Envisioning our final years

In the preliminary section of her book, Ageless Aging, author Maddy Dychtwald encourages the reader to envision how she or he wants the rest of their life to look and feel like. In broad terms, it’s coming to an understanding of purpose. Looking at it as a Christian, we could say it’s discerning God’s direction for our final years.

Just believing that God has a purpose for the final years might be a starting point. It requires faith and hope that something more awaits us than sliding down-hill from this point on. That just sitting in a wheel-chair, binge-watching Netflix, and waiting for the end is not the final chapter.

Considering that you and I actually do have a certain modicum of faith and hope, even as the aging process progresses, Dychtwald has some helpful suggestions. She encourages us to take time to envision what we want our final five, ten, or twenty years to look and feel like.

She quotes DeEtte Sauer (an 80-year-old master swimmer—I hate it when authors use impossible people as examples!) as saying that her ultimate goal is to find her “bliss point” and live there. Sauer writes, “I believe that we have to create a bliss point for aging, and what we want that to feel and look like. That means having stability in spiritual, physical, financial, social, and emotional areas of your life. When those come together, that’s a bliss point.”

The “bliss point” is an interesting idea, but I wonder about her definition. While we do have some choice in growing into spiritual, social, and emotional stability, we can’t always dictate our physical or financial condition. As a person somewhat strapped for cash and suffering with a mysterious chronic physical condition, does that mean satisfaction in the final years is beyond me? I don’t believe that for a moment! Maybe the “bliss point” means being content that who we are and how we live is according to God’s desire for us at this time in life. And that’s good.

The idea of envisioning what we want our final years to look like sounds like a good idea. To some point we may have already been doing that, but taking time to think and pray it through again is helpful.

So I’ve been spending some time in reflection, asking God to bless my imagination as I try to envision my next years. Years ago, I discerned that my mission is life is “to discover and express the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.” (That’s what’s behind this blogging adventure. Aging is certainly part of “the ordinariness of life,” and to do it well requires grace.) I still hold to that mission.

I envision my life purposes, under this mission statement, as falling in the areas of Prayer, Poetry, and People. (I love the letter “p”.) A good friend told me his life goal is “to learn to pray without ceasing.” I’m drawn to that idea, even though it sounds impossible. I am definitely not an expert in Prayer; sometimes I feel like a failure. But it remains a life purpose and I envision myself growing in prayer as I age.

By Poetry, I mean writing in general (poetry is my favorite genre). I envision growing as a writer and keeping it up as long as my mind is operational, hopefully until the day I die.

And by People, I mean forming and maintaining genuine relationships—with my husband, family, friends, the persons God brings into my life. This doesn’t necessarily fall in the realm of a “social life.” I’m not a party or a committee person. I value commitment, good conversation, prayer partners, writing buddies, people who feel free to be themselves around me and with whom I can be real. (We can even safely discuss politics.)

None of this requires accomplishments, measurable objectives (miserable phrase), money, or even robust health (although I wouldn’t mind that one). If I can live out these purposes in my final years, that might well define “bliss” for me.

Your vision will be different than mine. I encourage you to sit in a comfortable chair (and if you go to sleep, it’s OK), cup of coffee (or cocoa or tea or water) in hand, a prayer in your heart, and see what God shows you. 

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?

Just people

The best part about living in this retirement community is the people. Early on I discovered that there are no old people here. There are just people. People with interesting—often surprising—backgrounds, a wealth of stories, and quirky senses of humor. I’ve adopted the secret task of spying. This mostly takes the form of listening in on conversations. My innocent face and quiet nature facilitate my vocation of espionage. (Some people may argue the innocent face bit.)

I also take every opportunity to talk with people, not as a spy but as a neighbor and potential friend. Opportunities include eating together in the dinning hall (which came to a halt during the pandemic and is only now starting up again), walking the campus trail down by the creek, chugging away together in the exercise room, doing projects in the art room, and serving together on any of the many committees. So many chances to get to know people and form friendships.

Following are a few vignettes of my fellow/sister residents (more to follow in future blogs):

My friend Harriet
tells me that her son
visited her soon after he died.
He came and sat on the edge
of her bed. He spoke no
words, but his presence
comforted. When Harriet reached
up and turned on the light,
no one was there.
But she knew what she knew.
“He was,” she says, “unacquainted
with the limits of death.”

********

Ray won a prize in the First Annual
Friendsview Poetry Writing Contest.
He submitted an old poem,
one he had written years ago, a poem
to his wife. He was a soldier in Vietnam,
missing his bride. The poem rhymed
and every stanza ended with the line,
“I think of you.”
Ray’s wife died several years ago.
He says he still thinks about her
every day.

