A strange phenomenon

 Recently I tuned in to a TV documentary. It was a series that explored strange phenomena, anything from UFOs to Brazilian insects or ancient civilizations. This particular week’s topic was the phenomenon of old ladies.

Who are they? Where did they come from? How long have they existed? What threat do they pose to contemporary life?

Images flashed across the TV screen, scenes of the clichéd aproned mid-western grandmother, apple pie in hand; the fashionable silver-haired Broadway babe; and various crones from around the world, care-worn and grim-faced. Old ladies all.

The show’s moderator was an earnest yet engaging professorial type in a casual sweater and tie, fairly old himself. He introduced the expert from Harvard University. Dr. Hershberger, dean of the department of gerontology, is currently leading a team of researchers doing an in-depth investigation of the relationship between the percentage of old ladies in a given society and the amount of street violence in that same context. The expert was poised on the cusp of a serious comment …

when I woke up.

I chuckled and wondered what that was all about.

It reminds me of a quote by Dorothy Sayers: “Time and trouble will tame an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncontrollable by any earthly force.”

I guess we can be pretty scary creatures.

I wonder what, if anything, my subconscious was trying to tell me with that dream. I don’t personally feel like I’m a scary person and I can’t imagine me starting a street riot. I barely have the energy to participate in a protest march for a cause I believe in.

I do sometimes scare myself, like when I’m walking downtown and catch my reflection in a store window. So old! That white hair! That can’t be me! But it is.

I worry myself more than frighten myself. If I get so tired today, what will I be like in ten years? What happens when our pension runs out? When will I lose my balance and fall? (That almost seems inevitable.) What if my grandkids get bored and don’t come to see me anymore? And on and on.

Old age is definitely a phenomenon, although not likely one to be featured on a program of strange and exotic creatures. We're all too common. We’re everywhere!

Maybe the heart of this dream is the realization that I sometimes seem strange and exotic to myself. Weird might be a better word. I never planned on being old. As a young person, I knew that would never happen to me. I knew I would die someday, but the road to death was blurry. Unthinkable. That’s why a glance at my reflection now disorients me.

I think I need to reorient my perspective and laugh. I may frighten myself at times and worry myself, but I can also make myself laugh. After all, that was a pretty preposterous dream.

I will remind myself that I’m am a beloved daughter of my heavenly Father. I am also beloved by the people I love and that some of them even think I’m beautiful. (Imagine that!) I will remind myself that I can still make a contribution to the welfare and happiness of others. I can write poems, pray for my grandchildren, teach a class (occasionally), encourage others, edit a journal of stories, vote in the elections, and play Mexican Train.

Maybe we are sort of strange (depending on who’s looking at us). Maybe some academics do study us—our habits, relationships, medications, sleep patterns, emotions, and so on. Maybe some people see us as a phenomenon of nature rather than as regular persons. And maybe we are scary to some people.

Actually, the scary part sounds like fun!

The very worse grandma ever

As I write this, preparations are under way for our grandson’s wedding. It’s an exciting time, a time for dreaming of the future, but also a time for remembering the past. And getting a bit sentimental about it.

We’ve enjoyed each stage in our grandkids’ growing up years, from the thrill of the newborn babies and our shock at becoming grandparents, to the cute little-kid stage, the challenges of adolescence, then watching each one mature into an adult. And of course our relationships changed as they grew older.

This morning I’m remembering our grandkids as cute little-kids. We loved being with them, relishing their adoration of Grandpa and Grandma. For the most part, this was easy and fun. It was their parents’ turn to do the hard stuff, especially the disciplining.

“For the most part,” I write. From time to time we volunteered (or were asked) to care for the kids while their parents traveled for some reason or other. (Sometimes it was to have time off, away from their kids!) That was when it got harder for us. Our grandkids were all normal, active, sometimes mischievous kids who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity to get away with behavior their parents might not allow.

I remember one time 15 years ago when our daughter asked Hal and me to spend a week taking care of our three grandchildren, ages 2, 5, and 8. Their parents were leading a group of middle-schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.

I approached the week with both fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules and household routines their parents followed and determined to lovingly but firmly carry these out.

All this preparation helped. But I was again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially little children. They can be tough critters.

