Mighty Mouse saves the day

It’s Saturday morning as I write this, approaching 7:00. I’ve already been up several hours. This is my favorite part of the day, setting the stage for whatever else happens. If it’s gone well, as it usually does, my heart is at peace and my mind awake. My body is as ready as it can be for the challenges of the day. And I’m hungry.

I think back to the Saturday mornings of my childhood. That was one of the happiest parts of the week, but entirely different from what my mornings are like now. Saturday mornings meant—Saturday morning cartoon time! My parents exercised strict control over our family’s big, boxy, black-n-white TV set. They decided what we would all watch together in the evenings, mostly comedies like “The Honeymooners,” “I Love Lucy,” or “The Jack Benny Show.” We liked being together and we kids learned to laugh at the same jokes my dad laughed at. But TV time was strictly limited.

Saturday morning was the blessed exception. Beginning at 7:00, Tommy, Becky, and I, still in our pajamas, would sit on the floor in front of the Big Box. Mom would turn it on and the marathon would begin. Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Daffy Duck, Tom and Jerry, Popeye the Sailor Man, Betty Boop, and a score of others entertained us, made us howl with laughter, passed on to us some of our culture’s precious values. For several wonder-filled hours.

The variety was good, but I had my favorites. The following poem tells about one of them:

Saving the Day

‘Here I am to save the day,’
means that Mighty Mouse is on the way!

Every Saturday morning
Mighty Mouse saved the day,
even though the day
didn’t know it needed saving.
We three kids sat on the rug
in front of the old black ‘n white
TV, cartoon-happy.
We grinned in wonder
at the Mouse’s amazing feats.
Not at all like the grinning Mickey
or the simpering Minnie,
Mighty Mouse swooped down
from the sky, his puffed out
chest and hero suit a sure sign
help was coming.
Time and time again Mighty
saved the day, rescuing it
from the clutches of night
and from all that was dark
in the world of animals
and little kids.
This minuscule
but valiant rodent
let us know that justice
would prevail,
although at nine-years-old,
I didn’t know what that meant.
But he did, indeed,
save my day.
Every Saturday morning
at 8:00 am.

I’ve always loved movies. Occasionally our parents took us three kids out for a drive-in movie night. We saw all the Walt Disney movies. Enchanting. In the adult years when we lived in Bolivia, movies were a thing of the past, partly because of the legalistic nature of the churches we were working with. (We made an exception when “The Gods Must Be Crazy” came to town.)

Since then, things have changed for the better. There came the time when we purchased a video player. A few years later it became a DVD player. Now, of course, we stream movies directly through the internet. We have to discipline ourselves not to overdo what we’d previously been starved for. (Actually, I had felt the lack, not Hal. Movies were not part of his growing-up years.)

And now we’re retired. If I wanted, I could completely indulge. I’ve got the time. And sometimes, I do indulge, especially if I let myself get hooked into a good series, like “Madam Secretary” on Netflix. I confess I’ve watched “Downton Abbey” several times.

But there’s something inside me that checks this indulgence. I’m not sure I’d like the person I might turn into if I watched too many movies—overweight, flabby muscles, lazy brain. Am I exaggerating? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

It’s not so much that as it is there are better ways to spend my time. Even though I stay seated to read a book, my brain stays engaged. I could also walk outside under the trees, visit a friend, join an exercise class, play in the garden, write a poem, etc., etc. You know the list. But it’s true. It’s good to be reminded.

Not that I’ll give up movies. No need for such an extreme reaction. A good movie relaxes me, makes me laugh, and can even give me something to think about. But I’m determined not to let characters portrayed on the screen become my chief form of relaxation, laughter, or food for thought. People do that for me. Real right-here-in-the-flesh people. Actual life lived rather than watched.

I need more than Mighty Mouse to save my days.

Notice: What I’m about to say now has nothing to do with movies or Mighty Mouse. But I just have to announce that yesterday I met my brand-new great-granddaughter, Ariah Hope Burgi. Very little at just under five lbs., but heathy and growing. Such a miracle. Life just goes on and on. Welcome to the family, little girl. We love you already.

Benefits of the aging brain

 The title of this blog seems counter-intuitive. It's almost contradictory. The phrase “aging brain” naturally brings to mind terms like “cognitive impairment” (nasty scary phrase), decline, dementia, or, at the least, forgetfulness and “senior moments.” But benefits? Is the aging brain in some ways superior to the young or middle-aged brain?