*******

Bonnie decided to try a new art form
so she downloaded some instructions
from the Web, bought the paper
and acrylics, and began pouring
paint on paper, tipping it,
letting the colors ribbon
and swirl. It turned out nice,
so now she’s giving classes every Friday
afternoon. “I’m not really an artist,”
she says. “Anyone can do this.”
I wonder about that. The results
of the class are now on display.
Something in the sense of movement
stirs me, and I can’t stop admiring.
“This isn’t ART,” Bonnie claims.
“It’s more like a hobby.”
I wonder about that, too.
Who’s to say? It just may be
the real thing after all.
Like Bonnie.

*********

 Alan’s wife died last year. He’s only been here
since January. That’s a lot of adjusting to do.
Every morning he’s down in the exercise room,
walking slowly but consistently on the treadmill,
his way of choosing life. Now in his mid-90s,
his Ph.D. in medical research helps him scan
his neighbors, make wise diagnoses,
which he wisely keeps to himself.
But his life-long research in giardia doesn’t
contribute much to life in this place. It’s too clean here.
I can appreciate his work, though, having wrestled
with the beasts myself. I feel a little safer
knowing there’s an ancient giardia specialist
who lives just over by the creek.

[Note: Bonnie’s painting shown above is mixed media, in the beginning stage and the final product.]

Hunkering down

In May 2016, with the help of our friends, we moved the last boxes of hoarded treasure over to our new home in the trees of our chosen old growth forest. We would finally experience life in a retirement community. This was no longer a prospect for someday out there. It was to be our home. Now, and probably for the rest of our lives. Both a sobering and giddy thought.

Our two-room apartment is on the fifth floor. A wall of windows overlooks trees, hills, and an expanse of ever-changing sky. The view certainly welcomed us home.

(We’ve moved many times over the years. My first question when about to occupy a new place is not about size, room arrangement, or other practical issues—Hal asks those questions—but what can I see out the windows.)

One of our first experiences as newcomers was writing the largest personal check of our lives and handing it over to the smiling administrative assistant. Actually, we were happy, too, partly because our old condo had just sold, making this adventure possible. But most of our joy was based on faith. This was the right move. Wasn’t it?

In truth, it took a while to actually feel at home. One thing I was not expecting was being overwhelmed at the number of white heads, walkers, and wrinkles everywhere we looked. We were surrounded by old people! This is pure irony, of course. Who did I think I was? Or was becoming?

This strange distress showed me that I had brought with me my own stereotypes of old people, and they were not all positive. For the past few years, I had squirmed when I thought other people were ignoring me, patronizing me, or classifying me as insignificant because I was over 60. And here I was, projecting these same attitudes.

The cure for stereotyping is getting to know people. It’s also the best path toward feeling at home in a community. Slowly, we discovered that our new friends and neighbors were not old people. They were just people. Interesting, sometimes complicated, and often very funny people.

Our fifth-floor neighborhood was even better than the view at helping us feel at home. The larger retirement community is divided into different neighborhoods, each a microcosm of the whole, with its own unique ways of living together. We’ve felt so blessed to be part of the fifth-floor family. From the first day, people went out of their way to welcome us: a bright sign on the door, a basket of goodies (healthy stuff like dark chocolate), but mostly people introducing themselves, inviting us to eat with them, and leaving us alone when that’s what we needed.

The wild-life in an old growth forest can be incredibly diverse. We discovered that to be true on the fifth-floor. As we got to know our neighbors, we found that we were surrounded by some rare and beautiful birds. My red-headed neighbor across the hall was one of the most colorful and enthusiastic. We discovered that in our early seventies, Francie, Hal, and I were considered the kids on the floor. Most of the others were in their eighties and nineties, some approaching 100 years old. For me, still getting used to being 70, someone calling me a kid was not at all offensive.

Down the hall, Bob and Connie invited us in for a visit. We discovered that Bob had served more than 25 years fighting forest fires in California, not as a volunteer, but as a fulltime employee of the Forest Service. 

On the other side of the floor, we got reacquainted with Marie, a friend from college days. She was still as well-dressed and stylish as I had remembered. She showed us photos of herself and her late husband dressed in their helmets and leather suits; they had traversed the nation numerous times on their Harley-Davidsons. As if that were not enough, Marie had also been a professional clown. People have a habit of surprising me.

We met Phyllis who, as a young adult, had served in Africa as part of the Peace Corps. She and her husband spent the rest of their lives active in work for social justice. Now widowed and less mobile, Phyllis continues to change the world by email from her armchair. We met retired teachers, pastors, missionaries, and truckers. Everyone a treasure trove of stories.

Now that we’ve been here on the fifth-floor for five years, it still feels like a family, but in a more realistic sense. Any family has its share of squabbles and challenges. Some people are naturally grouchier than others. Others may not be grouchy on the inside; they just look like it. Sometimes political views clash, and we have to learn with whom we should not mention certain issues. So, we learn to deal with it. Just because we’re all a certain age doesn’t mean we’re all wise or mature. But this gives friendship the chance to grow deeper, become more tolerant. I guess I’ll never stop learning how to do that.

With all these rare birds flying around us, we’ve finally hunkered down, learning to be at home in this old growth forest.