Dollars, scraps and what we leave behind

Do we pour our savings into a retirement community? Or do we hold on to our money to pass on to our kids and grandkids? That’s a real question for those deciding whether or not to move into a continuing-care retirement community such as the one we now live in. It was certainly a choice we wrestled with.

Not that any financial heritage we pass along to our loved ones would be substantial, given the life-style choices we made. But, still, we’d like to hand something of practical value down to the kids.

We feel the effects of our decision to move here every month when we get the statement from our bank. The increase in the community’s monthly fees this year hasn’t helped. Even though retired, we find it necessary to budget our spending and continue to search for ways to cut down. I guess that makes us like most other people in our nation today.

We remind ourselves of the benefits of being here, that the high fees today ensure continuing care in the future when we’ll probably need to be in assisted-living or perhaps the memory care wing. Even if we should one day run out of money, this community will still care for us.

But I grieve the lack of an inheritance to pass on.

Until I remember that I do have something of value to leave my kids as an inheritance.

My scrapbooks!

(The exclamation point indicates a blending of enthusiasm and sarcasm.)

I started scrapbooking when our kids were small, long before scrapbooking became an expensive national craze, a craze that has since died down. I needed a way to manage the growing collection of photos, childish artwork, and assorted memorabilia that threatened to overflow our storage space. And I wanted a way to hold on to the memories of those growing up years, a way to provide continuity and stability to our rather nomadic way of life between two countries.

So every fourth year when our family came home from Bolivia to Oregon, I’d sort through the stuff, make my choices, and artistically glue them into the Book. Then I’d throw everything else away without compunction (and without the kids knowing). It kept the clutter down.

And it made a wonderful contribution to capturing our family story. The kids loved the books, as did Hal and I. We named them “The Thomas Family Chronicles,” and the volumes grew over the years. When David brought his future wife Debby home to meet us, they sat together on the couch while David showed her the Chronicles, not telling her that this was the “test.” She passed.

The kids are grown, married, and now the grandkids are starting the marriage cycle. Life goes on. And so do the Chronicles. I keep them up; it’s a good place to display photos of the grandkids and chart all the changes.

I am slowing down, partly due to the high cost of maintaining a color printer. Partly because they take up room. Each year occupies less pages.

My question: although the kids loved these books growing up, will they actually want them taking space on their bookshelves someday? All 18 volumes?  I’m not so sure about that.

But, really, why worry? When I’m gone it won’t be my problem.

I am sorry about the money though. 

Some sample pages: 

                        1976 La Paz, our city

                            David, kindergarten self-portrait

                            2002, on an Oregon beach with the grandkids

                                 2007, Teaching in Lima, Peru

2008, youngest grandchild, Peter

2013, Akagera (Rwanda) safari with grandkids

                            2015, Aymara Quaker women at Yearly Meeting

Thank you for indulging me. If the kids don't want these, would you be willing to take them off my hands? I'd love to see your scrapbooks.

The biblical town with the nasty name: a childhood memory

 One of the results of aging is that I no longer multitask, that quintessential American activity. When I try, I get all tangled up. Not good.

But I can still pull a two-fer. Or a three-fer, for that matter. That means that while I can do only One Thing at a time, I can use that Thing for different purposes.

This morning my One Thing was to write a poem. But look at all the stuff I’m doing with it:

--I’m writing down and processing a childhood memory. That’s one of the tasks and privileges of those of us in our latter years. Writing down (or recording, or telling the kids) our memories helps us be grateful, work through and heal past traumas, begin to see the pattern in it all, and pass on a legacy to the next generation.

--I’m being faithful to my intention to include writing a poem in my morning time of reading and reflection.

--I’m continuing with my project of praying and writing my way through the Scriptures.

--I’m playing with words, always a good thing to do.

--I’m posting it in this blog, another commitment.

So I guess I’ve actually pulled a fiver, and it’s not even noon. Goody for me.

