An inward violence

Several years ago in a writers workshop, the facilitator gave us the exercise to remember and describe a vivid childhood incident.  It could be happy, traumatic, or funny—but it had to be vivid.  These types of exercises usually bring to mind important things I need to reflect about, and this memory was no exception.

Here’s the memory:  I was six years old, and our family was living in a low-cost housing development in central California—a group of duplexes arranged in a circle around a grassy area where the kids played.  I remember that our neighbors included a gang of older boys (they would have been between seven and ten years old).  They looked mean and scary.   I avoided them.

One afternoon I noticed this group of boys huddled in the common yard.  They were looking down at something, laughing and pushing.  I feared they might be tormenting some animal, so I cautiously approached.  One of the boys moved and I discovered that the object there in the middle was my little brother Tommy, who was lying on the ground and crying.  My fear instantly changed to fury, and I grabbed a board that just happened to be nearby and charged the group, yelling and swinging my weapon.

The boys reacted almost as quickly as I had and fled the scene.  I think I hit some of them before they got away, but the battle field cleared in a remarkably short time.  I helped Tommy to his feet and burst into tears myself.  Then we both ran for the safety of our house.  I don’t even remember my mother’s reaction.

I haven’t thought about this for years, but the memory is definitely vivid.  I learned a few things that day.  I learned that even though I was small, skinny and female, I had what it takes to confront obstacles larger and stronger and more numerous than me.  I also learned that violence works.

Obviously, this requires deeper reflection.  Thanks to the grace of God, I did not develop the violent side of my nature as I grew up.  I am an active peacemaker today by choice.  But I still need to confront the seeds of violence that are part of my nature. (That’s probably why the memory is so vivid.) They spring up every once in a while, for example, in the presence of injustice.  Unfortunately, this is usually some violation of my own rights, rather than a reaction to the plight of the poor or oppressed.  I feel concern for the latter, but rarely fury.  

I’ve learned to control the outward manifestations of my inner violence, but I have to admit its occasional presence. Even now as I’m living in the retirement center, an over-reaction to some situation or to some irritating person reveal to me that something on the inside still needs to be fixed.

Lots of questions:  Did I do the right thing in rescuing Tommy in that way?  (Something in me likes this memory.)  Are there more sophisticated, “adult” ways that I still attack problems by swinging a big stick? Unkind words? Ungracious thoughts?

Will I ever be old enough (mature enough) to live in perfect peace, both inwardly and on the outside? 

Dear Lord, give understanding. Have mercy. Keep working on me. Amen.

Living with the seven dwarfs

 I loved the Disney movie “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” as a child. The wicked stepmother and her gloomy castle, the lovely innocent Snow White, the little house in the forest, the mining dwarfs, and the handsome prince who rescues them—all of it fascinated me. And then, of course, there was the scary Disneyland ride when I plunged into the dark mine, screaming in a childlike mixture of fear and silliness. I wished it didn’t end so soon.

I’m not sure who I identified with. Every little girl in some sense aspires to be a princess. If I did identify with Snow White, I soon grew out of it. Too much trouble to be nice and pretty 100% of the time. I was occasionally naughty, but even so, I wasn’t the wicked witch either.

Now I know why I could never fully identify with Snow White. I’m the dwarfs! All seven of them. I always have been. Even more so now in my “golden years.” I live with these dwarfs as they are nestled snuggly in my personality. Sometimes they struggle for ascendency. Other times they all get along together, digging for diamonds.  “Hi Ho Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go!” 

I’m definitely Bashful. I’m basically an introvert. While I love many people, I need to retire from social events in order to re-energize in silence and solitude. I love reading and writing (but draw the line at arithmetic). Walking in the woods, meditation, prayer—I’m drawn to these activities. In a group situation, I’m the quiet one. It bothered me as a young person, but now as I’m growing older, I find myself at peace, even liking my Bashful self.

In contrast, I’m also Doc, the leader of the dwarfs. I actually enjoy public speaking. I like to work on projects in teams and am frequently the team leader. I’m a coordinator, an organizer. Bashful and Doc don’t aways get along. When Doc teaches a class, Bashful reminds him that he doesn’t know all that much and maybe isn’t the right person to be up front. Bashful wants to keep quiet; Doc wants to speak up, make a contribution. I’ve learned that when the two of them work together in a spirit of confident humility, life goes more smoothly. It’s taken years to come to this understanding.

I’m Dopey. Definitely Dopey. I like to have fun, even to the point of being silly. I can’t imagine life without humor. I love to make people laugh. As a child and now as an advanced grown-up, I try to hold life lightly.

I admit it. I’m Grumpy. I hold life very seriously and want other people to do likewise. When they don’t, I can get angry. Some days I wake up moody and if Hal tries to talk me out of it—well, he doesn’t try any more. He’s learned.

I’m genuinely Happy. The joy of the Lord is my strength. I wake up quoting ee cummings’ poem, 

I thank you God for most this amazing 
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees 
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything 
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

When I walk among the trees, my spirit says yes yes yes yes. I accept this stage of life—old—as the best so far.

I’m Sleepy. More than I used to be. These old bones want to stay put in my easy-chair. When I walk among the trees, I get tired. This disturbs me. I haven’t yet come to peace with Sleepy’s growing demands on my body.

I’m Sneezy. Physically, I’m not who I used to be. A lot of the time, it’s the little things about my body that disturb me. Rather than Sneezy, a better name for me would be Dizzy. At my age, I have to accept these limitations. I confess to being nervous about what lies ahead.

These are the seven dwarfs who all live inside me: Bashful, Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, and Sneezy. Actually, the list could include other dwarfs such as Friendly, Creative, and Spiritual. (Can you imagine a dwarf named Spiritual? How would Disney depict him?) What other dwarfs do we need to invite into the house?

All of this goes to say that we as persons are hard to define. Some of our personality traits we’ve carried from early childhood, and they are still part of us. Others have developed through life, circumstances, relationships, spiritual experiences, and on and on. And we’re all different and complex. At the same time that we’re all alike and basically simple critters.

(Isn’t this fun?)

Actually I don’t pay much attention to the categories anymore. Most of the time, I just am, without naming myself Grumpy or Dopey. Even so, I’ve found this exercise helpful.

What about you? Who do you identify with? You just might be Snow White. Or the wicked stepmother (but probably not). Or both, plus a dwarf or two.

Let me know.

The making of an old soul

 I recently read a book by Carol Orsborn called, The Making of an Old Soul. I was drawn to the title by association with another book, The Diary of an Old Soul (1880), a devotional book of poetry by one of my favorite authors, George MacDonald. MacDonald’s fairy tales have been a source of joy for years; one of those books led to CS Lewis’s conversion to Christianity. So if MacDonald identified himself as a “old soul,” I was open to the idea.

