Limitations, loss--and future gain

No one likes to be called a quitter. Nasty word, quitter. I’ve never seen myself as a quitter, although I do have some dark memories of times I just gave up. But mostly I pushed through the darkness and found a way.

That’s changing as I age, and I don’t like it. I would rather expand that be pulled back by limitations. But it seems that knowing and accepting our limitations is the new name of this game called growing older.

For some time now my body has been telling me to slow down. Chronic dizziness and fatigue have made some of the leadership roles I’ve loved seem more like burdens than joys. Recently I gave up leadership in a Sunday class I love; serving in the capacity of class coordinator was life-giving and I felt as though I were making a contribution. But when something that once was light starts becoming heavy, you know it’s time to let go and let other people step in. So I did. But not without a tinge of grief.

And now I’m in the process of finding someone else to edit the community journal I began some nine years ago. It’s become a way for people in this retirement community to tell their stories and I’ve loved being part of the group that puts this together once a quarter. But, again, my spirit tells me it’s time to let go.

Our plot in the community garden, my guitar and ambitions of becoming a classical guitarist (foolish, considering I have no music gene in my DNA)—these are other things I’m giving up. It’s time.

All of this makes me wonder if I’m losing my voice, along with my active roles. Will I now just melt into the background, become dimmer and dimmer until nobody even remembers my name?

Now that’s pathetic. It’s me at my worse, and I don’t always grovel at that level. Actually, I get hints that letting all this float up off my shoulders might in some way free my spirit to focus on the things that matter most. I hope that’s true.

I had a strange dream the other night. I still remember it, so that tells me to pay attention. In the dream Hal died (the worse part of the dream) and the rest of the dream focused on how I expressed my grief. In short, I went mute. I stopped talking. I lost language. With family members or in groups of people, I made myself melt into the background. In time, people seemed to accept it.

One night, still in my dream, I was with a small group of close friends and people were sharing their prayer requests. I sat and listened, mute as usual. But then as we went into a time of prayer, my tongue was loosed. I began praying for my friends, out loud, with wisdom and discernment. With compassion. It surprised everyone, myself included.

Then I woke up.

As I’ve been processing the dream, I’ve decided it was not prophetic. I’ve not been given a warning that Hal will soon die, although I know we’ll both die someday. And it’s not telling me that when all else fails, pray. No. I think it’s about facing loss and letting myself grieve the losses, even if that means a time of silence to sit with the absences. But there is something good on the other side, something I can do well and that will give meaning in this time of life.

I believe that. In fact, I do want to learn how to pray better and how to settle into more fruitful times of worship and intercession. I want to learn how to do silence and contemplation better (meaning more than five minutes at a stretch). I’m making time for this.

I now have more time for writing; I’ve still got poems to write, stories to tell, memories to mine. And I’m fulfilling my hope of refreshing my ability to read the New Testament in Greek. I’ve lost a lot since my seminary days, but it’s coming back little by little. And it’s lots of fun.

And then there’s people time, of course. More time for long conversations, for reading books and talking about them with other book-lovers, for just being with the people I love.

As often happens when I write this blog, I’m processing my situation and coming to a place of hope. Journeying from negative to positive. From grief to joy. I haven’t arrived yet, at least not consistently, but I feel better about it all. I hope you also find yourself encouraged.

Beyond limitations

 This was a disappointing weekend. We had scheduled a retreat at the Prayer Lookout. Solitude with a view of the Pacific Ocean. But we’re learning to hold all trips and plans lightly these days. Hal came down with stomach problems and we had to cancel at the last minute. Our aging physical bodies are limiting our adventures.

In another, more serious, set of limitations, just this last week a dear friend here in the retirement community moved from her independent-living apartment to a room in the health center. She’s now on hospice care. She’s accepting her new limitations with grace, but it’s hard. She now takes more naps and reads less books. And waits.

On the national level, we watched the painful process as President Biden gave in to the pressure to not seek reelection, to accept that the limitations of age would impact the presidency, should he win the election. We were relieved when he finally gave up the race, but we identified with the pain of his process.

We could identify because we retired from a professional life in which we actively contributed and were recognized. We were, to a certain extent, sought after. That’s all behind us now. In my good days, I accept that and feel glad to be free of the hassle. On my not-so-good- days, I can feel forgotten, devalued, etc., etc., etc. I struggle to accept the professional limitations of retirement.

I also, like so many of us, struggle with my health; my vestibular migraines seem to be getting worse. I tell myself that this is probably a temporary condition. In the meantime, dizziness and fatigue plague me every day.  Hal’s challenges are even more pronounced. We joke about making quite a pair. At least we can still joke. But facing our physical limitations is a major task in this growing-older phase of life.

These are middle-of-the-night thoughts.

Early morning, on the other hand, is the most positive time of day for me. I tend to see my challenges in a different light.