That’s what Ashton Applewhite, author of This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism, claims. At the beginning of her chapter on “The Older Brain”, she makes several affirmations:

--“Serious mental decline is not a normal or inevitable part of aging.”
--“Most forgetfulness is not Alzheimer’s, or dementia, or even necessarily a sign of cognitive impairment.”
--“About 20 percent of people in their nineties seem to escape cognitive decline entirely, and continue to perform as well as middle-aged people.”

Applewhite recognizes the realities of cognitive decline and dementia, something that causes fear in most of us. She also admits to what she calls “basic brain aging.” This refers to things like a decreasing ability to recall names or numbers on demand. It seems to getting harder to find the right words or remember where we left our glasses. Missing appointments happens more often. I’m no longer able to multitask like I did when I was a younger more productive woman. It’s easier to be distracted; I notice this when I try to contemplate or pray. All of this happens.

So, what are the benefits of the aging brain? Applewhite devotes most of the chapter to the following positive traits (that I sincerely hope are true):

--The aging brain is more emotionally resilient. She writes that “As we turn eighty, brain imaging shows frontal lobe changes that improve our ability to deal with negative emotions like anger, envy, and fear.” Apparently we have less social anxiety and fewer social phobias. “Even as its discrete processing skills degrade, the normal aging brain enables greater emotional maturity, adaptability to change, and levels of well-being.”

I can see that. While I still experience negative emotions and what I consider immature reactions to situations, in general I’m more at ease with my life. I used to be painfully shy, even into my middle years, but now I’m freer to speak up, hold my own in a group discussion, and even assume leadership roles. Sometime I look at myself and am amazed. And when I experience those angry or envious feelings, I recognize them, tell myself to “snap out of it and grow up!” Sometimes I listen to myself. (Sometimes I don’t.)

--“Brain changes can boost creativity.” Grandma Moses is a case in point. She didn’t start painting until her older years. Several friends have also discovered a talent for painting since they retired. I know I’ve never been as creatively active, but I also know I’ve never had so much time for writing, painting, or playing my guitar. Is leisure time the cause of my creative burst? Partly, of course. Is it also the benefit of my artistically aging brain? I’d like to think so.

-- Aging gives one the ability to use both sides of the brain. Now that idea fascinates me. When I was younger, I was good at school stuff (reading, writing, and even arithmetic, believe it or not) but I also loved to write poetry and dream up imaginary countries. So was I a left brain (reason) person or was I right brain (intuition)? I was told it had to be predominately one or the other.. Applewhite writes that “A 2001 brain imaging study out of Duke University showed that while younger subjects relied predominantly on one side of the brain or the other (depending on the task), older people began to use both sides in a more synchronized way.” Interesting. She means both at once, an ability to draw on both reason and intuition when facing a situation. Again, that’s something I’d like to think was true. True integration of personality. Sounds wholesome.

--“The older brain has access to more information.”  That seems logical, as long as we can remember all the information we have access to. Her application of this idea borders on hilarious. She says that “When a word or phrase takes time to come to mind, the pause may reflect not decline but mental processes at work. According to a growing number of studies, the apparent lapse reflects the fact that older brains are sifting through the store of information accumulated over a lifetime, filtering, placing information in context.” Concerning not being able to come up with the right word, Applewhite proposes that “Since older, educated people have larger vocabularies than people who haven’t been around as long…. it takes longer to find a word… because it’s a bigger job.”

So the next time I’m awkwardly groping for the right word, I’ll just say, “I know that word. Be patient. My experienced brain is processing my encyclopedic treasure trove of information. It’ll be worth your wait.”

--The aging brain has more ability to assimilate and prioritize information. Applewhite calls this wisdom. It’s a capacity for integration and an ability to handle ambiguity. “Wisdom allows for seemingly contradictory ideas or events to exist in our minds with less dissonance.”  If this is true, we older people may be better able to handle the current political situation. But so far, I see us elders as frustrated and confused as the rest of the country. Maybe we just need more processing time. Then we will be at ease with it all and share our conclusions with the electorate. I hope this happens before November.

I like Applewhite’s positive take on the aging brain. It gives me hope. But I do wonder about some things. For example, it seems to me these benefits are not automatic. Wouldn’t they apply mainly to people who have lived a reasonably good life, who, while not perfect, have gradually matured in positive ways. Do people not reap what they sow? What about people who have lived through trauma and not received healing? Does old age heal? I think not, not age alone. And how cross-cultural are these conclusions? Does the brain age differently in different cultures? Does the aging brain of a Cherokee or an Aymara person respond differently than that of the middle-class North American? Does this list of the benefits of the aging brain express something universal about human beings? Or do cultural and personal variables make a difference? I wonder.