One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box, trips to the park, and on and on and on.  Not to mention the special needs of our two-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeated every demand until he knew without a doubt he held our full attention.

I simply did not have the energy to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the 8 and 5-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt like the world’s worse grandma.

But eventually my mature self kicked in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.

Many highlights brightened the week, like the morning Paige and I spent outdoors building a fairy house. Her idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house.

At one point, Paige turned to me, totally serious, and said, “I have to tell you something, Grandma. Fairies aren’t real.”

“Oh?” I responded, waiting for what would come next.

“But I think God could make some fairies if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he probably could,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”

Yes, Paige, I do wish that.

And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma.

The kids were glad to see their parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was encouraged when Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”

All that makes me smile in memory. Our relationships are different now, appropriately so. Paige is a sophomore in Western Oregon University, majoring in theater, putting her imagination to good use. We drive over once a month to take her out to lunch. I delight in her wisdom as a young adult and in the person she’s becoming.

Our son is now a grandpa himself. We love watching our great-grandchildren as babies, knowing we will probably only have a peripheral role in their lives. Our grown kids get to be the grandparents; it’s their turn.

And that’s the way it should be.

Destination walk--Camassia Nature Preserve

 On Friday I took a break from my routine of writing, editing, keeping up the apartment, reading and etc. Hal and I got out of town and walked the trail at Camassia Nature Preserve.

Every month the retirement community organizes “destination walks,” hikes in one of the many wilderness areas or nature preserves that abound here in the Willamette Valley. These walks are for the hardier residents, those who exercise regularly and have a certain level of energy. And who like to spend time outdoors.

I confess I’m on the borderline of being in this group as I grapple with issues that tend to rob me of energy. But I want to belong to the hardy club and I love being outdoors and away from the ordinariness of every day. So Hal and I decided to try it. This was one of the easier of the walks, being a loop of only a mile. We thought I could manage that and were willing to give it a try. (Normally my dizziness kicks in after a quarter of a mile.)

We grabbed our walking sticks and a small backpack with water and my notebook, then joined the group of about 15 people in front of the bus. Since we were among the last to sign up, there was no room on the bus, and we went with our friends in their car. The park was about an hour’s drive away.

Camassia Nature Preserve is a 26-acre natural area located on the outskirts of West Linn, part of greater Portland. It’s managed by The Nature Conservancy, a non-profit international environmental organization. Its name comes from the common camas, a purple wildflower of the lily family that blooms throughout the northwest in the spring. We were there just past the peak season when we were told that the purple blooms covered the meadow in regal splendor. Even though the flowers now only bloomed here and there in patches, they were beautiful.

 

They weren’t alone. We saw abundant buttercups, fringecups, thimbleberry blossoms, wild roses, and many small blooms I couldn’t name. The area is home to more than 300 types of plant species.

The one-mile loop is a narrow trail that winds through forest and brushland. From the viewpoint we looked down on the 205 freeway with the Willamette River and Oregon City off in the distance. Other than that view, we were in the silence of nature, away from the city. Several trails spur off the loop, one leading to a longer trail through a wilderness area. I’d love to come back and walk that trail.

A large part of the destination walk is the community of walkers and the friendships that develop. Some walk faster than others, which is to be expected. I’m not in the slowest group, but definitely more toward that end. But every one looks out for everyone else, and a designated walker brings up the end of the line. In this case it was the fitness director of the retirement community. I’m slow, not just because of my dizziness, but because I like to stop and look around me—or down at the side of the path where the tiniest flowers grow.

 

                                    Camas and buttercups

                                    Thimbleberry blossom

Viewpoint--Mt. Hood

Madrona tree

    I feel proud of myself for going on this walk. I confess I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately, partly because of lack of sleep and little energy (another subject). Motivation to get out and mingle is at low ebb and I’ve spent many days in my apartment, reading, watching movies, looking out the window and playing computer solitaire (another confession). Even in the middle of a slump, I know it’s temporary, that I’ll come out of it given time and a dash of discipline.

I also know that one way to be proactive, even when I don’t feel like it, is to get out in nature. Trees are the best listeners and therapists I know. The wind in the leaves gives such good advice. Wildflowers encourage me. And walking a trail with friends is a sure prescription for a healthy spirit.

