Things I don't do well but can't give up

 It seems that much of growing older has to do with giving up. It begins with giving up our job, sometimes a life-long career, and that involves giving up part of our personal identity. Then we move on to giving up stuff (we call it downsizing), giving up relationships (more of our friends are dying), and giving up activities we used to be good at. We move on to giving up the car and, sometimes, giving up our teeth and other body parts. We fear someday giving up our dignity as people have to care for us as though we were infants.

Grim.

When my thoughts about all this become too grim for comfort, then it’s humor to the rescue. So I made a list of “things I don’t do well but can’t give up, at least not yet.” Here’s the list:

1.     --Cooking: Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever done this well. I have a history of bland casseroles, substituted ingredients that didn’t turn out, forgetting the cheese, stuff burnt on the bottom of the pan, and so on. Hal and our grown kids reassure me they enjoyed my meals, but they are all very nice people and wouldn’t say anything else. At any rate, I’m even less fond of cooking now than I ever was. But I’m not ready to give it up. We have a kitchenette in our apartment, so I cook. And when I’d can’t bear the thought, we go down to the community dining room where other nice people fix our meals.

2.     --My guitar: This is another activity I’m not sure I ever did well, but it gave me a lot of joy. I got my first guitar in high school when folk music was the rage. I loved Joan Baez and wanted to be like her, and so—the guitar. I’ve plunked and strummed for many years now, but never arrived at any proficiency. There are two reasons for this: 1) I don’t have the musical gene and 2) I hate to practice.  Right now the guitar sits propped up against the book case, along with her daughter, a ukelele (which I also used to play). I keep thinking I’ll begin playing again and get really good at it. And tomorrow would be a good time to start. The thought of getting rid of them makes me sad.

3.   

--Tent camping: Hal and I used to do this. But the last few times we’d begun to wonder. Those air mattresses seem to be getting thinner and thinner, our backs in the morning stiffer and stiffer. Getting up several times in the middle of the night to wander through the trees to the camp bathroom doesn’t seem as adventuresome any more. To be honest, the last time we hauled our camping equipment to some lovely state park was before the pandemic. But the stuff still occupies much of our storage container—tent, tarp, air mattresses, pump, sleeping bags, propane stove, pots and pans, lantern, and numerous other essential camping stuff. From time to time, we talk about getting rid of it, but we just can’t bring ourselves to do it. Not yet.

4.     --Art supplies: These occupy space in our apartment and I also have a locker down in the community art room. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but after retirement I began to experiment and enjoyed it. I’ve even taken a few art classes here in the retirement community. So I dabble and sometimes I get it right. I’ve become good enough for personal greeting cards, including some really funny birthday cards for the grandkids. However, along with my missing music gene, I was not born with an art gene. When I say, “I’m not really an artist,” my friends tell me never to say that. But it’s true. Still, I’m keeping the art supplies for now and using them. It’s healthy. And fun.

5.     --House plants: Some people kid about murdering their house plants. But I won’t kid about it; I am that criminal. And yet I love the idea of filling my rooms with beautiful leaves and blooms—real ones. Plastic doesn’t appeal. So I’m going to keep trying. I’ll just stoically throw out the dead plants and buy more as needed. My plants look really good for at least a year.

6.     --Poetry: Like so many serious writers (even writers of humor), I periodically wrestle with doubts. Some days I look at my books and think, “Wow! I like these poems!” Other days I want to throw everything I’ve ever written in the garbage. Pathetic, right? I wonder if I’m losing my edge as I age. But then I think that if I write a poem a day, out of 365 poems a year, some are bound to be good. Really good. Simple statistics. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m in no way ready to give this up.

7.   

 --Prayer: I used to think I had a special calling as an intercessor—praying for family, friends, enemies, against all sorts of illnesses, and, of course, for world peace. I still wistfully hope I have this calling. But then why do I fall asleep every time I sit down to pray? Pacing and praying makes me dizzy. Is there a new technique I need to learn? (I hope not. I’ve always resisted praying by technique.) I still want to go out on a limb as I pray, asking God for impossible things, like world peace. I just also need to pray that the limb doesn’t break. No, I’m definitely not willing to give this up.

This list could go on and on, but that’s enough for now. Life goes on. I probably will give up the guitar and the camping equipment. But for the time being, I’m hanging on to the rest.

I’m not giving up.

Too much chicken gumbo

 I admit it. I don’t like to cook. I did okay when the kids were at home, but now that I’m retired, I really would rather leave this part of life behind. But I live in an independent-living apartment here in the retirement community, complete with a kitchen. We eat most of our meals in the apartment. That means a certain amount of cooking. Hal fixes breakfast, while I try to figure out lunch and dinner. We go downstairs to eat in the community dining room as often as we can.

One way I cope with cooking here at home is every few weeks to fix a big pot of soup or a large casserole, then freeze portions for future meals. A few weeks ago, I cooked a large pot of modified chicken gumbo soup (modified because I substitute corn for okra, not being an okra fan). It’s pretty tasty. I fixed enough for six meals, which is probably two too many, but the freezer looks well stocked.

The following night I dreamed I made a kettle-full of chicken gumbo, enough for 20 people. It was for a church potluck. After I lugged the kettle to the church, I discovered the event had been cancelled. So there I was, with ten gumbo meals. Did I want all that? No. In fact I totally lost my taste for chicken gumbo. So much so that I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth.

The dream was not really about chicken gumbo. And it was not a message from God. My sub-conscious was drudging up a fear it thought I should face. Dreams do that sometimes. This one was about me as a writer.

I’ve been writing magazine columns and blogs for over 40 years. I’ve generally been well received. When I read back over all this stuff (and there’s a lot!), I actually like most of it and don’t want it to die. So I got an idea. I would gather the best reflections and stories and see if I could publish a collection.

After the initial enthusiasm for the project, my inner hidden critic sat up and smirked. “You were younger when you wrote all that,” he reminded me. “Your fans are all dead. No one knows you now. No living person could possibly be interested. Besides, you’re not that great a writer.”

The critic even gets biblical, quoting Ecclesiastes: “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh” (12:12). “Give it up, Nancy,” he continues to goad. “Be retired. Really retired. Read books. Watch movies. Just sit there and relax.” These are genuine temptations.

What the dream tells me is that I suspect (fear) that I’ve made too much literary chicken gumbo. And left in the okra.

Self-doubt is a temptation for many writers and artists, not just us introverts. I’ve dealt with this all my life.

But it’s not just writers, artists, and musicians. I think it’s a common temptation of the elderly to look back and doubt the value of their life’s work. Perhaps not all the time, and probably not all older people struggle with this. But I’ve observed that it’s fairly common. “Was it all worth it? What have I actually done with my life? Am I leaving behind a legacy worth passing on? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone?”

Some observations: 1) Becoming a mature person is a life-time prospect; it doesn’t stop when we become 70. 2) Part of maturity is coming to terms with our past, knowing that in spite of the inevitable mistakes and unmet goals, God can take what we’ve offered to him and bless it for his ongoing purposes. 3) Our ultimate value comes from being God’s beloved sons and daughters. 4) Our legacy is in God’s hands.

I’m writing to myself here, reminding myself of what I thought I already knew. I need a lot of reminders. 

Even after I’m dead. Hal and I arranged to have this engraved on our memorial plaque: “May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish, Thou, the work of our hands” (Psalm 92:17).

I think I’ll go ahead and publish that collection of past reflections and stories.

In the meantime, I’d be glad to share my chicken gumbo with you. I’ve lots of it.