In the meantime, I’ll take all the good news I can get.

If I can’t figure something out, it’s because my mature brain is processing, integrating, following the path of wisdom and this takes time. Surely that’s what’s happening. Surely.

Who needs multitasking anyway?

Gifts of Sight

 The venue seemed to be a large room in a warehouse. Or a barn. Antique stuff on the walls around the room surrounded a spacious area with tables here and there. If it were not for the furniture, I could imagine a square dance happening. Very western and homey. A small crowd was already there when we arrived and over the next hour more people drifted in and soon the place was full.

We were there for a literary event, something I am naturally drawn to. The occasion was the launching of a new book. The author—my daughter Kristin.

At this point I am going to claim my God-inspired, constitutionally-defended bragging rights as a mother. Kristin has never considered herself a writer (although I have a bundle of interesting, funny, and well-written letters collected over the span of 30 years). This whole project has surprised her more than anyone else. Over a year ago she began sensing an inner nudge to write down certain experiences and insights that had been deeply touching her life for some time. A few friends also suggested she write them down in a book. At first the idea seemed preposterous, but the nudges didn’t stop. Kristin has learned to listen and sense from where (and from Whom) a nudge is coming.

So she said Yes and began to bring together the thoughts, stories, and memories that would be the building blocks of her book.

The beginning of any big project is chaotic and messy. And sometimes discouraging. And so it was with this huge (to her) project. But Kristin is not a lone-ranger type. From the start, she had editors and experienced writing coaches by her side, and this made a difference. She gave me the privilege of being one of her coaches. Tenacity, courage, and lots of reorganizing and rewriting went into this year of hard work. And all of it alongside her fulltime profession and involvement in family life.

And now it was time to celebrate and formally present to the public Gifts of Sight: Discovering God’s Love Through the Lens of Visual Impairment. And celebrate we did! After about 45 minutes of socializing and snacking, Kristin’s editor Jesse called the group to attention and introduced Kristin (whom everyone knew) and her new book. Enthusiastic applause. Then Kristin took the mic and told the story behind the book. With laughter and a few tears, Kristin walked us through her journey, beginning at birth actually and leading to this evening and this celebration. I found it very moving and so did everyone else.

Then followed the book signing (with a healthy line of people wishing to purchase), more snacking, and visiting. My assignment for the evening was to take as many photos as I could. Throughout the evening, Kristin couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could I.

Let me tell you a little about the book. Kristin brings together three streams -- her profession as a teacher of the visually impaired, her personal life story, and insights on life lived as followers of Jesus. She uses the science of sight and visual impairment as a metaphor for how God sees, knows, and loves us, showing how this understanding has been transforming her own life. The combination of professionalism and personal vulnerability makes this book compelling and deeply encouraging.

That’s my objective opinion, in case you’re wondering. And, yes, with a little bragging mixed in.

Those babies we hold in our arms all start out as possibilities. After years of nurturing and prayer, with a batch of mistakes thrown in, how wonderful to see those possibilities come to fruition and shine.

I’m both humbled and grateful. And I’ll probably keep on bragging.

Going steady

Back in my high school days, a mark of status and popularity (so important to teenagers) was a state-of-being known as “going steady.” It meant that a boy and a girl decided to exclusively date each other. They publicly declared this intention when the girl wore the boy’s school ring on a chain around her neck. It told the world—I am desirable. I am chosen. I am worthy.

Most of us adolescent girls longed for this. I know I did. But I must confess, I never went steady in high school. I had good friends, yes, but never a steady boyfriend.

College brought a certain level of maturity to relationships. No girl wore a ring on a chain around her neck. But there were couples, naturally, and it sometimes seemed as if finding a marriage partner was one of the main purposes of a college education. A ring around the finger.

Eventually, in the post-college years, I got that ring around my finger. It’s turned out well. I now look back on my high school longings and smile.

The phrase “going steady” is interesting and can almost be seen as an oxymoron,* with going and steady cancelling each other out. In high school it meant simply dating (going out) only one person (steady). Understood. But going is a word of motion, movement, and adventure. Steady can imply standing firm, rock solid, intentional.

I like oxymorons. I may even be one.

Now in my aging years, going steady has become more important than ever. I have a chemical condition inside my head that makes me perpetually dizzy. I am most comfortable sitting in my easy chair where I can look out the window or read a book. But the rest of my body wants more. It wants me to be active, go places, and do things. I need to please both.