I had the mental picture of an old soul as someone old (naturally), wise, and kind. White-headed, of course. But a simple dictionary definition tells me that an old soul is “someone who is wise and thoughtful beyond their years,” no matter how old they are. A young child could have the eyes of an old soul.

The subtitle of Orsborn’s book shows her understanding of an old soul: Aging as the Fulfillment of Life’s Promises. That subtitle gave me pause, wondering if this was another pollyannaish book on how wonderful is it to be old and wise. That pause almost came to a full stop as I read in the prelude that “At last, everything makes sense…. We have, in fact, burst through age to freedom.” The realist in me wonders if that is even possible; the cynic just snickers.

But I decided to give Orsborn a chance and I read the book. I’m glad I did. I found it interesting, thought-provoking, and, if not transformative, at least hopeful. While I take her conclusions with a grain of salt, I appreciate the chance to wrestle with the ideas.

In most of the book, Orsborn takes us through the different life stages in spiritual/psychological development, following her own 11 stages in what she calls the Arc of Life. She begins before birth where the pre-born person is united with God. This is an old idea. I remember reading in high school William Wordsworth’s long poem, “Intimations of Immorality” (“The child is the father of the man” and so on). It’s an interesting concept which I don’t intend to discuss here. 

Orsborn takes us from birth, the original and most profound trauma of separation from the mother’s womb--and from God. “Being born hurts … one’s first reaction upon expulsion from the womb is to howl,” she comments. We then travel through the stages of forming our identity, adopting masks to hide aspects of ourselves we don’t like, recognizing and discarding the masks, etc., etc. It’s very interesting, with some good insights. 

Finally, according to her theory, we reach the beginnings of old age. This is the part of the book where I begin to pay attention. The author names this stage "The Void." One looks back on life and wonders where the dreams went and if it was worth it all. 

Probably most of us confront these thoughts to some degree, some people more than others. She writes, “It is the dissonance between our expectations and our outcomes, both in regard to what we expect of the world, but also, and more to the point, what we expect of ourselves, that causes the pain….” This is the stage of crisis, of looking our past losses fully in the face. Orsborn writes, “And now you are once again at a crossroads with a new choice to make: Will you choose despair, or will you choose freedom?”

Then comes the stage of "Conscious Aging." This was a new term to me. Actually, it’s the title of a movement, The Conscious Aging Movement, and Carol Orsborn is one of the key players of the movement, devoting her blog to the topic. If we want to advance to the ultimate stage of becoming an old soul, this Conscious Aging stage is time to choose, to “confront and then clear away the debris of regret, victimhood, blame, self-doubt, and all manner of misunderstanding from your path.” Sound good to me, at any stage.

To help that happen we enter the stage of "The Big Reveal." In order to progress in spiritual development, we need “something more” than our own efforts. Orsborn calls that “something more” God. (I was relieved to read that as there had been scant mention of the divine so far.) The Reveal is a mystical experience that surprises us and allows us to finally understand the mystery of our life. The grown-up infant finally gets reunited with God.

Orsborn had that experience herself during the pandemic while she was disconsolately wandering through a cemetery. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with the sense of the beauty and goodness of the world, as well as her own personal beauty and worth. It changed her life, she writes. So she went on to make this a normative experience. 

I have a problem with that. I’ve had some fairly substantial moments of insight, along with a lot of little experiences. And they’ve happened throughout my life, not just on the cusp of old age. 

Finally, if we’ve made it this far (and not everyone does—in fact, the society of old souls is not large), we are now an old soul. “You’ll know you made it to the world of old souls when things that once caused you pain or compulsion no longer carry the power to devastate.” That sounds like a good mark of emotional maturity. 

In describing herself as an inhabitant of the “world of old souls,” Orsborn says, “What was the essence of this new experience of myself in relation to the world? It was that I was ordinary. And what’s more, my ordinary self was sufficient.” Life in this land is not free of difficulties, she informs us. We’re still human, and old age is not easy, but now we have the freedom to hold those difficulties lightly. 

Congratulations if you’ve made it through his book review. I found much that was positive, along with stuff that I’m not altogether sure about. Some of what she says about old souls sounds like growing to maturity, to put it simply. (Or not. Is growth to maturity simple?) Orsborn makes no claims to be a Christian and the lack of the work of the Holy Spirit of Christ is a void in the book. But that doesn’t mean there’s not value or truth to be found.

One of my conclusions is that I am not an old soul. At least not yet. I’m a project in the making. On the level of faith, St. Paul tells us that as we look to Christ, little by little, from glory to glory, we are being changed into the image of Christ (2 Corinthians 3:18). I’m fine with the little-by-little part as I grow older. And more than fine with the hope of becoming like Jesus. 

As to whether or not I’m an official old soul, well, I’m not going to worry about it. 

Old souls or dead fish?

 I was planning on writing this blog as a reflection on a book I just read, The Making of an Old Soul: Aging as the Fulfillment of Life’s Promise. The book itself sounded promising. As I got into it, I grew enthusiastic and began highlighting many sentences and even paragraphs. “This is good stuff,” I told myself, with my usual intellectual insight.

But before I finished, I was having second thoughts about the book. I was going to write the blog last night, but these pesky second thoughts were battling in my brain, so I decided to postpone the writing and sleep on it. A good night’s sleep often clarifies matters.

But I woke up early this morning with a crazy dream. I believe in the importance of dreams, the dreams you remember. Most of my dreams I forget the moment I wake up. They entice me and I want to hold onto them, but it’s like grabbing a fistful of mist. Nothing stays. But if a dream remains in my mind, I know it’s important. It might be a message from God. Seriously. Sometimes that happens. Mostly, though, my dreams tell me something about myself, something it would be good for me to attend to.

Dream analysis can be tricky and I’m no psychologist. Writing a dream usually helps me make sense of it. And, of course, if I don’t write it down immediately, I’ll forget it by the end of the morning. Even remembered dreams are elusive. They can slip away like a wet fish in the hand.

Speaking of fish, that’s what last night’s dream was about. And since I have not yet reached any conclusion about the old-souls book, I’m going to write my dream here in this blog and let you help me interpret it.

Okay. Here goes.

I was on a road trip with someone (who? the details are already slipping away), and we were parked in a small, run-down town out in nowhere. We got a meal in a local café and then were about to leave when we were apprehended by the law. With no explanations, the sheriff grabbed us and took us to the local jail. I was pleading for mercy. The sheriff impounded my car, put my companion in jail, and said he would go easy on me if I would do him the favor of delivering a load of fish to some restaurant in Los Angeles.

I agreed. The sheriff and his men then loaded a bunch of fish, including a huge tuna, into the back seat of a gold-painted station wagon, gave me the keys, and waved good-bye.

