The busy syndrome

Once a week we go over to our son’s house to have dinner with him, our daughter-in-law, and whichever of the grandkids can make time to join us. The conversation bounces and sparks as people report on their activities since our last gathering. Our son and daughter-in-law are at the height of their careers with new challenges to talk about every week. They’re making their contributions on the university campus and in the wider sphere of third-world discipleship and development.

The grandkids are in an exciting time, too, full of university studies, overseas trips, new careers, challenging relationships, even new marriages. So much energy spins my brain. All this is right and good. Each generation around the table is living appropriately for their phase of life.

But there always comes a time in our conversation when one of the grandkids asks, “What have you been up to this week, Grandma? How have you been keeping busy?” The question always makes me uneasy and I find myself scrounging for an answer. What have I been doing? What accomplishments can I drop into the conversation? Somehow, I manage to respond, but my answers seem skimpy in comparison.

It happens so often, and not just with family members, you’d think I’d have come up with a few memorized responses by this time. But I don’t want to do that. It doesn’t seem quite honest. So, when faced with a dilemma, I take the logical first step. I write a poem. Here it is:

 

How Have You Been Keeping Busy?

is my least favorite question.
To tell the truth
not long ago I decided
to no longer keep busy.
So I opened the pasture gate
and let her go. Hesitant at first—
after all the old field was familiar
and still had some patches of grass—
she stepped out
and began exploring,
in search of a greener home.
So busy’s gone now
and I’m left behind.
But frankly
I like it this way.

I hope that answers your question.

When I retired at age 69, Hal and I were in the second year of a huge research and writing project which took us five more years to complete.* So I was able to postpone the restlessness of wondering how to spend my time now that I wasn’t employed. I still had work I enjoyed, field trips to take, a contribution to make, and reports to write to the sponsors of the project. The change from employment to retirement wasn’t that great.

It didn’t last. When the book was completed, a new reality manifested itself. For the first time in years, I had no huge goal to work toward. Yet my psyche was geared to work, even as my body was slowing down.

It’s not that I had nothing to do. I took on two voluntary editing jobs, continued writing, helped out at church, even took some lessons in art and music. (I am not gifted in either area.) Life here in the retirement community offers a multitude of activities and opportunities for relationships.

But it’s not the same. And I have to admit that I still struggle to relax and settle into this gentler phase of life. To focus on being rather than doing. Easier said than done.

Let’s face it. Being busy is a cultural value here in the US. People gain status from their educational level, professional achievements, contributions, and wealth. That all requires keeping busy. Busyness is written into our cultural DNA. That’s not necessarily bad. Like the preacher in Ecclesiastes says, “There is a time for every season under the sun.” That includes a time to be busy and a time to rest.

I guess I’m still adjusting to being in the season of rest. Which is not the same as doing nothing. I like how the psalmist describes old age: “The righteous will flourish like a palm tree, they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green….” (Psalm 92:12-14)

I’m trying to recenter my focus from accomplishment to fruitfulness. I want to discover what fruitfulness means in this season of life, and in what ways God is guiding me to be a fresh and green old lady. I hope I don’t end up scaring anyone.

When I learn how to do all that, I’ll let you know.

 

*The end result of our long project is entitled, A Long Walk, A Gradual Ascent: The Story of the Bolivian Friends Church in its Context of Conflict. If you want something to help you keep busy, it’s available on Amazon.

100 years old...and counting

One interesting aspect of a long-term continuing care community is that people live longer than the national average. A large number of residents here are in their 90s, making those of us in our 70s seem almost adolescent.

And there are a number of centenarians. These interest me. The 100-year-olds around here are all relatively sound of mind (notwithstanding short-term memory challenges) and positive in attitude. Those who don’t have these characteristics die younger.

The year I moved here, Margaret died at 107 years. Three of her offspring were also residents of the community, in their 70s and 80s.

This is what an awesome
100 year old looks like

Last year our neighborhood (the 5^th floor) celebrated Darel’s 100^th birthday. Still in the pandemic, we were masked and separated by the required number of feet. But we did celebrate the life of this feisty but soft-hearted man. He’s telling us now that he plans to finally give up driving this year on his 101th birthday. Some of us are relieved and glad he came to this point of his own will.