So I’ve learned some physical therapy exercises for improving balance, even (or especially) when in motion. I’m currently in an exercise class called “Strong for Life” that allows me to do most of the routines sitting down. Even seated I can break a healthy sweat, with no fear of falling. And I’m taking my walking stick with me when I go out. I insist that it’s a walking stick, not a cane. I’m learning to go steady. Intentionally adventurous.

The oxymoron can also be applied to our relationship with God. “Going steady with Jesus” sounds a bit trite (because it is), but there might be something to it. God is “my rock and my fortress” (Psalm 18:2). David sings for joy because “He lifted me out of the slimy pit … he sat my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand” (Psalm 40:2). Jesus tells us that he is the vine and we are the branches; we are to abide (stand firm) in him in order to bear much fruit (John 15). And Peter promises the early Christians that God is at work in them, making them “strong, firm, and steadfast” (1 Peter 5:10). That’s the steady part.

Jesus also asks us to follow him (Matthew 16:24), to put our feet in motion, to go out to the ends of the earth making disciples of all nations (Matthew 28:19). The whole of the Scriptures tells the story of a God who loves us with a steadfast love, makes us strong and whole in him, then sends us out to befriend and bless the people he loves. That’s the going part.

I’m still drawn to the idea of going steady. And slowly learning how to do it.

*Oxymoron: a combination of contradictory or incongruous words, such as “cruel kindness.”

Journey through time—faith, hope, love

 As a child I memorized 1 Corinthians 13, the great love chapter. Then in high school and college I studied it as literature. “Now there abides faith, hope and love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.”

I’ve always been a wonderer.  I wondered what the difference was between faith and hope. And what made love greater. And how to measure how much of each I might have. I still don’t have it all worked out, but I’ve gained some insight.

I’m learning to see faith, hope, and love as companions on a journey through time. A sort of spiritual time capsule. And these days I’m trying to understand them through the lens of aging.

Faith—a look to the past. Hope—a perspective on the future. Love—to be lived out here and now.

Faith: I see faith as focused on the past and on all the ways God has shown his faithfulness. Certainly, in my own life, I remember God bringing me through dark times into spacious places, walking with me through dim valleys on twisting paths, but keeping me safe. And I see God doing that through the Scriptures—to his people and to individuals such as Moses, David, and the Apostles of the New Testament. We have a testimony about God’s lovingkindness and faithfulness through the years. Our understanding of who God is and how he treats us gives us faith for facing our trials today.

A backward look of faith can actually heal our past. Here’s an example. In kindergarten I was bullied by two huge first-graders. It happened on the brief walk to and from school, which my parents taught me to do on my own. These two girls made fun of me and threatened me. One afternoon they jumped out from behind a tree, brandished sticks like weapons, and chased me to the corner. I ran home in a panic, but dared not tell my parents. They had told me what would happen if I ever said anything about it.

The memory stayed with me, dragging that feeling of panic into the present whenever I thought of it or saw people walking toward me on the sidewalk. That changed when I learned about using my imagination to walk with Jesus into that memory and see him there with me, protecting me, talking with me, and bringing me safely home. It was actually an exercise in reality as Jesus really was with me. But now I could see him, and the fear left. Faith in Jesus’ presence healed that part of my past.

Our memories seem to play an increasing role as we age. How good to be able to reach back in time and touch them with imaginative faith.

Hope: Hope looks to the future. It is fed by faith in all God has done for us in the past and in the scriptural stories of God’s dealings with his people. It senses that, as he has been in the past, so will he be in all our tomorrows. As the psalmist says, “His lovingkindness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23).

The fears natural to the aging process call out for hope. The fear of dementia is perhaps the greatest. A poll taken in 2012 indicates that Alzheimer’s is the disease American’s most fear, edging out even cancer (November 11, 2012, Marist Poll). Anti-ageism activist Ashton Applewhite (that’s a lot of As) says that “Our ageist society pathologizes natural transitions, and our consumer society sells us remedies to ‘fix’ them, like hormone replacement therapy, erectile dysfunction drugs, and facelifts. Our ‘hypercognitive’ culture prioritizes brain function above all ….” All the information in our context bombards us, telling us our fears are valid.