I drove off quickly, wanting to get away from the whole scene. Apparently, I didn’t give a thought to my companion back in the town jail. He just disappears from the dream. I also didn’t give a thought to the fact that these fish had not been packed in ice and placed in a container. They were just lying on the floor and back seat. 

It wasn’t too long before I did give that a thought.

I was driving through the desert. It looked like Death Valley (through which I have actually driven, in real life). As the day progressed and the sun got higher in the sky, I thought about those fish. My nose thought about them. Although the car had air-conditioning, it was so hot outside, the fish were beginning to stink. And it dawned on me just how mean and nasty that sheriff was. This fish delivery thing was merely revenge.

Soon I had to stop the car and do something about the whole mess. I had no idea how far it was to Los Angeles.  I got out. The desert sun beat down with such intensity it gave me a headache. I opened the back door and began tossing fish to the side of the road. It was hard when I got the huge tuna, but with lots of tugging and sweating and panting and cursing the sheriff, I managed to drag the thing out of the car. Only to discover that underneath all the fish lay a corpse.

On that note I woke up.

Can you see why I need help in interpretation?

I don’t think this dream was a message from God.

So, what is it trying to tell me about myself? Why was this dream important enough to be remembered? 

(At this point, you’re probably wishing I had stuck with a reflection on old souls.)

Interpretation begins with observations and questions. Who was my companion and why did he just disappear? Who was the sheriff? It seems obvious that he did not represent the law since justice never entered the dream. And the fish? The gold station-wagon? The desert? Who was the dead man?

Does this have anything to do with growing older?

Or is it something else?

A little while ago Hal came in from his early morning walk and I shared the dream with him. He’s the best dream-interpreter I know. He immediately connected the dream to the current political situation in our country and told me it could be a reflection of my fears. He might be right.

Last night I watched the evening news with Hal. I had previously decided I wouldn’t do that anymore as it can be too upsetting, but something seems to draw me to the TV. Partly it’s because it’s been our routine for years, to watch the evening news together and then discuss the issues. But because of the tension and chaos in our national life, I’d decided to take a break and get my news through other sources. Last night I gave in and joined Hal in front of the TV. It was, of course, upsetting.

Then we went to bed, but I couldn’t get to sleep, which is not surprising. So I got up and went out to the living room to pray. I prayed for our national leaders. I prayed for Congress and the Supreme Court. I prayed for all the people in other countries who are paying the consequences of the abrupt cutting off of aid. I prayed for the thousands of federal workers now without a job. I prayed for my Hispanic friends here in town who live with increased levels of fear and insecurity. I lamented and called out for mercy. Then I went back to bed and slept.

And early this morning—the dream.

Does the dream symbolically reflect reality? Or my perception of reality? It’s undoubtedly a projection of my fears.

And I need to face the fears.

I don’t think I’ll want to eat fish in the near future. That’s a problem since the retirement community serves lots of fish. I usually like it.

Next week’s blog—no fish or corpses. I promise. Old souls.

PS: Please let me know your take on the dream.

Unruly saints and questionable angels

 A group of residents here in the retirement community share an interest in family genealogies. They have the technology and resources for their investigations, and they encourage each other along.

We all want to know more about our ancestors. The Old Testament teaches that we receive generational blessings and/or curses through our family lines. Both life and death. The holy and the void. 

Russian poet Yevtushenko writes about visiting an orthodox church in a village: 

I am inside the church of Koshueti:
on a wall without dogmatic loyalty
unruly saints and questionable angels
tower upwards in front of me.

He’s describing the old portraits of the church’s “ancestors” adorning the walls of the sanctuary. Having been in similar Latin American Catholic churches, I can picture the old faces solemnly looking down.

In the temple of my imagination, I can see the portraits of my ancestors in a long line. As I learn more about them, I recognize among them several unruly saints and questionable angels. I hail from some very interesting characters. Thankfully, I have relatives on both sides of the family (my father’s people and my mother’s) who have taken the time and trouble to do genealogical research and write it down. There are many holes in the history, many things I wish I knew, but much is available to me and I lap it up like a hungry puppy.

Let me start by telling you about a famous person in my background. I hope this impresses you. My Grandma Nichols’ great uncle was no other than—are you ready?—the great Charlie Post, inventor of Post Grape-Nuts! Uncle Charlie developed a cereal industry that supplied the breakfast tables of middle-class Americans for decades. Think Post-Toasties, Honey Bunches o’ Oats, and Pebbles.

[Interesting side-note: I married a man whose grandmother’s maiden name was Kellogg. As anyone knowledgeable in American history knows, the Post and Kellogg families were arch rivals in the cereal world. I think the Kelloggs finally won out over the Posts, with Corn Flakes sitting on the throne of the breakfast cereal empire. It’s amazing that Hal and I get along as well as we do.]

Since I obviously can’t detail my whole family story (and you obviously wouldn’t want me to), let me give a few snippets that fascinate me

--On my mother’s side, my Great-Great-Grandpa James Mott Van Wagner was a Congregational minister who supported his family as a phrenologist (one who counseled people based on the size and shape of their skull). More importantly, his home was a station on the underground railway. My Great Aunt Edna wrote that her grandpa “was very outspoken and more broad in his religion than most folks in those days. He would not stand for any dissentions in the church. As soon as they took place, he would leave and go to another pastorate. Consequently, they lived in many places.”

--My great grandmother Gertrude Gleason was born on a farm in Vermont that had been “purchased from the Indians for a gallon of whiskey.” Another of the Gleason relatives had a family of 17 children. The last one was named “Mercy!”

--My Grandpa Nichols was an alcoholic and compulsive gambler which, during the Great Depression, made things hard on the family. He experienced a turn-around through Alcoholics Anonymous and spent the last 13 years of his life sober. Good for you, Grandpa!

On my father’s side of the family, my cousin David spent several years doing extensive genealogical research. At the time he lived in Salt Lake City which is the genealogical capital of the country, so he had ample resources at hand. He put his findings in large binders and gave copies to all us cousins.

David discovered that the earliest known Forsythe ancestors came from Aquitaine in France and migrated to England, then up to Scotland, and eventually to Ireland and back to England. Got that? In Scotland the Forsyths were an important clan with a coat of arms—four griffins on a plaid background with an inscription that translates, “Restorers of the Ruins.” Very impressive.

But David’s book of ancestor stories digs before the Forsythe line and stretches back to 300 AD with one Flavius Afranius Syagruis of France, my 43rd Great Grandfather. (43rd means this man was my Great Great Great Great—repeat 43 times!—Grandfather.) The math of ancestry becomes astronomical, considering I have two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, 16 great-greats, and so on. (All this before marrying Hal and doubling the count for our kids.) So I can’t really take too much pride in descending from Flavius Afranius Syagruis because millions of other people can say the same.

