Beyond limitations

 This was a disappointing weekend. We had scheduled a retreat at the Prayer Lookout. Solitude with a view of the Pacific Ocean. But we’re learning to hold all trips and plans lightly these days. Hal came down with stomach problems and we had to cancel at the last minute. Our aging physical bodies are limiting our adventures.

In another, more serious, set of limitations, just this last week a dear friend here in the retirement community moved from her independent-living apartment to a room in the health center. She’s now on hospice care. She’s accepting her new limitations with grace, but it’s hard. She now takes more naps and reads less books. And waits.

On the national level, we watched the painful process as President Biden gave in to the pressure to not seek reelection, to accept that the limitations of age would impact the presidency, should he win the election. We were relieved when he finally gave up the race, but we identified with the pain of his process.

We could identify because we retired from a professional life in which we actively contributed and were recognized. We were, to a certain extent, sought after. That’s all behind us now. In my good days, I accept that and feel glad to be free of the hassle. On my not-so-good- days, I can feel forgotten, devalued, etc., etc., etc. I struggle to accept the professional limitations of retirement.

I also, like so many of us, struggle with my health; my vestibular migraines seem to be getting worse. I tell myself that this is probably a temporary condition. In the meantime, dizziness and fatigue plague me every day.  Hal’s challenges are even more pronounced. We joke about making quite a pair. At least we can still joke. But facing our physical limitations is a major task in this growing-older phase of life.

These are middle-of-the-night thoughts.

Early morning, on the other hand, is the most positive time of day for me. I tend to see my challenges in a different light.

The other morning, out of the silence came the realization that I could consider my limitations as an exchange. I recognized that, even as my dizziness increases, my creative expressions are growing. I’m writing more, reading more good books, experimenting with art, having more long talks with friends. I have more time to pray (although having the time doesn’t mean I do it well). It almost seems as if limitations in a few areas of my life have actually resulted in expansion in other areas. Maybe in areas of more ultimate importance.    

In a fit of early morning optimism, I wrote this poem:

Exchange

OK. I get it. I’m old.
My feet hurt. The second toe
on each foot whines like a two-year-old
even though it’s approaching 80.
Stop it! I demand. Do they listen,
those toes? You guess. I won’t say.
My arthritic fingers still insist
on opening jars and drawing pictures.
I let them.
The twirling stuff inside my head
dares me to walk the winding path
through the trees. I take the dare.
I open the door.

This betrayal is not the whole story.
Not the theme nor the purpose
and nowhere near the final chapter.
No!

Every day I watch with wonder

as the sun rises over the far trees.
I close my eyes, let the first rays hit my face.
Brightness pulses through my lids,
lights up my brain. I’m more alive
than I’ve ever been. Yes, I’m saying.
Yes to the day. Yes to the light.
Yes to the gifts that keep growing—
my marvelous mind, the colors
and music in my imagination,
all the poems that ever were
and those that are yet to be.

Yes! I am saying. Yes yes yes.

If I stumble forward,
it's toward the light.

Yes.