Here’s the One Thing. If the title of the poem offends you, ignore your reaction and just read it anyway.

Shittim
Joshua 2:1

I remember an adolescent Bible study
when my turn came and the portion
I was to read included
the town of Shittim. I stopped short
of the name. I couldn’t read it out loud.
The other kids giggled. The leader,
a no-nonsense grown-up, made me
continue and I somehow mumbled
my way forward. Later I learned
that Shittim meant acacia, that the town
in northern Israel was probably
nestled in an acacia grove.
A tall acacia tree stood in the front
yard of the house where I grew up
and I used to climb it. My secret place
was hidden in the upper branches
where I could peek through the leaves
across Wilson Road and see the far hills.
I loved that tree
without even knowing
its name.

The memory of my squeamish adolescent reaction to the name of that biblical town makes me laugh. But the mental picture of that acacia tree makes me grateful. The memory is showing me that a hiding place can sometimes be a place of greater seeing. And it reminds me of how important trees have been in my life.

And still are. I think I’ll go outside and take a walk.

Up with mugwumps!

 Almost every time I read a book, I discover a new word. Most of the time I guess the meaning from the context and continue reading. But sometimes the new word is so intriguing I have to stop and look it up.

In the newest book by Louise Penny, A World of Curiosities, I found “mountweazel.” Who wouldn’t stop for that?! Webster’s Dictionary didn’t even list it, so Google to the rescue. The short definition is “fraud.” The more precise definition is “a bogus entry deliberately inserted in a reference work.” It comes from a fabricated entry in an encyclopedia about a person who didn’t exist, one Lillian Virginia Mountweazel. About this entry, one commentator noted that “Its inherent fakitude is fairly obvious.” And that gave me the word “fakitude” (also not found in Webster’s). Are you smiling?

But this blog is not about “mountweazels” or “fakitudes.”

It’s about mugwumps.

I don’t remember the book I found the word in, but it stopped me in my tracks and made me look it up. You US history buffs probably recognize the word, but it was new to me. And I found it in Webster’s: “a person who is independent (as in politics) or who remains undecided or neutral. Otherwise known as a noncommittal fencesitter or individualist, especially in politics.”

Some sources believe it originated with the Algonquian native tribe as the word mogkiomp, meaning “big chief” or “war leader.” It entered mainstream English in the US presidential election of 1864 when a group of Republicans refused for vote for their party’s candidate but instead supported the Democratic candidate, Grover Cleveland. Some switched parties and others became independents.

They were ridiculed in the media and called mugwumps in derision by Republicans. One sarcastic journalist described a mugwump as a strange bird who sat on the fence, his mug facing one direction and his wump the other.

The word is not used much anymore, except in US history books. That’s a shame. It’s a good word, and even though its original sense was derogatory, it has definite positive qualities. For one thing, it’s the opposite of partisan politics. We could use a few mugwumps in Congress today, from either party.

So, what is all this doing in a blog on “Life in an Old Growth Forest”? Let me tell you.

Our retirement community is growing with a new neighborhood of duplexes recently inhabited and a new apartment complex going up, soon to be occupied. We will change from roughly 400 residents to more than 600 in a short period of time. This community was founded by Quakers in the 1960s and still calls itself a “Christ-centered Community.” Our new residents represent the whole broad spectrum of Quakers and Christians, and some would probably not claim any relationship with Christianity. We welcome them all and celebrate our diversity. At least most of us do.

A concern has been expressed by many that we will lose our “family feeling.” Some fear we will gradually lose our Christian values and our focus on being Christ-centered. So the Residents Council, with the approval of the administration, is setting up a focus-group of residents to do some hard thinking and reflecting on how the community can keep its original focus and values. It’s a serious undertaking, and those participating are committing to twice-monthly meetings of two hours each. Participants have been chosen for their “supposed” ability to listen respectfully. I write “supposed” ability because I find myself a part of this group—and a little nervous about it.

