes an attitude of forgiveness.

Disinhibition is the loss of ability to screen thoughts and emotions. The person can sound abrupt and insensitive. This characteristic goes along with impulsivity. Rather than Feel, Stop, Think, and then Act, the person is reduced to Feel, then Act. Family members need to understand and forgive.

Aphasia refers to the loss of ability to find the right word, or to have the word in the mind but not be able to say it. Years ago, I experienced this when I got soroche, or altitude sickness, in Bolivia. I knew what I wanted to say, but only nonsense came out my mouth. I was young at the time. Now I’m not, but I increasingly know the frustration of not being able to bring the right word to mind in a conversation. This may not be a full-blown case of aphasia, but it seems to be a common part of aging. How would that affect forgiveness?

Loss of executive functioning, of being able to think clearly, solve problems, or “put it all together,” also makes it difficult to seek or give forgiveness.

Other characteristics include putting on a social façade because the person doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, so chooses to pretend. Or he chooses withdrawal into silence. Both indicate a separation from the surrounding reality. A person who can’t respond can’t forgive or receive forgiveness.

And then there’s the need of the caregiver of the elderly. Compassion fatigue may make it hard to keep on an even emotional level. Patience and continual forgiveness can get difficult, especially if behavior triggers past hurts and emotions. That’s why it isn’t always a good idea for family members to be the caretakers.

As I read all this back, it seems so dark and negative, like a worse-cast-scenario. I think these characteristics describe tendencies some of which we’re all beginning to exhibit, but that they refer more to people at the end of life. The very old.  And not all of the very old exhibit all these characteristics. I think of friends and family members who lived into their eighties and nineties (and even beyond) who, while forgetful and a little distanced from reality, managed to keep the same sweet disposition they carried all their lives.

One thing the study highlights for me is the need to keep up-to-date on forgiving and asking for forgiveness—while we still have our wits about us. We may need to forgive people who have harmed us in the past, pardoning in our hearts if a face-to-face encounter is not possible. Or we may need to ask someone to forgive us. Now may be the right time.

I think of a very short poem by Canadian poet Suzanne Buffam:

On Forgiveness

It is best to forgive all sins in advance
Because afterward can be hard.

In this case in advance means “before we get too old.”

Even with the difficult connections between growing older and forgiveness, we do have the presence of the Holy Spirit who lives within us and changes seeming impossibilities into realities. And a God who understands us and loves us as much when we’re old as he ever did.

Pat ended the class with a wonderful teaching from the Apostol Paul:

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Technology for oldsters (who are NOT dummies)

 Last week I had to take my computer into a repair shop. I chose a local repairman with a good reputation. He turned out to be a young man, very casual and rather unkempt, as is the fashion among the young. The shop was in his garage. Even so, he seemed competent and I tend to be trusting. As it turned out, my trust was justified.

We first starting using a computer in the 1980s, while our kids were still living with us and we were serving the church in Bolivia. We had heard about personal computers and were attracted to the idea; much of my work on the field was in writing textbooks and taking council minutes as secretary. Hal spent a lot of time in class preparation. We figured a computer would help us.

While on a furlough back in Oregon, we approached our mission board with a request that they help us purchase a computer. Computers were even more expensive then than they are now. The board deliberated, then told us they had decided that personal computers were too experimental and probably a passing fad. If we wanted to purchase our own, they wouldn’t protest, but they certainly were not going to spend the offerings of the church on a whim.

We took a leap of faith and bought a Mac, at that time a big, heavy, grey, boxy machine, and a challenge to carry with us on the plane back to Bolivia. We learned how to use it with a little help from the handbook and a seminary course before we left for the field. We were total technological neophytes.

Of course it helped us, cutting our working time in half. (A few years later, the mission board began supplying computers for all their workers.) Since then, we’ve gone through quite a few computers and now we each own one. I depend on mine as I continue writing and editing.

But I have to admit that I don’t understand the inner workings or most of the surface applications. I tend to stick to what is helpful to me. And as the technology is advancing, I am definitely not keeping up. Is that due to age and resistance to change? I hope not, but maybe a little.