The other morning, out of the silence came the realization that I could consider my limitations as an exchange. I recognized that, even as my dizziness increases, my creative expressions are growing. I’m writing more, reading more good books, experimenting with art, having more long talks with friends. I have more time to pray (although having the time doesn’t mean I do it well). It almost seems as if limitations in a few areas of my life have actually resulted in expansion in other areas. Maybe in areas of more ultimate importance.    

In a fit of early morning optimism, I wrote this poem:

Exchange

OK. I get it. I’m old.
My feet hurt. The second toe
on each foot whines like a two-year-old
even though it’s approaching 80.
Stop it! I demand. Do they listen,
those toes? You guess. I won’t say.
My arthritic fingers still insist
on opening jars and drawing pictures.
I let them.
The twirling stuff inside my head
dares me to walk the winding path
through the trees. I take the dare.
I open the door.

This betrayal is not the whole story.
Not the theme nor the purpose
and nowhere near the final chapter.
No!

Every day I watch with wonder

as the sun rises over the far trees.
I close my eyes, let the first rays hit my face.
Brightness pulses through my lids,
lights up my brain. I’m more alive
than I’ve ever been. Yes, I’m saying.
Yes to the day. Yes to the light.
Yes to the gifts that keep growing—
my marvelous mind, the colors
and music in my imagination,
all the poems that ever were
and those that are yet to be.

Yes! I am saying. Yes yes yes.

If I stumble forward,
it's toward the light.

Yes.

Limitations and substitutions

I printed out my old camping-trip-list and began to gather stuff, making little piles on the kitchen floor. The list is detailed and lengthy, so the process took time. First, the big stuff—ground pad, tent, self-inflating mattresses, sleeping bags, camping stove with its pot and pan, and so on. Then the little, but vital, stuff—insect repellant, collapsible bucket for washing dishes, flash lights, hand soap, mirror, and at least 30 other items that made me glad we were driving to our spot, not hiking in.

Then, of course, food. I carefully planned yummy but low-effort meals and made the grocery lists—macaroni and cheese from a box, clam chowder from a can, granola, canned evaporated milk, bacon, coffee, apples, and little sealed cups of chocolate pudding. I like to rough it. I had started buying the food.

In faith (or foolishness) we had reserved three nights at Silver Falls State Park. Before the pandemic we enjoyed tent camping, exploring sites throughout Oregon and going as far as the redwoods in northern California. But as we reached retirement years, we noticed that sleeping on the ground, even on our 3-inch inflatable mattresses, was getting harder. We were pretty stiff getting up and getting dressed, and it was taking longer to sum up the courage for the hike of the day. We no longer enjoyed putting up and taking down the tent. (We didn’t have the self-pop-up kind, but the pounding-stakes-in-the-ground contraption.) Our hikes were getting shorter.

We had been wondering if it was time to give up tent camping, but we really weren’t ready to do that. We had found so much joy being surrounded by trees, hearing the rain on our tent at night, finding new trails and splendiferous vistas. There’s nothing quite like that first cup of coffee sitting by the camp fire.

So, we decided to do an experiment. Hence the reservation. We figured if we pulled it off, we’d still have a year or two to keep camping. If the experience left us with such painful backs and aching limbs that we cut it short by one night, it might be a clue to let it all go. We could then make a list of our camping stuff and show it to the grandkids.

Unfortunately, we didn’t even make it to the campsite. Just a few days before the trip—all the gear still on the kitchen floor—we had to cancel. Hal’s back was so painful and my dizziness so pronounced, we knew we couldn’t do it. We canceled just in time to get our deposit back.

That was last week. Learning the weather at Silver Falls was beautiful didn’t help. So we asked ourselves what we could do the make the week special anyway. We chose to go to a movie (“Sight”—I highly recommend it) in the afternoon, then drive back to town, buy a bowl of chili and the free senior drink at Wendy’s, then go down to the river landing to eat it and watch the evening sky. Then go home to our comfortable bed and indoor toilet.

We wrestle with the limitations of age and the life-style changes they demand. Physical limitations such as giving up tent camping, not being able to play my guitar as easily because of arthritis in my hands, no more running on the beach with my dizzy head. I haven’t ridden my bike since the last tumble. (Fortunately, it was a gentle fall; I was peddling very slowly. But still.)

Then there are the economic limitations—realizing we may have to give up driving sooner than we had hoped; the prospect of moving from our two-room apartment to a studio in our retirement community. There are probably no cruises in our future (to Hal, a source of relief). Even mental limitations challenge—I forget appointments unless I write them down in two places, then remember to look at the calendar. I can no longer multitask.

Limitations are inevitable as we age. But as I was thinking about it this morning, I decided this was too negative a focus—for this blog and for my life in general. I will not let myself be diminished by the limitations of aging! I will re-direct my energies, find substitutes, develop new passions!