But Cousin David went ahead and listed some of my more illustrious ancestors. They include Charlemagne, the Holy Roman Emperor, my 32nd Great Grandfather; William the Conqueror, my 24th Great Grandfather; Louis the Fat, King of France, my 23rd Great Grandfather (1100s). My favorite is Eva McMurrough or “Red Eva,” my almost mythical Irish 22nd Great Grandmother who is said to have been over eight feet tall, had blazing red hair, and waged continuous war. She killed the enemy with her hair, braiding chunks of iron into the coils, then whacking away.

David’s list goes on, eventually narrowing down to my actual grandparents. David writes in his introduction, “At some point, if it were not for familial inter-marriages, our ancestors would theoretically equal the population of the world. But hindsight shows that our ancestors were an incestuous lot, and a brief look at the charts is enough to make one wonder why we’re not all insane.”

It would be insane for me to go any further with this, in spite of all the stories I’ve left out. I ask myself, “Who am I the proudest to be descended from—the minister/phenologist who captained the underground railroad or Red Eva?” Eva, I think.

Well, now that you know my claim to fame (Charlemagne and Charlie Post), I hope you will give me the respect I am due.

Who are your illustrious ancestors? Any unruly saints or questionable angels?

I speak to my body

 Many years ago, when I lived in Bolivia, I developed a sore on the bottom of my left foot—a nasty place in case one wants to walk. And I did. The doctor decided I needed an operation to remove the growth. (Now I know that there are less drastic solutions for this condition.) So, he operated. Then he sent me home with instructions to rest, with my foot elevated.

It was the middle of a school term, but I complied. (Now I know that today a doctor would have me up and walking an hour after the operation.) 

Actually, I was glad for a little time off to lay around and read novels. Except for the pain.

My foot hurt. So, I wrote it a letter. Here’s my letter:

Letter To My Left Foot 

Oh appendage, end of leg, end of body, connection to the world,

Why do you protest?
Have I not treated you well?
Have I ignored you?
Well, I'm not ignoring you now!
You are constantly on my mind these days, left foot.
I lay here with you high in the air, and I think of you.
I get up to go to the bathroom and all my focus dips down to where you meet the floor.
Eating, sleeping, reading my novel, you are on my mind.
I hope you can find satisfaction in this.
I hope this cools your heat, calms your ire, stifles your screams.

Oh foot, left foot, please accept my profound apologies for having ignored you, belittled you, stuffed you into shoes, exposed you to dirt and grime, and--more times than I can calculate--stepped on you.

And now--hear my confession--I must tell you in all honesty that I probably will continue to do all of the above, once you stop screaming.

In spite of that, please consider being nice to me again.

Whatever you decide, we're stuck with each other, connected for life.
A treaty, left foot?
Let's try harder to get along, OK?

With warm regards,
The rest of your body.

I was just thinking this morning that at this time of life I could write letters to lots of body parts. I’m not sure they would read my letters. It probably wouldn’t make any difference.

Take my hands, for example. My hands used to be so soft and well-formed. Not only that, they could open tough lids without outside help. Strong. My hands were a source of pride. 

Now I think—how silly. 

Hal complemented me yesterday. “You have beautiful hands, Nancy,” he said. I’m afraid I made some cynical remark in reply. Bad me. Later I said, “Woops. Sorry. I accept your complement.”

Actually, my hands are much more interesting now than when I was young and vain. The lines go in so many directions. The spots are not symmetrical but I like abstract art. The nails are ridged, but the ridges are straight and orderly, in contrast to the spots. The knobby knuckles provide a geography of mountains and valleys. And the bruise marks are a lovely color of purple. 

I don’t think I’ll write a letter to my hands. Instead, I will talk to them. Here’s what I’ll say:

Thank you, hands, for almost 80 years of service. I can’t believe how many poems and stories you’ve written. You’re so creative. Years ago, you held hands with a young man as I promised to be faithful. You wore that beautiful ring for five years, until you grew skinny and it fell off in Lake Titicaca. Not your fault. We replaced it, not wanting your finger to feel naked.

You burped my babies, cooked spaghetti, washed my dishes, gripped the steering wheel as I drove to the market, buttoned my buttons, threw balls, cross-stitched flowers, and turned the pages on some wonderful books. I could go on and on.

I probably should have worn gloves when I did the dishes. I probably should have spoiled you more with exotic lotions. A manicure or two might have been nice. But you’ve been faithful anyway.

And now you’re so interesting, a map of lines and spots that tell the story of a lifetime of adventures, surprises, trials, and blessings. 

So, thank you. I promise to stop complaining about those interesting spots.

Now, which body part should I address next?

Slogging through a senior slump

I’m in a slump and I don’t like it. Just so you know, I’m not referring to despair, depression, or anything requiring major psychological repair. It’s more like a lingering lethargy, a state of being profoundly uninspired. Being too tired to bother with people or projects. Blah. Good word, blah.

I’m calling it a “senior slump”—just wondering if growing older has anything to do with it. I face chronic physical challenges. I haven’t been sleeping well for several weeks. And then there’s the unwholesome temptation to compare my present life to the lives of my bright, ambitious, and highly functioning offspring and grand-offspring. They are collectively advancing in their careers, writing books, changing the world, getting married, having babies, and other significant stuff. I struggle to answer the question, “What have you been doing lately, Grandma?”

Slump is an interesting word. Think of other sound-alike words: slobber, slog, slop, sloth, slouch, slough, slovenly, slow, slubber, sludge, slug, slum, slur, slurp, slush, slut. It’s dark in this forest of verbiage.

According to the dictionary (Oxford Languages), some of the definitions of a slump are “a sudden or prolonged fall in price, value, or amount; a period of poor activity or performance, especially an extended period; a downturn in performance.” It usually refers to economics or sports, but has personal applications as well. “There are many kinds of slumps, but they all involve things going downhill.” Sounds about right.

Here’s my own definition: “A slump is a slog through a bog in the fog.”

All I really know is that I’m in a slump and it doesn’t feel good. Consider my three life priorities in terms of what I am to do with my time on earth: prayer, poetry, and people (all conveniently beginning with my favorite letter of the alphabet—P). I’m presently not doing well in any of these areas. I’m experiencing a “downturn in performance,” as the dictionary gently puts it.

Prayer certainly doesn’t come naturally or easily these days. When I attempt contemplative prayer, I either float off onto some imaginative rabbit trail or go to sleep. I avoid prayer meetings that I find too noisy or religious. (Can you imagine a prayer meeting that is too religious? That shows how far I’ve fallen.) I do attend one prayer meeting in my neighborhood in the retirement community. It’s low key and I always come away feeling we’ve been partnering with Jesus in his purposes in the lives of our friends. (So maybe there’s hope for me.)

