Old wisdom, young wisdom

 Our grandson is serving a two-year term in a North African country, learning how to set up small businesses. Through the wonders of modern technology, we get to be in regular communication.

On Saturday we had a long conversation via whatsapp. At what we thought was the end of our time together, he told us how much he appreciated our years of experience and wisdom. He then shared a concern and asked for our wise advice.

My brain immediately froze. Although he was not in any way demanding, I have problems with wisdom-on-demand. For one thing, I’m uncertain about the amount of wisdom I might have. It’s almost a stereotype—wise old people. We’re either serene and wise or grouchy and bitter. Both stereotypes. Take your pick. I know I’m somewhere in the middle, never reaching the total grouch stage, but also falling short of an endless reserve of heavenly wisdom.

So I did what seemed natural. I said, “Hal, you go first.”

He gave me an unhappy look but proceeded to share some experiences with our grandson, to give him perspective, I guess. It sounded good.

That gave me time to think. When my turn came, I realized that the best approach was first to ask questions and listen. So I asked him what he was hoping for, positive points, fears, what he could bring to the to the situation, and more such questions. He responded, Hal joined in, and the resulting back-and-forth conversation between the three of us actually led to some helpful insight. Not only did we share wisdom (I hope), we encouraged his wisdom to kick in.

Maybe wisdom is communal, at least in some situations. I think of the Quaker committees-for-clearness where a selected group of people centers their thoughts and prayers on one person and that person’s concern or decision. This involves times of silent waiting, questions, listening to the person, more silence and prayer. And then people share their sense of what the Spirit is saying. When it functions well, the person leaves with some clearer perspectives and a path to making his/her own decision. It’s all about wisdom and discernment. Communal wisdom.

I’m realizing that God invites us to ask for wisdom: “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given you.” There’s no age requirement. Any follower of Jesus can ask—old, middle aged, young. Even children. The Book of Proverbs time and again encourages young men (and women) to seek wisdom.

Still, it seems natural that some older people, through years of right living, should be known for their wisdom. As to whether or not I’m one of those people—well, it’s probably not for me to say. Or even to wonder about. But I can certainly ask for wisdom as a gift. As can my grandson. Wisdom that sometimes comes from consulting with other people. Even grandparents.

The next time I’m facing a conundrum, I may ask one of my grandchildren for insight.

Gratitude in the old growth forest

 I’m a list maker: to-do lists, wish-lists, prayer requests, priorities, and so on. I just made a (helpful, I hope) list of migraine triggers. And because this is Thanksgiving week, a gratitude list seems appropriate. (Hal helped me come up with this list.) I focus on the retirement community where we now live. This is a very particular old growth forest.

I’m thankful for….

--an environment that not only keeps me safe but encourages me to keep growing

--that my long-time husband is still my best friend and we get to share this apartment

--for the art studio in the basement that lets me (a non-artist) keep my own locker of art supplies, invites me to come down anytime to experiment with my own projects, encourages me to join classes and discover that maybe, just maybe, I am a sort of artist

--lots of new “best friends,” all of them in their 70s, 80s, and 90s. (I had thought “best friends” was a high school thing. Wrong.)

--the opportunity to listen, understand, and be present to my neighbors in good times and hard

--a library with a good selection and a flexible attitude toward late returns

--food that is almost always good and sometimes delicious

--a room with a view—trees, hills, a sky full of dancing clouds

--a cozy burgundy rocking chair that swivels to let me see the view (It’s my early morning prayer chair and my afternoon nap chair.)

--the path around the Hess Creek Canyon that feeds my need to be among trees on a regular basis and to hear water moving over the earth

--the critters that inhabit the secret spaces—deer, birds, squirrels, the occasional racoon

--the staff that works behind the scenes to make our lives comfortable: the women who clean our rooms, the man who replaced the handle on my refrigerator door when it broke off, the tech expert who solves my computer problems, the cooks and waiters/waitresses who prepare and serve our meals, the community life director who plans our outings, the gardeners who keep the place beautiful, and especially the nurses and aides who care for our most vulnerable residents.

--beautiful and sometimes intriguing works of art that decorate our lobby and all the residential halls. We live in an art gallery with free admission.

--our own lobby on the fifth floor where we congregate to have meetings, celebrate birthdays, pray together, and work (play) on puzzles

--free coffee down in the lobby

--our community garden where this year, for the first time, we had our own plot. Amazingly enough, things grew (roses, tomatoes, Inca lilies, green onions, wild flowers, and spaghetti squash, among other miracles).

--an exercise room with lots of machines and open space for courageous classes. My favorite machine (called the New Step) faces a window with a forest view. Forty-five minutes can pass without my realizing it.

--a woodshop where I (Hal) find a community of like interests and skills.

--an active residential association that lets us self-govern, plan our activities, and come up with creative ways to serve the community

--a resale shop and storage space that not only provide residents with a place to donate their furniture, clothes, and other items as they need to downsize, but offers bargain prices on really good stuff

--the security of knowing that as I continue to age and need different levels of care, this community will provide that. That’s the nature of a continuing-care retirement community. My kids and grandkids can come be with me, but they won’t have to take care of me. That gives me peace.

--the blessing of knowing that this community is Christ-centered and founded on values such as integrity, compassion, stewardship, community, excellence and service. I can live with that. I can grow old in this environment.

I hope this doesn’t sound like a publicity pamphlet. That’s not my intention, and that’s certainly not my favorite writing genre. And this community is far from heaven-on-earth. We have our fair share of problems, conflicts, and challenges. After all, we’re all people.

But my intention today is gratitude and the above list represents my true feelings. (Maybe I’ll write an angry list another day. Probably not.)

Thanks be to God for blessing us in this time of life. Life in this old growth forest is good.

