Worn out, but waiting

St. Paul has some interesting metaphors for old age and old bodies in 2 Corinthians 5:1-9. He describes an old body as an old tent that is gradually being destroyed. I understand that metaphor. We have a two-person camping tent that is well used and very hospitable; it freely invites the rain to come in. I understand it also in terms of a body whose cloth is wrinkling, actually threadbare in parts. The patches don’t really disguise it.

In contrast to this old fragile tent, Paul tells us we will someday be clothed in a heavenly building. That’s a bit harder to imagine. How does one wear a house, no matter how beautiful? I guess it’s symbolic for comfortable and just right for us. Paul goes on to say that our groaning aching mortal bodies will be swallowed up by Life. That’s another metaphor than stretches the imagination. And finally, Paul says that dying means “being away from the body and at home with the Lord.”

I deal with metaphor through poetry. So here are some poems that play with these different images and somehow stoke my hope that, whatever happens, all will be well.

Mixed Metaphor
…we groan, longing to be clothed … with our heavenly building…. (2 Corinthians 5:2)

How can one be clothed with a building?
How can a tent or a mansion drape our bodies
like wool or linen? Does homeless mean naked?
A canvas tent tearing at the seams, breaking apart
with time. An eternal house in heaven,
built of sterner stuff. How do these fit our bodies?
Expose or adorn us?
How does one wear a house?


Worn-out
While we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

Groans and burdens aptly describe old age.
My tent has become threadbare with time and trauma.
Soon nurses will expose me, wipe me, wash me
as I silently lament my nakedness.
No one wishes to be unclothed.
So I groan and long for home.
For my new body.
For my new clothes.


Perfect Fit
… to be clothed … with our heavenly dwelling. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I look forward
to putting on my new house.
The outside walls, of some strong flexible fabric,
fold my body in heavenly comfort.
I don’t worry about curbside appeal
for the beauty is obvious.
The door is sturdy redwood
and always open.
A wall of windows lets in light
and more colors than I knew existed.
No need of artificial electricity,
and the plumbing works
though the pipes are invisible.
Living water is instantly and eternally available.
My house clothes me well, blesses my body.
A perfect fit.

Swallowed
… what is mortal [will] be swallowed up by life…. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I can hardly imagine.
These skinny legs, wrinkled hands,
broken promises and disappointments
will one day face the wide open
mouth of Life.
One huge slurp and mortality dissolves.
Swallowed up.
What happens next?
Like I said, I can hardly imagine.

The Reason?
… as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. (2 Corinthians 5:6)

Is old age God’s way of preparing us for heaven?
As digestion becomes complicated
and we labor to take each breath,
as we go from cane to walker to wheelchair,
saying we’re not at home in our body
is understatement. Our bodies become strangers
and no prayer delivers from this dis-ease.
We’re ready to move on.


Now
Now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation. (2 Corinthians 6:2)

Good morning, world.
Here I am, ready to go,
ready to stay, ready to leap
over a wall, ready to find a shovel,
dig a while and crawl under that wall.
I’ll find a way.
I’ll be the way.
Today is the day.
With nothing on my schedule,
I know without a doubt
my time has come. 

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?

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.