Harriet, 103, has become one of my best friends. We spend time with each other weekly, talking and remembering. She tells me stories from her upbringing in the Philippines. I tell her my stories. She is outgoing, interested in other people. When I arrive at her room, we begin our conversations with her questions about what I’ve been doing and the activities of my kids and grandkids. She actually remembers their names, although sometimes she mixes up the details.

100th birthday party

Harriet is still excited about learning new things and has a special interest in history. She recently finished listening to a biography of Thomas Jefferson, and is now in the middle of tales of the Oregon Trail. She loves to have me read to her. Last year we read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, among others. She always asks me to read my latest poems. She affirms me, telling me I’m “an amazing writer.”

Still, it’s hard being 103 years-old. Harriet walks slowly and painfully, with the aid of a walker. She spends most of her time in her reclining chair. She’s lost most of her sight, and that’s the loss she most laments. She’s tired of being tired all the time.

Yet she’s still very much alive. She tells me we’re soul-mates. I believe she’s right.

Ruth is another case. A life-long Quaker and activist in social justice projects, she finds it difficult to lead a more sedentary live. She still carries those same passions. She turned 100 in 2020, the first year of the pandemic. She wanted to celebrate with her friends, and although we were all under shut-down, the community administration made it possible.

Ruth and seven friends gathered around a large table in an outdoor pagoda. Others of us stood around on the hill outside the pagoda. We shouted and waved our congratulations. It was an unusual party. I wrote this poem in honor of the occasion.

Pandemic Party

Ruth’s been saying lately, “If I make it to 100….”
Well, she made it,
and yesterday we celebrated.
We partied in the health center pagoda
but under pandemic rules.
Only eight people were seated
around the table,
the sacred six feet apart.
The rest of us distanced ourselves
on the knoll above the courtyard.
We waved to Ruth, shouted
our names, then mingled among ourselves,
trying to keep distance
and also trying—perpetual problem—
to keep our face masks
from slipping down to our chins
as we chatted. I ate a cupcake.
After weeks of healthy eating,
I morphed down the sticky, lemon-flavored
sweetness and licked my fingers,
my mask hanging from one ear.
We all look pretty silly these days.

Thank you, Ruth, for holding on.
Thank you for letting us celebrate with you.
Thank you for your feisty, gutsy
grab on life, your pencil-sharp mind,
your weird political humor.
With people like you turning 100,
this pandemic doesn’t stand a chance.

I ask myself if I want to live to be 100 years-old. And I answer, “yes.” “Yes, but….”  I have a lists of ifs. Yes, if….

--if I am sound of mind, able to think, converse with others, read a book (or have it read to me)
--if I am still able to appreciate beauty
--if I am not in perpetual pain
--if I am a source of joy to family and friends (i.e., not a burden)
--if I am still growing in grace and in intimacy with Jesus (2 Peter 3:18)

If (that word again) I pray my list to God, is that being presumptuous? Perhaps.

Maybe it all comes back to realizing that our times are in God’s hands and that God does all things well. I’m glad I don’t know all the details of the future. I can rest that when God decides my time has come, it will be the right time.

Today I will enjoy the company of my centenarian friends.

The holiday we ignore

I love birthdays. I remember my childlike eagerness as the day approached. The family focused on me, served me cake, gave me presents, and, in essence, told me they were glad I was born.

As I grew up and older, it was the birthdays of the kids and now the grandkids that give such pleasure. A time when we all become childlike again. A holiday that comes round with yearly regularity. A holy day.

There’s another day that comes around once a year. The same day, the same month, year in year out. A day we ignore because we don’t know when it is. The day of our death. Strange thought. Every year since we were born, that day comes around, and to us it’s just another ordinary time. God knows but we don’t. That thought gives me the shivers.

When loved ones die, we celebrate the passing with memorial services or celebrations-of-the-life-of (you name her), choosing this instead of calling it a funeral. This is good and can, in faith, be a celebration. We look at photos of our dear one (baby pictures, funny little girl, wedding, and so on) and smile. We chuckle at the funny stories, remember achievements, express astonishment at all the grand and great grandchildren that issued from this life. We celebrate a life and say our goodbyes. It becomes a holy day.