One of our assignments is to consider how we can help all residents be able to talk about difficult issues in a respectful way, inviting anyone to enter the conversation, no matter their point of view.

A stereotype of older people is stubbornness, a refusal to change. That’s by and large not true. And this is where mugwumps enter the picture.

The positive side of mugwumpism (yes, that’s a real word) is being open to listen to other perspectives.  I don’t think sitting on the fence is what we’re after; in fact, I’d rather there were no fences. Being open and kind is the goal. We older folks can do that.

Up with mugwumps!

Firing my mental neurons

 There’s a lot of talk around here about “the aging brain.” I hear that phrase and scary images of dementia and Alzheimer’s rise up to haunt me. I wonder if conditions like this are inevitable. It’s happened to a lot of good people. Why not me?

It used to be accepted as fact that dead brain cells could not be replaced, giving scant hope to an aging population. This is no longer considered good science. It seems that the human brain is more amazing that we ever expected and that new cell growth and new mental pathways can indeed be generated. The aging brain seems to be getting younger all the time.

These last few years I’ve been reading a lot of brain books and the new information is reviving my hope that maybe I won’t turn into a slobbering, shuffling, dim-witted old lady. Or at least that there some things I can do to make that scenario less likely.

Let me give you a list of helpful books I’m learning from: Switch on Your Brain, Carolyn Leaf, 2013 (information for changing addictive negative thought patterns); The Body Keeps the Score: Brains, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, 2014 (probably the best of the lot); The Brain that Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science, Norman Doidge, 2007 (explains neuroplasticity, with lots of examples); and Think Again: The Power of Knowing What You Don’t Know, Adam Grant, 2021 (encourages us to be open-minded, ever learning, able to change our perspectives).

The retirement home I live in is good in providing educational opportunities and activities to keep our brains active. A puzzle rack lets us take home our pick of crossword puzzles, word searches, or Sudoku games. A continual menu of lectures, seminars, book clubs, and conversation groups offers chances to sharpen our mental acuity.

A year ago, I noticed some publicity on our bulletin board, announcing a seminar of brain exercises for the aging. The blurb promised that if we attended the seminar and did the exercises, we would fire our mental neurons. That sounded like something good for us aging citizens. It inspired me to go right upstairs to my room and write this poem.

It Had To Be Done

Seated behind my hard
wood executive desk,
looking down
on the city below,
I finally did
what had to be done.
I invited all my mental
neurons in and I told them,
Guys, you’ve been doing
a great job, but times
are tough, and I have
to let you go.
I fired them all.

 

Humor aside, there really is something to the idea of firing our mental neurons. While I don’t understand the science of it all, I’m convinced that neuroplasticity is a reality. Neuroplasticity. It’s not only a fun word to say, it’s an incredibly hopeful concept.

According to the experts (and there are an inordinate number of them around), we can do things to help neuroplasticity along. Some of it is commonsense, stuff like getting plenty of sleep, cultivating friendships, drinking lots of water, learning new things, walking in a forest, doing puzzles, and so on. We don’t really need an expert to tell us this. But it helps to take it seriously.

Knowing about neuroplasticity gives me hope, but my realistic self clicks in at this point. Aging is real, and I know my body is changing, slowing down. I’m getting shorter. I’m saying, “What? Speak up!” more often. It seems only natural that there be some wearing-down in my brain, too. It’s a part of my body and all of it is getting older.

For example, I used to pride myself on being a multi-tasker, juggling all sorts of balls and not dropping any of them. People could depend on me getting all my tasks done. I was so very organized. Well, no more. It’s now one thing at a time, with a list to remind me what comes next. Actually, I like it this way. Juggling all those balls wasn’t that much fun. But the point is, I no longer have a choice.

And take forgetfulness. Hal and I have a large daily calendar taped on our bedroom door. If we don’t write down every appointment or meeting, we possibly won’t show up. I can’t read an email message and think, “This is really important. I’ll answer it later when I can take my time.” It won’t happen. Time will take me and the important message will vanish.