In terms of poetry, I still write, but when I read the poem back to myself, I notice how poorly written and trite it is. I ask myself, “What right have you to call yourself a poet?” I wonder if I’ll ever publish again. Or write a decent poem.

About people, I have many friends here and friends around the world that I love. But these days I’m too tired to reach out. Being in a slump tends toward isolation. I’m tempted not to make the effort and, more often than not, I don’t.

Poor me. 

Okay, Nancy. Stop it right there! Is there anything to be done about all of this?

Here comes the what-to-do part of the blog. But please note that this is not expert me telling you how to do “it.” This is me working my way through this particular forest. It’s me trying to find some light to lead me out. And the way I do this sort of thing is—I make lists. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far.

--I will process this slump by writing about it and laughing at myself as I go. That’s what I’m doing with this blog. I’m reflecting, gaining insight, and talking myself into not taking myself so seriously. That’s what the silly title is all about. (Come on! “Slogging through a senior slump”? Is that pathetic or what?)

--I will decide not to beat myself up or apologize for feeling what I’m feeling (or not feeling). I will stop saying, “You’re a poor poet; you’re a failure at prayer; you’re not a good friend” and on and on and on. I don’t need to tell myself those fibs.

--If I’m going to sit around and read books instead of going out and being active, I will at least read good books. These last few weeks, I’ve enjoyed Sara Nisha Adams’ The Reading List; John Simpson’s The Word Detective: Searching for the Meaning of It All at the Oxford English Dictionary; and Barbara Brown Taylor’s An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith.

--I will write in my gratitude calendar every day. I asked Hal to give me at Christmas a new Audubon Daily Calendar, the kind with a beautiful photo for each week, with space to write something each day. My idea is to write things I’m thankful for a the end of the day. I confess that a few days I actually could not think of a thing. But I’m getting better at it. I know it’s helping.

--I will remind myself of the rhythms of life. I know that life naturally has ups and downs. If I’m down now, I’m likely to come up again. That sounds like a cliché, but even clichés can carry truth. 

This morning as I sat looking out at the snow (something I’ll write in my gratitude calendar tonight), an old hymn came to mind and I prayed the words of the chorus:

Lord, lift me up and let me stand
by faith on heaven’s tableland;
a higher plane than I have found,
Lord plant my feet on higher ground.

Amen.

Additional information, not necessarily related to the theme of this blog: Looking through the dictionary I discovered the word, slumpflation. It means “a state or period of combined economic decline and rising inflation.” Now aren’t you glad you know that?

A modest proposal

 These days I don’t know if I’m on a roller coaster or living through an earthquake. Things are shaking and rattling and I miss the steady solid ground I used to think of as the United States of America. 

Indicative of this movement are the proposals to change names: the Gulf of Mexico/America; Denali/Mt. Mckinley. What other name changes await us?

But I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should not protest so much, but rather enter into the spirit of our changing times and come up with some new names of my own. In fact, I’m ready to go even further than our present leadership and modestly propose that we change the name of our nation. It needs to better reflect the spirit of the age.

But first, some background information: You probably remember from primary school that our country got its name, America, from an explorer and navigator named Americus Vespucius.* The history surrounding this man is spurious, with different versions circulating. One thing we do know is that Columbus beat him to the mysterious new lands in 1492. Vespucius may have made two voyages on behalf of Spain and then Portugal between 1497 and 1502. He found Brazil around 1501, which shouldn’t have been difficult, what with Brazil being so big. The size of Brazil led him to the conclusion that this was not part of the Indies as was still believed (even by Columbus). No, this was a whole new continent! This conclusion is considered Vespucius’ real contribution.

Vespucius wrote two books describing what he called “the New World.” Although his authorship is now disputable, the books under his name became widely popular in Europe. Then along comes a cartographer named Martin Waldseemuller who took the descriptions from the books and drew a map of the New World, labeling it “America,” in honor of the supposed author who may or may not have actually voyaged there. The history gets a bit dicey. Other map-makers refined Waldseemuller’s work, continuing to name the continents America. Gradually, informally, this became the name of the New World. In 1776 the Second Continental Congress officially named our country the United States of America.

Both Vespucius and Colombus were dead by this time and did not know the honor, or slight, that had been paid to them. I, however, have a problem with the name. I feel very patriotic about the name America, from childhood connecting it with equality, dignity, integrity, honesty, and welcome. But I’m willing to part with it. Even if Americus Vespucius’ part in our national story is dubious, the founding fathers should have chosen his last name, rather than his first name. (Colombia and Bolivia did it right.)

Therefore, I propose that the name of our country be changed to the United States of Vespucius. It sounds much more imperial and in keeping with our new developing image. It even sounds volcanic, as in, “If all you other nations don’t follow my lead, Mt. Vespucius will erupt and you’ll all be sorry!”

I admit, there are some problems with my proposal. In the case of a miraculous bi-partisan passage by Congress, it might be hard to adjust to changing our great national hymns. “God Bless Vespucius”? “Vespucius the Beautiful”? And then there’s that national anthem beloved by all, “Here She Comes! Miss Vespucius!”

Gardeners would have to become accustomed to the Vespucian Beauty Rose, and immigrants would need to place their hope in the Vespucian Dream. We would need to take pride in products that are Made-in-Vespucius. And our national motto would need to shift to Make Vespucius Great Again (MVGA). Could we do it?

Maybe. Maybe not. Of course it probably won’t happen in my life time, but I will do my part and present my modest proposal.

What do you think?

*Note: Americus Vespucius is our hero’s Latin name. He is also known as Amerigo Vespucci (Italian) and Américo Vespucio (Spanish). Just so you know.

“How To Age Disgracefully”

I instantly gravitated to this book, choosing it from among a tableful of other volumes. It was the title. I’m allergic to cliches, including the one about “aging gracefully.” I’m sure that’s a wise goal and that we should all learn to age gracefully. It’s just that after hearing the term so often, it loses its impact. Oh hum.

But “aging disgracefully,” well now, that’s something else. Clare Pooley’s novel, How To Age Disgracefully, is as funny as its title. For the quote at the beginning of the book, Pooley uses part of Dylan Thomas’ famous poem about aging: “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day.” The characters in this novel burn and rave; they also bumble and stumble and trip over their arthritic feet, but they do so in a very entertaining way.

The protagonist, Daphne, a very rich lady, has lived in isolation in her tastefully decorated apartment for 15 years. Now on her 70th birthday, she decides she needs a social life, although she really doesn’t like people. She sees an ad for a small social group of seniors that meets in the local community center. She decides to give it a try, although she has serious doubts about socializing with all those old people.