Of course, the act of celebration doesn’t erase the need to grieve our losses. After all, our friend or cousin or spouse is no longer physically present to listen to our sorrows, enjoy that cup of coffee with us, or touch us. But I’m told that even grief can become a holy time, especially when combined with faith and hope.

But I will not be physically present at my own deathday celebration. I don’t even know when it will be. Is that fair?

Silly question. Fair or not, I don’t really want to be there. It might offend my modesty. Then again, it might not. I’ll never know.

I’m not a party-girl. I don’t do well at planning parties either. But it seems that it’s necessary to plan for my deathday party, mainly to spare my kids that task. So Hal and I are in the process of choosing our burial plot, memorial plaque, or spot where the ashes will be scattered. We haven’t yet decided which of those options best suits us. We’ll probably choose cremation. But that still demands a choice between an expensive urn, a handmade wooden box, or a paper bag. Some funeral parlors offer that last option at roughly $18.00 a bag, special paper and all.

We’ve decided that any plaque will have both of us on it, with just our names and the pertinent dates, when those become known. Anything additional costs too much. Our conservative financial tendencies extend into death, it seems.

I’m glad God keeps that day secret. I don’t want to know.

Some of my favorite spiritual guides include Brother Lawrence and Thomas Kelly, both of whom encourage me to live in the present moment, to treat every day as a holiday. A holy day. I’m drawn to that vision, although I struggle to consistently live it out. But as I grow in grace and this becomes my experience, I’ll be able to inadvertently celebrate my deathday once a year, without even knowing it.

Today, I am very much alive.

The high-rise hummingbird

An important part of a healthy old growth forest are the beasts—those that burrow underground, those that scamper or plod on the surface, and all those that buzz, flitter, or swoop among the tops of the trees. They all contribute to the well-being of the eco-system.

Animals contribute to the well-being of people, too, and this gains significance as people age. Shortly before our retirement a criminal cat moved into our condo. We didn’t invite him. Late one evening our son phoned and said, “Mom, I’m bringing Spencer over. Debby can’t take it anymore.” Our daughter-in-law was allergic to cats but had agreed on keeping Spencer for the sake of the kids who love all sorts of beasts. It was the cat hairs that finally did him in.

So Spencer moved in and we bonded. He was a beautiful golden long-haired beast with a frisky but affectionate nature. As our condo community had rules against pets, except for medical reasons, we knew his stay would probably be short-lived. But, as I say, we became accustomed to each other, and, well, time went by. We renamed him Chiri, which means “cat” in the Quechua language. In other words, we called him Cat.

It’s not as though we were keeping a secret. Chiri loved sunning himself in the window, right in view of our whole community. As nobody said anything, we forgot about legality.

Be sure your sin will find you out. It was inevitable. One day the community association president approached us about our disregard of the rules, but he also suggested a solution. So we talked with our doctor, a good sport with a sense of humor, and she wrote a letter to the association explaining her view that Chiri was good for our health and well-being. That was true, even though we were not sick. The association voted to let him stay.

When we decided to move over to the retirement community where we now live, we made the difficult decision to let him go. Our new apartment, while lovely, was not spacious enough for Chiri’s athletic nature. Plus, cat boxes and small spaces don’t mix well. So we found him a home with friends who could give him both affection and room to romp. Our parting was sad.

The retirement community also has rules that only allow comfort pets, though the definition remains loose. Francie, a friend on the fifth floor (notice the nice alliteration), travels frequently and lets us cat-sit Minou. Minou has lived with us for as long as two weeks, time enough to give us a good cat-fix. Any time I need it, I visit Francie and spend time with Minou.

The most popular comfort pets are small dogs, who come in various colors, shapes and barking sounds. They are not as convenient as cats—dog boxes don’t seem to work—so the owners have to get outside and walk them several times a day (which is possibly as good for their health as the actual dog). Other dogless residents enjoy these creatures. It’s good having them around the place, although dogs provide challenges to communal living.

I wrote this poem a few weeks after we moved in: 

Last night someone’s dog pooped
on the carpet in the hall.
In the morning the unseemly little pile
was still there.
Who did it? Was it Nils or Samantha?
Or did Niko from the fourth floor
come up to visit and leave his calling card?
The forest floor is becoming
a little more biodiverse
than any of us want.

