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.