And so the story begins with this motley collection of elders, each with their hilarious quirks and each hiding a secret in their past. The group eventually includes Lydia, the younger group leader who is experiencing the beginning of menopause, a shy teenage father and his adorable baby girl, a roomful of toddlers, and a geriatric, orphaned dog named Margaret Thatcher.

Daphne hates the stereotyping of old people she sees in the culture all around her, often rendering the old unattractive or invisible. But she figures out how to use the stereotypes to advantage, with hilarious results.

I’m not going to talk about the plot. Read the book for yourselves. But I will copy out here some choice quotes:

Daphne raised her hand. Nobody noticed. Daphne stood up, her hand still raised. They still ignored her.

Daphne did not like being ignored. In the early days of her career, she had been overlooked on account of her sex…. But now she was being ignored because of her age. She appeared to have jumped out of the frying pan of sexism and into the frying pan of ageism. The final frontier of isms.

Daphne thumped her walking stick several times on the wooden floorboards. She didn’t need a walking stick for actual walking. In fact, she prided herself on her mobility and flexibility, aided by twenty minutes of Pilates every morning, and an hour of yoga before bed. How many septuagenarians could do a headstand and sit for hours in the lotus position? She had, however, discovered that her age was a wonderful excuse for carrying around a stout, metal-tipped cane, which could come in handy in all sorts of circumstances. It was perfect for clearing people out of the way, for waving or thumping to attract attention, for giving the appearance of frailty when useful and, in extremis, it could be a dangerous weapon….

Daphne thumped the stick again, and everyone turned to find the source of disturbance….

  *****

“Nice day, isn’t it?” said Art to the man behind the counter, who flicked Art a cursory glance, muttered an “uh-huh,” and looked back at the phone in his hand.

Art was used to this behavior. He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d become irrelevant, or invisible, even—it had crept up on him gradually over the years. He often felt like a ghost. He occupied the same world as ordinary mortals, but most of them appeared to see straight through him. It used to make him angry, but then he’d discovered that invisibility had its advantages.

Art looked down at the brightly colored array of confectionery in front of him, reached out a hand, and picked up a packet of Fruit Gums, which he slipped into the pocket of his voluminous coat. [Art’s secret is that he is a kleptomaniac. But a good-hearted one.]

*********

They walked off, back to Daphne’s apartment, the stray dog tailing a few feet behind them.

Daphne stopped and stroked him behind the ears.

“There are younger, prettier dogs you could adopt, you know, Daffy,” said Art.

“Pah. I prefer my friends to have experience, wisdom, and a few guilty secrets,” said Daphne. And the dog followed her home.

                              *********

I could add other quotes. But I won’t. Read the book for yourself. It’s not only funny. It’s wise.

The aesthetics of declining body parts

 A few years ago, Nora Ephron published an essay in Vogue magazine called, “I Feel Bad about My Neck.” It’s her hilarious attempt to come to terms with the non-aesthetic aspects of aging female bodies. It helps me laugh as I face the same kinds of issues.

With Nora, it was her aging neck. She noticed that when she went out to eat with her aging girlfriends, they were all wearing turtleneck sweaters. This is what she calls “compensatory dressing.” Here’s how she describes the problem:

“Oh, the necks. There are chicken necks. There are turkey gobbler necks. There are elephant necks. There are necks with wattles and necks with creases that are on the verge of becoming wattles. There are scrawny necks and fat necks, loose necks, crepey necks, banded necks, wrinkled necks, stringy necks, saggy necks, flabby necks, mottled necks. There are necks that are an amazing combination of all of the above…. You can put makeup on your face and concealer under your eyes and dye on your hair… but the neck is a dead giveaway. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth. You have to cut open a redwood to see how old it is, but you wouldn’t have to if it had a neck.”

At this point I have to confess that my neck is just fine, thank you. My neck is not the problem, although it may become a problem someday. But Nora’s neck-laments serve as an example of the disastrous attacks aging makes on our bodies. I’m not speaking here of illnesses and disabilities, another and much more serious problem. I’m talking aesthetics. It’s Maria in West Side Story who sings, “I’m so pretty, oh so pretty,” not her Grandma.

Around this retirement community, I notice that almost no women wear short-sleeve shirts, even in the August heat. Even relatively slim women seem to have flabby upper arms. Give a little flick of the finger and watch the flab shimmy and shake. Better yet, don’t. Why does this happen even to those of us who exercise? Those who lift weights, for Pete’s sake?!!! (Poor Pete gets blamed for a lot of stuff.)

And then there’s the loose-fitting tops I insist on. I dread the day when a grandchild asks me, “Grandma, are you pregnant?” Although women’s magazines supply us with exercises guaranteed to take off tummy fat, I’ve heard it from more reliable sources that whatever we’ve accumulated by age 75 is now with us for life. Could that be true? What a dreary prospect. Really, it’s not fair.

I could go on and on to mention other sags, spots, blotches, wrinkles, purple lines, and hairy chins, but I won’t. You all know the list.

It’s the hands that really get me. I used to be known for my beautiful hands. Honest. Strangers would compliment me. Not anymore. My hands are now creatively polka-dotted with brown, red, and purple spots, scattered in a random pattern and intersected by the tiny crevasses we call wrinkles. My finger nails are ridged and brittle. If I chip one, I have to cut them all down, but arthritis makes it hard to squeeze the clippers, so I file away, hoping I can achieve a matching effect.

Hal reminds me that these hands have built sand castles, cut out paper dolls, washed dishes, changed baby diapers, washed dishes, patted the heads of crying children, written poems, washed more dishes, played my guitar, and been lifted up in praise. I shouldn’t be so critical, he tells me. They’re beautiful.

Okay. Maybe I can talk myself into believing that. Maybe I can’t. We’ll see.

This week I watched again one of my favorite movies. It’s called “Real Women Have Curves” and takes place among Latinas in Los Angeles. The teenaged protagonist, Ana, is overweight and suffers the constant nagging of her mother (an overweight middle-aged woman) to lose the fat or she won’t ever get married. 

Ana works with other Latinas from her barrio in her aunt’s garment factory. Actually, it’s a sweatshop with no fans (can’t get dust on the dresses). Ana’s aunt designs beautiful dresses and the team of six seamstresses work all day at sewing machines, struggling to meet deadlines. The factory makes $18.00 per dress that might then be sold for several hundred dollars in an exclusive boutique downtown.

Ana’s co-workers are all older than she is, and they are all overweight. But funny. The banter and teasing alone make the movie worth it.

One summer day, it’s so hot in the factory that Ana can’t take any more, so she defiantly takes off her shirt and trousers, and prances around in her underwear to the gasps of the ladies and the cry of her mother, “Ana! What are you doing? For shame!”