Other undomesticated beasts add to the healthy ecosystem around here. We have resident deer who used to live in the swale in the middle of our meadow. That was before the construction project removed the swale (we hear a parking lot will take its place), thus ejecting the deer. But they seem to have found a new home nearby and still visit us occasionally.

Down in the canyon bordering the main building, beavers built a lovely dam in the creek and occasionally poked their heads out to greet us as we walked the canyon trail. But the dam caused flooding in the winter and had to be removed. Mercifully, the beavers were trapped and transported to a forest. I hope they’re flourishing.

During the pandemic shut-down, a new beast visited us, clear up on the fifth floor. A hummingbird. A rather miraculous hummingbird, we thought. There are no balconies up here, no hanging plants or bird feeders. No trees or flowers grow on the roof. So, what was this guy doing so far above ground? How was he (or she) feeding?

For the past three springs he has been visiting all the north facing windows on the fifth floor (probably not the same hummingbird). Hal and I figure he has discovered bugs in the cracks and crannies of this building and has wanted to keep it secret from his chums.

His appearance each day causes delight. That’s good for my well-being. I guess that makes him an official comfort-bird.

Thank God for the beasts of this forest.

Old romance

 One of the more interesting aspects of life in the retirement community is the presence of romance. Who would have thought it? But the fact of so many widows, widowers, and other singles living in close proximity means we all should have thought it.

Romance happens among the aging population. It certainly happens around here.

One thing I’ve noticed is that the protagonists of these love stories try to keep it secret for as long as they can. But people here are very interested. They notice things, like how some have a habit of sitting together in the dining room. They notice little things. And they talk.

A few years back a horticultural expert gave a lecture on old growth forests in Oregon. I found fascinating the information about the underground fungal network that connects the trees and allows them to actually communicate. That image grew into a metaphor and inspired the following poem:

Old Romance

The trees talk.
Leaves seem to whisper and
below the understory
swimming from root to root
a vast fungal network
channels messages of danger,
drought, and radical change.
Between species
across the miles
the unspoken word goes forth.

Don’t think you can keep it secret.
This particular forest has many leaves
all fluttering in the least rumored breeze.
And deep underground
the mushrooms are on the move.

 

One of the most interesting stories is that of Sam and Therese, both in their 80s. For the past several years it became evident to all how comforting and encouraging their companionship was to each other. In 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, they decided to get married. As large gatherings were prohibited at the time, Sam and Therese, accompanied by only a handful of family and friends, married under the gazebo in the community garden. Some of us watched from the upstairs windows that faced the garden. It was a simple Quaker wedding.

Sam is a life-long Quaker; Therese a life-long Catholic. Love does not take that into account. Yet it does matter. Since the wedding, Therese had expressed a desire to have a Catholic ceremony to bless their union.

The outworking of that desire proved complicated, involving legalities and procedural negotiations. Hal and I, along with a few other residents of our community, worked with Sam and Therese to help make possible her desire. We finally found a young priest in a neighboring town who was willing to work with us. All of this took place over a period of several months.

Finally, in the early part of this year, 2022, a small group gathered with Sam and Therese in a lovely old Catholic church. With all the ritual and symbolism the Catholic Church does so well, the priest validated and blessed the marriage. In many ways, the ceremony was like a Protestant wedding, with readings from Scripture, a homily from the priest, and the exchanged vows.

The ritual addressed the union of a Catholic with a Protestant. At one point mid-service, the priest, reading from his book, asked Sam if he was willing to raise the children of their union in the Catholic faith. He then looked up from his book and chuckled. We all chuckled. He then briefly explained that ritual process requires him to ask that question, no matter the ages of the couple. Sam good-naturedly promised to raise their babies Catholic.

After the service and the presentation of the couple, we congratulated them, all of us happy and laughing. Therese reached out to touch the priest’s arm, smiled at him, and said, “You know, you’re just a baby.” More chuckles.

The presence of romance among the aging is one of the things that adds life and color to this forest. It’s always a bit surprising. But the joy is contagious. All the trees seem to be laughing.

NOT Sam and Therese

[Sam and Therese gave enthusiastic permission for posting this story.]