I think I’ll join the June destination walk to the Willamette Mission State Park. You come, too!

Still open to dazzle

 None of us want to become obsolete, although it does seem at times that life is passing us by. New discoveries, new songs, new fashions, new ways of being in the world surround us. And our kids and grandkids get it. Take an obvious example—technology. I love what my computer does for me and I’ve explored the Internet, to a certain extent. But when something goes wrong or when I need help to find something out there in cyberspace, I have to call on my grandson. Because he knows. I don’t.

And I’m glad for it. Those of us with grown kids and grandkids want them to be able to surpass us. We want them to travel down roads we didn’t know existed. We gladly pass the torch to the next generation and ask them for help when we need it. We’re glad for all that, aren’t we? At least most of the time.

My kids have gone beyond me in many areas, including spiritually. The image of the old wise elder going on before, showing the way, is maybe sort of true. But not completely. Both my son and my daughter are experiencing spiritual discovery and growth that almost seem exponential. Some of the grandkids are following the same path. It delights us, their parents. It also makes us somewhat nostalgic.

I remember in our young adult years, and even up into middle age, all that we were discovering and experiencing about the work of the Holy Spirit, spiritual gifts, ministries of healing, and so on. We believed in miracles and prayed huge fantastic prayers. We became lost in the wonder of worship. It was beyond exciting.

Oh, we came down for air often. Life on the spiritual heights is not sustainable for long periods of time. But the mountain of new spiritual experience was there and we were believers.

We did, indeed, suffer a few extremes that needed tempering. I remember a book a small group of us were reading about the ministry of exorcism, new territory for us. I believe the title of the book was Pigs in the Parlor, and it focused on demonic activity even in local churches. It taught us our authority in Christ and how to cast out demons.

Sound scary? It was. But we took it all to heart and began to practice, first of all on each other. We discovered new freedom from fears and traumas from the past. But I think we took the whole thing too far. For a time, we were finding and casting out demons everywhere.

For me, it all came to a stop one afternoon on the Bolivian altiplano. We were participating in a small church gathering of rural believers. The teacher, a local pastor and good friend of ours, was giving an early afternoon sermon. A little old lady, sitting on the ground in the front row, had gone to sleep. A normal thing for an older person to do after lunch. But Pastor Germán wasn’t going to put up with it. So, in a loud voice that startled the poor lady awake, he cast out the demon of sleep.

At that moment something popped in my brain. “This is ridiculous!” I said to myself. And it was. That dear woman was no more demon possessed than the blanket she sat on. From that point on, Hal and I began to pull back and apply some rationality and common sense to all that we had been learning and experiencing.

Now in my latter years, I find that I still believe in a God who heals. I even believe in the ages-old Christian ministry of exorcism when that’s appropriate and necessary. I still believe in miracles, but I prefer the more hidden everyday kind, the ones you miss unless you’re very attentive.

But our kids are on a different path of discovery and I think they’re traveling with more wisdom than we had. And, like I said, it all makes me a little nostalgic. Excitement is fun, if you have the energy for it.

A few months ago, I was preparing for a doctor’s appointment. My doctor had been experimenting with different drugs to help alleviate the condition I had been suffering [see last week’s blog]. I wrote this “Pre-Appointment Prayer,” wrestling with some of my faith/healing/miracles questions.

Pre-Appointment Prayer

I used to think miracle meant
water to wine,
weather control on a massive scale,
taking tea on the lake without benefit of a boat.
In order to be legitimate,
miracle had to thunder, blaze,
astonish and dumbfound.
Nothing short of amazing would do.

Now my imagination has simmered down
and my prayers for healing
are less demanding. I’m willing
for miracle to mean the discovery
of a medication that helps.
I’m OK with a lightening
of the symptoms without knowing
the causes. Mild miracles might
be within faith’s grasp these days.

In other words, I’m willing to settle.
But, and please hear this,
I’m open to dazzle.

Willing to settle but open to miracle. That’s me these days. I wonder if my tempered spirituality is a sign of a wise old age. Or is it a signal that I need a new out-pouring of the Holy Spirit? Or maybe both?

I do know that I’m not willing to settle for obsolete. Maybe it’s time to follow my kids.