“No! No shame,” Ana responds. “This is me. This is how I am. And it’s okay! Ladies, join me!” Soon every woman (excepting the mother) is liberated from her outer garments and they all begin to dance and sing in the factory aisle. Celebrating themselves and their bodies.

There’s something very good about that. Not that I’m suggesting that we try it here in the retirement community. But accepting our aging bodies as part of a natural process is good. It’s not letting cultural values of beauty put us down. It’s celebrating who we are in this time of life.

The next time you see me, if you ask, I’ll show you my beautiful hands. 

We’ll save the neck for later.

A strategy for hope

 I’m writing this on Monday morning, January 20, 2025, and the USA has a new president. I wasn’t going to watch the events on TV, but my curiosity got the better of me and I tuned in for the last part of his speech, a very utopian vision of our future. I heard him make a reference to “manifest destiny” and the planting of the US flag on Mars. 

I know this blog is supposed to be about facing the challenges of aging with humor and courage, but all of a sudden, I’m feeling older than I have in a long time. Maybe it’s because I woke up at 3:00 this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Maybe it’s more than that. I got up and prayed. And cried. And then cried out in prayer for God’s mercy to be on us all.

I also know that we (you, me, and whoever else is reading this) have very different perspectives of the current political reality. I don’t want to offend anyone, but my words may make someone not like me anymore. (That statement sounds like my insecure ten-year-old self.) But it’s important that we trust each other enough to express our differences and still affirm our relationships.

Hal and I are taking this day to fast and pray: prayers of lament, prayers for mercy, prayers of protection for our Hispanic friends, and some radical prayers that come against evil in any form. We are also trying to come up with a strategy of hope and affirmation for the coming four years, a list of concrete ways to bring light into the chaos I sense all around me. Here’s the preliminary list:

1. I will limit my watching of the news on TV as it will probably be more upsetting than informative. I will keep up with the news via the most objective online sources I can find, including the analysis of Tangle. But I need to keep away from the sensational stuff.

2. I will not trash-talk about the present administration, although honest conversation can be helpful. I will avoid angry arguments.

3. I will daily join with Hal and others to pray for our country, including the president. These times call for much intercession.

4. I will daily seek evidence that goodness and beauty exist in our world, in our nation, and in much of our government. I will focus on the good and the beautiful when the darkness and chaos threaten to overwhelm.

5. I will seek for kingdom ways to make a difference, even if my contributions be small.

6. I will find some small way to work toward justice and mercy for marginalized and oppressed people.

7. I will keep my faith in the sovereignty of God over history. I will affirm hope.

I will probably modify this list in the coming months—refining it and adding to it as we live into this new reality. I admit I’m frightened. And feeling old.

May God have mercy on us all.

The trauma of fire

 I had intended to write about something else this week, but the fires in Los Angeles have grabbed my heart and I need to reflect. The news today has the combined fires covering an area as big as Washington, DC. That’s huge. More than eight million people are under critical fire risks and around 105,000 people are under mandatory evacuation order, with another 89,000 under evacuation warnings. More than 12,000 structures have been destroyed.

These are the statistics and numbers, but they don’t bear the weight of the trauma people are experiencing.

I grew up in San Diego County and the Santa Ana winds were a yearly part of our experience. I remember being frightened at the sound of the wind, with tree limbs falling near the house. I especially remember the year when the wild fires burned in the hills close to our town. In bed at night, I could actually see the reflection of fire pulsing on the walls. The smell of smoke filled the house, not enough to cause evacuation, but just enough to terrify one nine-year-old girl. The fires always skipped our town, thanks be to God.

During those years, my grandparents and a favorite aunt and uncle lived in Altadena, and I loved spending time in their home. They always made me feel special, especially Grandma. Several other aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in the area; Altadena was a Forsythe family gathering place. The grandparents, aunts and uncles all died years ago, but the memories are strong. I don’t know what area of Altadena they lived in—being a kid, that wasn’t important—but it’s likely that it has been affected by this fire.

Years later, Hal and I attended Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. Many of our friends and professors lived in Altadena, just up the hill from the seminary. Every summer we house-sat for Professor Colin Brown and his wife Olive. Dr. Brown was British and they went home to England for three weeks each summer to be with family. So we got to live in their lovely house, enjoy their pool, and, especially, care for their large rose gardens. In addition to New Testament theology, Dr. Brown was passionate about his roses, and we took our responsibility very seriously, watering according to a precise pattern he had set up and carefully documented for us. It was a pleasure to be so immersed in the beauty of the roses. It has been years since the Browns retired and moved back to England.

Just down the street from the Browns, our friend and colleague in the doctoral program, Stuart Dauermann, lived. Stuart is a Jewish Messianic rabbi. We spent some time in his home and even attended his synagogue one Saturday morning.

And a few blocks over, my doctoral mentor, Dan Shaw, lived with his wife and a houseful of books and mementos from his service as a Wycliffe Bible translator. Family photos covered the walls. Dan and his second wife, Georgia, have since sold their house and moved to a smaller home.

I have warm memories of time spent in Altadena homes.

Stuart and his wife, Naomi, moved to New York City last year. He now serves as rabbi to a Messianic synagogue in that city. Needless to say, news of the fires has devastated him. He found out from a friend that the entire block where they lived was destroyed by the fire. That means the home where they lived for many years, Dr. Brown’s home, and Dr. Shaw’s home. I think of those roses burning.

Recently Stuart wrote the following in Facebook (I’ve asked permission to quote him):

“In July 2023, I went for a walk in Altadena and prayed. I told God that my wife is a California girl and loves her gardening and hiking, and I’m a New York guy and I love New York, and we have three children and a grandson there. I said I don’t even know what to want. I know I can’t afford to live in New York! I told God, “I don’t even know how long I’ll live. But what I do know is my times are in your hands.” Then I told him, “all I can really say is that I want whatever time that remains to be fruitful.” And when I said that, I had a sense of profound confirmation as though I had touched the most foundational of concerns. 

“A short time after that, I got a phone call about this position in New York. Because I thought that God was in that prayer, Naomi and I said yes to moving across country within six weeks. 

“If I had not prayed, and if God had not spoken, and if [several other events had not happened] today Naomi and I would be picking among the embers for the remnants of our shattered lives. 

“It is extremely sobering, and I feel a hushed and chastened awe.”

                                                        Altadena, 2025

I share this because it gives a personal connection to the fires. Of course it’s far worse for the people directly affected, for those who’ve lost their homes and photos and family treasures, not to mention furniture, clothes, and all the other stuff necessary to live a normal life. Their lives have passed beyond normal and will be forever changed.

Which leaves me asking what more I can do besides watch the news, lament, pray, and give to help meet the needs of the new homeless. We live in a dangerous world and I know I can’t take my personal safety for granted, even here in this lovely and protected retirement community.