Other natural concerns include loss, potential loneliness, alienation from society, and wondering which body part will give out next. We absolutely need hope. A hope that gives us a new perspective on aging that comes from faith in who God is and how he works in our lives. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11). That promise was made to the people of Israel, but I believe it shows the nature of God and can be applied to us, even as we age. Ultimately that hope reaches to a time when we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Love: Love is primarily a present tense verb. For the here and now. Among the actual people we live with, worship with, and meet in the street. As faith moves forward in time to effect today and hope circles back to encourage us now, we become free to love. Love is an outward focus.

I’m thinking first of my husband. Neither of us are as “beautiful” as we used to, nor as energetic. We’ve grown used to each other. Yet I find, thanks be to God, that this is my easiest love-assignment. More now than when we were young. Just as I find it natural to love my grown kids, grandkids, and the greats.

It’s all the others I need help with. I’m thinking of the cranky lady who lives down the hall and always has something to complain about. I need help to listen with patience and try to see her as God sees her. I need help being kind to the grocery store clerk who’s had a hard day and treats me as a typical tiresome “old lady.” I need help respecting the doctor who tells me there’s nothing wrong; “It’s typical with people your age.” I need help loving certain political leaders in our country. I need help even praying for those I see as oppressing immigrants and minorities.

I need to more frequently sit in the presence of God and let faith and hope stir up love.

Faith and hope help me to love my aging self. I’m learning to look in the mirror and see white hair, wrinkles, and sagging muscles, then say, “Wow! What’s not to love?” I’ve learned an audacious prayer that goes, “Lord, help me accept the truth about myself, now matter how beautiful it is.”

The more I grow in my relationship with God, the more I can lean into the Great Commandment to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37-39).

This is timeless. It doesn’t matter what age we are.

Faith, hope, love—but the greatest of these is love.

The Big Thing--remembering my father

 When I was in junior high school, a Big Thing happened in the high school across the street. Really Big. The football team, the Ramona Bulldogs, won the California State Championship. At the time, I didn’t know anything about leagues or levels or any such official classifications. I realize now that we had to have been in a league of small high schools. The smallest. All I knew then was that we were #1 in the state. The best! The winners!

Ramona was definitely a football town with the Friday night games the biggest event of the week. Even for away games, people filled buses and cars to get there and yell.

The thing is—my dad was the coach. He was actually famous. His picture graced the front page of the Ramona Sentinel more than that of the president of the United States, whose name I don’t even remember.

The night the mighty Bulldogs growled, clawed, and scrabbled their way to the championship went down in history. At the noisy conclusion of the game, the team carried my dad off the field on their shoulders. Everyone was yelling and stomping and throwing their hats in the air. Pretty impressive for an adolescent daughter. I just sat in the bleachers, feeling warm and happy. I knew Dad was pleased.

The thing is—I never liked football all that much. I thought it silly how all those big boys in their stupid outfits ran around bumping into each other, then throwing other big boys on the ground and jumping on top of them. The rules didn’t make sense and sometimes people really did get hurt.

The thing is—my dad knew I thought this way, but he never seemed to hold it against me. 

He was also the Senior class English teacher. He was a writer and he liked literature even more than he liked football. He admired classical Greek culture and he told me once his job in the high school was a good Greek job. He loved the old Greeks plays and epics and he admired the Greeks for beginning the Olympic Games. He said the motto of the Greeks during their Golden Age was “a sound mind in a healthy body.” He reasoned that when he combined sports with literature, he was like the Greeks. A real Renaissance Man.

As was required of high school teachers in California, he took classes during the summer for professional enhancement. Instead of coaching or sports classes, he studied literature. He favored the University of Arizona as his sister lived in Phoenix. One summer he drove across the country to Massachusetts to study Shakespeare at Harvard.

I took Senior English from my dad. I remember as a class we read through “Romeo and Julliet” out loud. He made it come alive. Even the football players in the class became lovers of Shakespeare.

Actually, he was mostly like himself. And he let me be like myself, even though I was not Greek-like, nor did I enjoy football. For my 16^th birthday, he gifted me with a poetry book and wrote on the flyleaf, “To Nancy, for being Nancy. Love, Dad.”

So, I felt OK about the football team carrying him off the field. I would have liked it better if a bunch of writers could have carried him on their shoulders for writing the Great American Novel (a phrase he sometimes used). That never happened.

On Father’s Day I have no problem celebrating my memories of Dad. I recognize that many of my friends and colleagues have to work hard at forgiveness, at facing and bringing peace to their memories of fathers that were not so loving or appreciative. I feel privileged and blessed.

I’m grateful.