So I have to strategize more, take less for granted. Be more careful, less proud of my innate abilities. Maybe these kinds of mental strategies are my brain’s way to cope.

Some very intelligent and responsible older people are afflicted with dementia in all its forms. Science still struggles to understand and help people with these conditions. We can’t pinpoint the causes or know ahead of time who it will happen to. Maybe us, our spouse, or our friend.

Even so, the brain’s neuroplasticity gives me hope. This is real. Knowing I can do things to cooperate with the process of renewal motivates me.

I take courage from the words of St. Paul in Romans 12: “I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies [including your brains] as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Let’s fire those mental neurons!

2023, The Year of Our Lord

 I’m leery of New Year’s Resolutions. They seem like an open invitation to a year of guilt. The very word resolution sounds like a stern angry word. Legalistic. So I don’t make them. Or at least I try not to make them.

But one morning in December I was thinking back over 2022, feeling both grateful and frustrated, and I began dreaming about how 2023 might be different. Lighter and more hopeful. I am a list-maker; I can’t seem to help myself. So I made a list of things I’d like to habitually do in the new year. If that sounds like New Year’s Resolutions to you, you may be right, but I’m not giving them that label. I’m calling this list my “Rule of Life for 2023” (in spite of the legalistic sound of the word rule).

Let me back up and give another list, coming from an exercise I did at a retreat some 20 years ago. The assignment was to make of list of my life values, traits I would want people to use to describe me at my memorial service. The task seemed a little funny and presumptuous to me at the time (I don’t like thinking of myself as dead), but I went ahead and listed five values. The list became important as a vision of the person I wanted to become, rather than a description of my character at the time. Several years later I upped the list to seven values. Here they are. (Please jot them down in case you attend my memorial service.)

--Gratitude
      --Compassion
      --Wisdom
      --Poetry
      --Humor
      --Creativity
      --Beauty

For 2023, I wrote out seven “I will” statements that flowed from these values (not in any order).

In 2023, I will…
      --continue to make poetry part of morning devotion.

--make reminders to be awake to the presence.

--put poems on the door.

--keep up my blog.

--“say grace” more indiscriminately.

--consciously ascribe unsurpassable worth to the people I encounter, both in person and in my mind.

I plan to read this list every morning. Going on three days now, I have a perfect record.

Concerning the reminders to be awake to the presence, I recently read Greg Boyd’s book, Present Perfect: Finding God in the Now. He bases his book on Brother Lawrence’s Practicing the Presence of God, a concept I’ve always felt drawn to but found impossible to live out. So I knew I couldn’t put on my list, “I will consistently practice the presence,” because I’d probably feel bad at the end of every day. But I can put little reminders around the apartment: “Be awake”. “You are here.” “You.” Open your eyes,” and so on. Boyd writes about the practice of the presence, “The challenge is not in doing the discipline; it’s in remembering the discipline.” Yes. Maybe the reminders will help.

Concerning “poems on the door,” it’s a decision to tape up one of my poems on the door to our apartment each week so that people in the hall can read them and maybe laugh a little. I needed to put that on my list because I’m tempted to think, “That’s ridiculous, Nancy. Who wants to read that stuff.” I won’t think that. Well, maybe I will, but I’ll put the poem up anyway.

“Say grace more indiscriminately” refers to something G.K. Chesterton wrote about saying grace: “You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.” I said grace as I sat down to write this blog. Now, if only I can remember to do this throughout the day.

About “ascribing unsurpassable worth to the people I encounter,” this is motived by the pesky people in my life who sometimes serve as triggers to my anger. I don’t like this about myself and I think that trying to see all people through the eyes of the heart, as St. Paul puts it, might be a way of cooperating with God in my own growth and transformation.

Wish me luck. Or, better said, wish me grace with my 2023 Rule of Life. I guess we’re never too old to grow up.