I take comfort in the heart-felt prayers in the Psalms:

I love the Lord for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy….
The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came upon me;
I was overtaken by trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“O Lord, save me!”
The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The Lord protects the simplehearted;
when I was in great need, he saved me.
Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the Lord has been good to you.
(Psalm 116:1-7) 

While I thank God for his goodness, I ponder how he can use me in responding in this present time of trauma.

Adventures with alternative medicine

 I had no experience with alternative medicine growing up. Our family went to Dr. Steffy who lived up on Steffy Lane. He gave us our vaccinations and treated our ailments and prescribed our medications. The terms naturopathy, acupuncture, or even chiropractic doctor were not part of the vocabulary. My intellectual, rational, professorial father set the medical agenda for our family. Western medicine was the only option.

Since then, having lived in other countries, I’ve become aware that there are other options, that other cultures have different perspectives and practices I do well to be open to. Still, the old engrained ways persist.

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with vestibular migraines, a chronic condition with no known cure. I admire and trust my doctor, a medical researcher as well as a physician, all in the Western tradition. We have been experimenting with different drugs these last years, only one of which has helped a little. In the current experiment, I am giving myself a shot in the stomach once a month. (It’s actually not as grim as it sounds. If I can do it, you could, too.)

The year of my diagnosis was 2020, so I met via Zoom with my doctor for two years. At the same time, since the medications weren’t proving helpful, I decided to do some experiments of my own and I began meeting with a naturopath who specializes in holistic energy medicine. We also met on Zoom. She opened up a fascinating new perspective of the human body and its healing energies, coming from an ancient tradition in India. I carried to our meetings a combination of skepticism and openness, but wanting relief from my condition and willing to try anything. 

I met with her over a year and learned about my chakras (energy centers in my body) and meridians (energy channels). The exercises were actually fun as I rotated my hands over my chakras and then traced my meridians from my toes to my head in precise patterns. But at the end of the year my migraines were no better and the nice doctor told me she had no experience with people in my condition and didn’t think she could help me. She did tell me, however, that during our year together, my auras had remarkably improved.

My migraine doctor’s research has led her to believe that diet has no part to play in my condition or its cure. But my skeptical brain tells me food must make a difference. Finally I discovered, on the Internet of course, a cookbook called The Dizzy Cook, written by a woman with vestibular migraines. Not a doctor herself, she’s researched and come to the conclusion that a low-tyramine diet is the answer. I had never heard of tyramine before, but I read up on it and decided to give the diet a try. I’ve had to eliminate all sorts of lovely foods, the most painful being coffee, chocolate, cheese, and yogurt. I confess, I cheat a little, from time to time. So maybe it’s my fault that the diet seems to be making no difference.

Here are some of the other alternative paths I’ve wandered down: a grounding pad on our bed that drains unhealthy electricity from our bodies as we sleep; magnetic insoles in my shoes; an air-freshener that dispenses essential oils; a session on a quantum bed (vibration and sound therapy); Japanese body-cleansing foot pads; and Chinese Feng Fu ice therapy.

Let me elaborate on these last three. They are recent experiments, all part of a Christmas gift my imaginative and quite healthy daughter gave me. Kristin accompanied Hal and me to the home of her friend, Kandy, who owns a quantum bed and offers her services as a ministry to people with all sorts of ailments. The bed uses vibration and sound to affect the body’s inner voltage and heal both mind and body. Something like that. 

We all three wanted to try out this mysterious wonder. I went first. The bed is steel and hooked up to a machine that regulates vibrations and sounds. As instructed, I lay down with my knees up and my bare feet flat on the bed. I placed my hands at my side, palms down. Fortunately, a pillow and a warm blanket were provided. I was alone and the small room was then darkened. Kandy tuned on the machine and the bed began vibrating at changing frequencies, accompanied by weird humming sounds that varied in pitch and beat. I had already decided to relax and fully experience whatever might happen. I closed my eyes. I had just re-read CS Lewis’s book, Out of the Silent Planet, and I imagined I was in a snug space capsule zooming through the universe. The eerie sounds were the stars and planets singing, with maybe a few angels thrown in. I prayed to the Holy Spirit to heal me as I zoomed through outer space for a half-hour. I was almost disappointed when my time was up.

I enjoyed the experience, but, so far, I can’t sense any changes to my head pressure or dizziness. Maybe I need to take the space trip on a regular basis for a year.

The Japanese “Deep-Cleansing Foot Pads” claim to be “100% Traditional Wisdom,” and are used to draw out the toxins that the body absorbs through food, drink, and environmental pollution. The patches are filled with bamboo vinegar, loquat leaf, wood vinegar, and houttuynia cordate-thumb (also known as Chinese lizard tail). According to the instructions, I attached the patches to the bottoms of my feet for five nights in a row. When I removed them the first morning, the white patches had turned a dirty black, giving evidence of the toxin removal. The patches were supposed to come off progressively cleaner each morning, but my patches were all dirty black. Does that mean my body has more toxins than normal?  I’ll repeat the experiment in a couple of weeks and see how it turns out.

Finally, my favorite—Feng Fu Ice Therapy. According to the description on the pamphlet, “Feng Fu Ice Therapy is an ancient Chinese practice, dating back thousands of years. We all have a Feng Fu point which can be found at the base of the skull, where it connects to the top of the spine. The Feng Fu point is one of our body’s key pressure points.” The contraption consists of a neck brace with a pouch in back where a small cold steel ball is inserted. The brace fits snuggly around the neck with the cold ball pressing into the Feng Fu point (which I didn’t even realize I had). I just sit quietly for 20 minutes each morning and again each evening, enjoying the sensation. It is relaxing, although the steel ball is so cold it actually stings at first. This is supposed to “refresh and rejuvenate” my body. (I keep the steel ball in the freezer when not in use.)

I haven’t yet tried acupuncture, partly for economic reasons. I may someday. If I can inject myself in the stomach, surely I can put up with the needles of alternative medicine. 

I appreciate the medicinal wisdom of other cultures, although I certainly don’t understand most of it. I also greatly appreciate my own neurologist and plan to cooperate with all her medical experiments.

I pray for healing every day and gratefully receive the prayers of others. I know that ultimately God is my healer and God can use any method or none at all. That’s known as a miracle.

I also know that many good people never find healing from chronic conditions or terminal diagnoses. I am no more worthy than my friends who have recently died from cancer. It doesn’t seem to necessarily be a matter of faith. I’m still a believer, even though none of the above has helped much. 

So, whatever happens, I may as well enjoy myself along the way. If that means tracing my meridians, putting an icy steel ball on the base of my neck, zooming through space in a vibrating capsule, or sleeping with sticky foot pads, so be it.

Lord, have mercy on me. Amen.