That is so positive. I feel it this morning. But I know myself well enough to realize I will have difficult days when I decide this is all a bunch of hooie and give up all over again. I guess this finding of new passions (or, at least, new interests) needs to be intentional and beyond fluctuating emotions. I’m obviously not writing as one who has the dilemma of facing limitations all figured out. And I never want this blog to sink into a wise-advice-from-a-successful-old-person kind of site. For one thing, I’m not all that old. For another, I’m not all that successful. Or wise. (I’ll settle for funny.)

So Hal and I talked this morning about things we could substitute for camping and biking if, in truth, we need to give them up. We discussed short hikes in beautiful places, more picnics in parks (in our camping chairs rather than a blanket on the grass), country drives. Instead of exotic cruises we can explore the incredible beauty of the Pacific Northwest, go to more museums, frequent the local cultural center more regularly. And be intentional about it all. This week (or next) we hope to visit the Mt. Angel Abbey.

Lovely plans give me hope that giving up stuff does not signify the end. We need to be realistic and courageous. But I’ll confess, I’ve made another reservation for a camp site in Silver Falls State Park, this time in September. Surely we’ll be strong and energetic by then.

    Surely. 

The fragility of travel plans

 I’ve been blessed with a career that let me travel the world, at least that part of the world south of the US border. Hal and I began our relationship in Guatemala, where he was serving as a conscientious objector to war and I was there are a short-term “youth ambassador” with our denomination. After we married, we moved to Bolivia where we spent 26 years, raising our kids and learning to be at home in Latin America.

A subsequent job with a semi-virtual graduate school saw us teaching Christian leaders in Bolivia, Peru, Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Ecuador, and Costa Rica. I gave seminars for writers in Bolivia, Peru, Guatemala, Mexico, and the Philippines. In addition, we spent time with our daughter and son-in-law in Saipan, and made four trips to Ruanda and Kenya to be with our son and his family. (Our kids caught the travel bug from us.) And we were privileged to visit friends in Thailand, Turkey, and Russia.

It was all very exciting at the time, but just reading the list now exhausts me. As the preacher in Ecclesiastes could have said, “There is a time to travel and a time to stay home.” We’ve come to acknowledge the time we’re in now.

In fact, in the last ten years of this extensive travel schedule, we were noticing how much longer the flights seemed, how uncomfortable the seats had become, and how hard it was to hoist our hand luggage into the overhead bins. The airport stays between connecting flights became oppressive and trip-recovery time more drawn out.

Our last trip to Bolivia in 2019 was to celebrate the centennial of the Bolivia Friends Church and celebrate we did! Our two adult kids came with us so the four of us could experience their “home country,” and be with so many loved-ones again. But……Hal and I adjusted poorly to the high altitude and came down with some familiar but energy-sapping illnesses. We seemed—and were—more vulnerable. We reluctantly decided that this would be our last big trip.

And for a time, it was our last trip. The pandemic helped us stay home.

But now a wonderful opportunity has been handed to us. The graduate school we helped found and worked in up until our retirement is celebrating its 20^th anniversary. It’s to be held in Panama City. All present and former professors and administrators, plus the 50 some graduates are invited. These are all people we came to love and consider family, so the thought of being together again delights and excites us. The organization is sponsoring our trip and we have our tickets in hand

But (again, that pesky little word) it’s been ten years since our retirement and we are not the same people. Our bodies challenge us in ways they didn’t before. The current issue is Hal’s back pain, a hazard of aging that seems common around here. Common, that is, unless it’s happening to you or your loved-one. The doctor does not recommend another back surgery.  At his age (hate that phrase!), the operation would have a 50% chance of success and recovery time would be long and “uncomfortable.” (I could tell the doctor didn’t want to do the surgery.) So we opted out, and Hal is handling his pain with physical therapy, appropriate exercise, and an ever-handy heating pad. We think we see progress.

Other times, progress seems an illusion. These past few weeks have been especially painful, in spite of him doing all the right things. And our trip is three weeks away.

We’ve been avoiding this conversation, but we’re finally admitting the possibility that he might have to cancel. If it hurts so much here in our comfortable home, what would a day-long airplane trip feel like? Would he be able to celebrate and do fun stuff with the rest of us once we arrived? Would he be alive and well at the end of the trip?

Maybe. He has more good days than bad ones. But we don’t know. If we cancel now, there’s a chance we can recover the money for the ticket. But what if we cancel and he feels great? We’ve decided that I will travel, even if he doesn’t. I would represent the two of us and he could benefit vicariously. But that’s not nearly as satisfying.

It comes down to reckoning with our limitations, something we all face. How do we balance our dreams, joys, and all the things we used to do well with the realities of growing older? How do we face our limitations yet not limit ourselves from the richness of life we suspect God want us to have even at this age? Jesus called it “abundant life” and did not put a time-limit on it.

We’re still learning the balancing act. In fact, I’m taking a balance exercise class! But it won’t help solve our present dilemma. We’ll give it one more day. If he feels tremendous tomorrow morning, the trip’s a go. If not, well, maybe one more day?