 

Limitations and substitutions

I printed out my old camping-trip-list and began to gather stuff, making little piles on the kitchen floor. The list is detailed and lengthy, so the process took time. First, the big stuff—ground pad, tent, self-inflating mattresses, sleeping bags, camping stove with its pot and pan, and so on. Then the little, but vital, stuff—insect repellant, collapsible bucket for washing dishes, flash lights, hand soap, mirror, and at least 30 other items that made me glad we were driving to our spot, not hiking in.

Then, of course, food. I carefully planned yummy but low-effort meals and made the grocery lists—macaroni and cheese from a box, clam chowder from a can, granola, canned evaporated milk, bacon, coffee, apples, and little sealed cups of chocolate pudding. I like to rough it. I had started buying the food.

In faith (or foolishness) we had reserved three nights at Silver Falls State Park. Before the pandemic we enjoyed tent camping, exploring sites throughout Oregon and going as far as the redwoods in northern California. But as we reached retirement years, we noticed that sleeping on the ground, even on our 3-inch inflatable mattresses, was getting harder. We were pretty stiff getting up and getting dressed, and it was taking longer to sum up the courage for the hike of the day. We no longer enjoyed putting up and taking down the tent. (We didn’t have the self-pop-up kind, but the pounding-stakes-in-the-ground contraption.) Our hikes were getting shorter.

We had been wondering if it was time to give up tent camping, but we really weren’t ready to do that. We had found so much joy being surrounded by trees, hearing the rain on our tent at night, finding new trails and splendiferous vistas. There’s nothing quite like that first cup of coffee sitting by the camp fire.

So, we decided to do an experiment. Hence the reservation. We figured if we pulled it off, we’d still have a year or two to keep camping. If the experience left us with such painful backs and aching limbs that we cut it short by one night, it might be a clue to let it all go. We could then make a list of our camping stuff and show it to the grandkids.

Unfortunately, we didn’t even make it to the campsite. Just a few days before the trip—all the gear still on the kitchen floor—we had to cancel. Hal’s back was so painful and my dizziness so pronounced, we knew we couldn’t do it. We canceled just in time to get our deposit back.

That was last week. Learning the weather at Silver Falls was beautiful didn’t help. So we asked ourselves what we could do the make the week special anyway. We chose to go to a movie (“Sight”—I highly recommend it) in the afternoon, then drive back to town, buy a bowl of chili and the free senior drink at Wendy’s, then go down to the river landing to eat it and watch the evening sky. Then go home to our comfortable bed and indoor toilet.

We wrestle with the limitations of age and the life-style changes they demand. Physical limitations such as giving up tent camping, not being able to play my guitar as easily because of arthritis in my hands, no more running on the beach with my dizzy head. I haven’t ridden my bike since the last tumble. (Fortunately, it was a gentle fall; I was peddling very slowly. But still.)

Then there are the economic limitations—realizing we may have to give up driving sooner than we had hoped; the prospect of moving from our two-room apartment to a studio in our retirement community. There are probably no cruises in our future (to Hal, a source of relief). Even mental limitations challenge—I forget appointments unless I write them down in two places, then remember to look at the calendar. I can no longer multitask.

Limitations are inevitable as we age. But as I was thinking about it this morning, I decided this was too negative a focus—for this blog and for my life in general. I will not let myself be diminished by the limitations of aging! I will re-direct my energies, find substitutes, develop new passions!

That is so positive. I feel it this morning. But I know myself well enough to realize I will have difficult days when I decide this is all a bunch of hooie and give up all over again. I guess this finding of new passions (or, at least, new interests) needs to be intentional and beyond fluctuating emotions. I’m obviously not writing as one who has the dilemma of facing limitations all figured out. And I never want this blog to sink into a wise-advice-from-a-successful-old-person kind of site. For one thing, I’m not all that old. For another, I’m not all that successful. Or wise. (I’ll settle for funny.)

So Hal and I talked this morning about things we could substitute for camping and biking if, in truth, we need to give them up. We discussed short hikes in beautiful places, more picnics in parks (in our camping chairs rather than a blanket on the grass), country drives. Instead of exotic cruises we can explore the incredible beauty of the Pacific Northwest, go to more museums, frequent the local cultural center more regularly. And be intentional about it all. This week (or next) we hope to visit the Mt. Angel Abbey.

Lovely plans give me hope that giving up stuff does not signify the end. We need to be realistic and courageous. But I’ll confess, I’ve made another reservation for a camp site in Silver Falls State Park, this time in September. Surely we’ll be strong and energetic by then.

    Surely.