I’ve developed my own way of fixing small glitches, such as a frozen screen, or the appearance of little wavy lines running across my document. I shut down the computer, using the escape button if the machine is frozen; I then close the lid and pat the computer, saying comforting words like, “There. There. You’ll be fine. Just rest a while.” Then I leave it off overnight. In the morning all is well again.

Here in the retirement community, we have opportunities to grow technologically, with a dedicated computer room complete with tutorials. A staff technician comes to our apartments when we need help. The community website provides activity announcements, dinner menus, addresses of all residents, communications (including this blog), and much more. Free internet service is part of the deal.

Of course, not every resident here takes advantage of this. Many of the older members of the community don’t own a computer and are not in condition to adopt the leap into technology it would require. And some just stubbornly say, “No! I don’t need that!” But most of us are able to take at least minimal advantage of computers and other resources on the internet. The stereotype of the old person totally rejecting computer technology or too mentally diminished to use it is just not true of most of us. We’re not dim-witted. It makes me mad when I hear people give instructions like, “Just explain it like you would to your grandmother.” Or worse, “That’s so simple even my grandpa could get it.”

Stop it!

Most of us here are “life-long learners” (lovely phrase). We’re far from finished learning new skills and that includes technological skills.

Maybe someday I’ll get so feeble I’ll turn off my computer for good. But even then, I’ll probably want one of those machines that has a name and talks to me. I’ll ask it to read out loud Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Well, maybe not that one. How about Winnie the Pooh? Then I’ll ask it to sing me to sleep with a lullaby. And it will.

Good night.

Eight-year-old children and eighty-year-old children

 

I subscribe to a Frederick Buechner daily email quotation. The son-in-law of the late author manages the site, posting daily excerpts from Buechner’s many books. Buechner is one of my favorite writers. His insights can be both profound and funny at the same time, always well-written. I look forward to my daily connection with him. Today as I sat down to decide on the topic for my next weekly blog posting, I decided to read the Buechner quote-of-the-day first. The posting is entitled simply, “Old Age.” “How appropriate,” I said to myself. More of a short essay than a single quotation, Buechner writes of the similarities between eight-year-old children and 80-year-old children. It was originally published in the book Whistling in the Dark. I couldn’t have said any of this better than he did, so I decided to share the essay with you. “OLD AGE” by Frederick Buechner

“OLD AGE IS NOT, as the saying goes, for sissies. There are some lucky ones who little by little slow down to be sure, but otherwise go on to the end pretty much as usual. For the majority, however, it's like living in a house that's in increasing need of repairs. The plumbing doesn't work right anymore. There are bats in the attic. Cracked and dusty, the windows are hard to see through, and there's a lot of creaking and groaning in bad weather. The exterior could use a coat of paint. And so on. The odd thing is that the person living in the house may feel, humanly speaking, much as always. The eighty-year-old body can be in precarious shape, yet the spirit within as full of beans as ever. If that leads senior citizens to think of all the things they'd still love to do but can't anymore, it only makes things worse. But it needn't work that way. “Second childhood commonly means something to steer clear of, but it can also mean something else. It can mean that if your spirit is still more or less intact, one of the benefits of being an old crock is that you can enjoy again something of what it's like being a young squirt.  “Eight-year-olds, like eighty-year-olds, have lots of things they'd love to do but can't because they know they aren't up to them, so they learn to play instead. Eighty-year-olds might do well to take notice. They can play at being eighty-year-olds, for instance. Stiff knees and hearing aids, memory loss and poor eyesight are no fun, but there are those who marvelously survive them by somehow managing to see them as, among other things and in spite of all, a little funny.  “Another thing is that, if part of the pleasure of being a child the first time round is that you don't have to prove yourself yet, part of the pleasure of being a child the second time round is that you don't have to prove yourself any longer. You can be who you are and say what you feel, and let the chips fall where they may.  “Very young children and very old children also have in common the advantage of being able to sit on the sideline of things. While everybody else is in there jockeying for position and sweating it out, they can lean back, put their feet up, and like the octogenarian King Lear ‘pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.’"  “Very young children and very old children also seem to be in touch with something that the rest of the pack has lost track of. There is something bright and still about them at their best, like the sun before breakfast. Both the old and the young get scared sometimes about what lies ahead of them, and with good reason, but you can't help feeling that whatever inner goldenness and peace they're in touch with will see them through in the end.”