Grace in an old photo

 I’m downsizing again. Although we took on this task before moving into the retirement center, we stored some boxes in our son’s garage, stuff I planned on going through later. Well, that’s what I’m attempting to do now. Last week we brought over to our apartment several boxes labeled “memory stuff.” That’s dangerous.

One box proved to be full of letters and old photos from my mother’s side of the family. It had been entrusted to me at some point in the past, and I had set it aside. Now was the time. I sat on the floor and began digging and sorting stuff into piles on the carpet.

Some of it was helpful information, some mildly interesting, and some destined for the recycling bin. I loved the photos of my grandparents, my mom, and all the aunts, uncles, and cousins when they were young.

Among all the musty black-and-white photos and crinkled letters, I discovered a few treasures.

I found a photo of a lovely young woman. When I turned it over and read the name on the back, I gasped. Nancy Jane Nichols. I had never seen a photo of my Aunt Nancy. I had never even met her. And I am her namesake.

My mom, Barbara Nichols, was raised with six siblings—four sisters and two brothers. Mom was the third-born, and Nancy followed her two years later. I understand that Barb and Nancy were especially close as kids and young women.

When Aunt Nancy was in her early 20s, she began behaving in ways that alarmed her family. She alternated between deep depression and erratic hyper-activity. She became delusional and had difficulty speaking. Happening to such a kind and friendly person, this terrified her loved ones.  As it went on for some time, her parents began taking her to different doctors. Finally, a psychiatrist diagnosed schizophrenia, a little understood condition at the time.

According to the American Psychiatric Association, “Schizophrenia is a chronic brain disorder that affects less than one percent of the US population. When schizophrenia is active, symptoms can include delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, trouble with thinking and lack of motivation.” Although there is still no known cure for schizophrenia, ongoing research has found humane ways to treat the symptoms and to care for the person.

But back when Aunt Nancy was diagnosed, institutionalization was standard practice. So, with broken hearts, my grandparents committed their daughter to a mental hospital. She lived there for the rest of her life. The family apparently stopped talking about her as they tried to deal with their loss and move forward. It became the Family Secret.

Schizophrenia is inherited, and a generation later two of my cousins developed it in their early 20s. My cousin Eileen was also institutionalized. My cousin John committed suicide.

My mom was devastated by what was happening to Nancy, and the grief followed her the rest of her life. As best I can calculate, Mom was a newly married woman at the time. Two years following her marriage, my parents welcomed their first born—me—and they named me Nancy Jane.

As I was growing up, my mom never talked about Aunt Nancy. And of course I never met her. When I got old enough to be curious about my name, I was told I was named after an aunt who was now “gone.” Even as a child I sensed Mom didn’t want to talk about it, so I left it alone. It’s only been since my mom’s death that I’ve been able to piece together a few details that saddened me. Sad for my aunt, but even sadder for my mother whose heart never healed.

And so my excitement at finding the photo of Nancy Jane Nichols, and discovering her to be such a beautiful young woman. I imagine I see her character in the photo—a kind, loving person I’d want to have as a friend, if that were possible. Maybe the photo shows who she really is, not the person the disease turned her into. I feel privileged to be named after her.

My parents apparently didn’t pay too much attention to the meaning of names. They were not Christians at the time and certain words might not have carried much significance. But both Nancy and Jane are derivatives of the work grace. I’ll accept that. A double portion of grace. God’s grace child. That’s something to hold onto, cherish, and live into with the Spirit’s help.

My mom died at the relatively young age of 57 after years of degenerative rheumatoid arthritis. Her limbs had become twisted and she could no longer walk. She kept her quiet and cheerful spirit to the end, but it hurt to see her suffering.

I imagine the sisters, Nancy Jane and Barbara Mae, together now, healed, whole, and flourishing. They have an eternity to make up for time they lost here on earth.

Grace.

 

Creativity has no age limit

 Creativity and beauty are alive and well in the retirement community! Retirement doesn’t keep artists from painting, writers from writing, musicians from blowing their horns, photographers from capturing beauty, and artisans of all sorts from growing craftier than ever.

Speaking of art, the lobby of the main community building is its own art gallery, under the management of a resident activity group called Art on the Wall. It always features the work of a local artist and changes every few months. Sometimes the local artist is a resident of our retirement community.

That’s the case with the latest collection that circles the walls of the lobby and extends down the hall to the dining room. The artist just happens to be a good friend. I’ve known Sharon Longstroth since college days over 50 years ago. We’ve kept up our friendship over the years and now find ourselves part of the same retirement community.

After college, Sharon taught in grade school, as well as being a wife, mother, and homemaker. All along art has played a central part in her life. It’s part of her identity as a person.

She is currently known as a “Watercolor/Mixed Media Artist.” Sharon writes, “In recent years I have spent considerable time painting the things that I love: old buildings, people I know, flowers, birds, and anything else that catches my interest. A few years ago, I took a mixed media class where I learned to make books and art pieces using my own painted collage papers. I loved the results and the freedom of creating in a new way.”

Sharon tells me that living in the retirement community has encouraged her as an artist. It’s not just a matter of having more free time (although that is a major factor). It’s being part of a community of other creative people who inspire her and motivate her to keep learning new ways of creative expression. She is part of the Studio Arts Committee and spends a lot of time in their large studio on the lower floor. She sometimes teaches art classes and also enjoys taking some of the other classes the committee offers.

I don’t consider myself an artist, but I’ve taken a few of the art classes, including one Sharon taught on mixed media. But aside from art, the creative energy this group puts out encourages creativity in other forms. I find myself writing more stuff in a more creative manner. It’s part of the atmosphere of this community. I’m grateful.

Here are some of Sharon’s pictures currently on display: