Old souls or dead fish?

 I was planning on writing this blog as a reflection on a book I just read, The Making of an Old Soul: Aging as the Fulfillment of Life’s Promise. The book itself sounded promising. As I got into it, I grew enthusiastic and began highlighting many sentences and even paragraphs. “This is good stuff,” I told myself, with my usual intellectual insight.

But before I finished, I was having second thoughts about the book. I was going to write the blog last night, but these pesky second thoughts were battling in my brain, so I decided to postpone the writing and sleep on it. A good night’s sleep often clarifies matters.

But I woke up early this morning with a crazy dream. I believe in the importance of dreams, the dreams you remember. Most of my dreams I forget the moment I wake up. They entice me and I want to hold onto them, but it’s like grabbing a fistful of mist. Nothing stays. But if a dream remains in my mind, I know it’s important. It might be a message from God. Seriously. Sometimes that happens. Mostly, though, my dreams tell me something about myself, something it would be good for me to attend to.

Dream analysis can be tricky and I’m no psychologist. Writing a dream usually helps me make sense of it. And, of course, if I don’t write it down immediately, I’ll forget it by the end of the morning. Even remembered dreams are elusive. They can slip away like a wet fish in the hand.

Speaking of fish, that’s what last night’s dream was about. And since I have not yet reached any conclusion about the old-souls book, I’m going to write my dream here in this blog and let you help me interpret it.

Okay. Here goes.

I was on a road trip with someone (who? the details are already slipping away), and we were parked in a small, run-down town out in nowhere. We got a meal in a local café and then were about to leave when we were apprehended by the law. With no explanations, the sheriff grabbed us and took us to the local jail. I was pleading for mercy. The sheriff impounded my car, put my companion in jail, and said he would go easy on me if I would do him the favor of delivering a load of fish to some restaurant in Los Angeles.

I agreed. The sheriff and his men then loaded a bunch of fish, including a huge tuna, into the back seat of a gold-painted station wagon, gave me the keys, and waved good-bye.

I drove off quickly, wanting to get away from the whole scene. Apparently, I didn’t give a thought to my companion back in the town jail. He just disappears from the dream. I also didn’t give a thought to the fact that these fish had not been packed in ice and placed in a container. They were just lying on the floor and back seat. 

It wasn’t too long before I did give that a thought.

I was driving through the desert. It looked like Death Valley (through which I have actually driven, in real life). As the day progressed and the sun got higher in the sky, I thought about those fish. My nose thought about them. Although the car had air-conditioning, it was so hot outside, the fish were beginning to stink. And it dawned on me just how mean and nasty that sheriff was. This fish delivery thing was merely revenge.

Soon I had to stop the car and do something about the whole mess. I had no idea how far it was to Los Angeles.  I got out. The desert sun beat down with such intensity it gave me a headache. I opened the back door and began tossing fish to the side of the road. It was hard when I got the huge tuna, but with lots of tugging and sweating and panting and cursing the sheriff, I managed to drag the thing out of the car. Only to discover that underneath all the fish lay a corpse.

On that note I woke up.

Can you see why I need help in interpretation?

I don’t think this dream was a message from God.

So, what is it trying to tell me about myself? Why was this dream important enough to be remembered? 

(At this point, you’re probably wishing I had stuck with a reflection on old souls.)

Interpretation begins with observations and questions. Who was my companion and why did he just disappear? Who was the sheriff? It seems obvious that he did not represent the law since justice never entered the dream. And the fish? The gold station-wagon? The desert? Who was the dead man?

Does this have anything to do with growing older?

Or is it something else?

A little while ago Hal came in from his early morning walk and I shared the dream with him. He’s the best dream-interpreter I know. He immediately connected the dream to the current political situation in our country and told me it could be a reflection of my fears. He might be right.

Last night I watched the evening news with Hal. I had previously decided I wouldn’t do that anymore as it can be too upsetting, but something seems to draw me to the TV. Partly it’s because it’s been our routine for years, to watch the evening news together and then discuss the issues. But because of the tension and chaos in our national life, I’d decided to take a break and get my news through other sources. Last night I gave in and joined Hal in front of the TV. It was, of course, upsetting.

Then we went to bed, but I couldn’t get to sleep, which is not surprising. So I got up and went out to the living room to pray. I prayed for our national leaders. I prayed for Congress and the Supreme Court. I prayed for all the people in other countries who are paying the consequences of the abrupt cutting off of aid. I prayed for the thousands of federal workers now without a job. I prayed for my Hispanic friends here in town who live with increased levels of fear and insecurity. I lamented and called out for mercy. Then I went back to bed and slept.

And early this morning—the dream.

Does the dream symbolically reflect reality? Or my perception of reality? It’s undoubtedly a projection of my fears.

And I need to face the fears.

I don’t think I’ll want to eat fish in the near future. That’s a problem since the retirement community serves lots of fish. I usually like it.

Next week’s blog—no fish or corpses. I promise. Old souls.

PS: Please let me know your take on the dream.

A modest proposal

 These days I don’t know if I’m on a roller coaster or living through an earthquake. Things are shaking and rattling and I miss the steady solid ground I used to think of as the United States of America. 

Indicative of this movement are the proposals to change names: the Gulf of Mexico/America; Denali/Mt. Mckinley. What other name changes await us?

But I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should not protest so much, but rather enter into the spirit of our changing times and come up with some new names of my own. In fact, I’m ready to go even further than our present leadership and modestly propose that we change the name of our nation. It needs to better reflect the spirit of the age.

But first, some background information: You probably remember from primary school that our country got its name, America, from an explorer and navigator named Americus Vespucius.* The history surrounding this man is spurious, with different versions circulating. One thing we do know is that Columbus beat him to the mysterious new lands in 1492. Vespucius may have made two voyages on behalf of Spain and then Portugal between 1497 and 1502. He found Brazil around 1501, which shouldn’t have been difficult, what with Brazil being so big. The size of Brazil led him to the conclusion that this was not part of the Indies as was still believed (even by Columbus). No, this was a whole new continent! This conclusion is considered Vespucius’ real contribution.

Vespucius wrote two books describing what he called “the New World.” Although his authorship is now disputable, the books under his name became widely popular in Europe. Then along comes a cartographer named Martin Waldseemuller who took the descriptions from the books and drew a map of the New World, labeling it “America,” in honor of the supposed author who may or may not have actually voyaged there. The history gets a bit dicey. Other map-makers refined Waldseemuller’s work, continuing to name the continents America. Gradually, informally, this became the name of the New World. In 1776 the Second Continental Congress officially named our country the United States of America.

Both Vespucius and Colombus were dead by this time and did not know the honor, or slight, that had been paid to them. I, however, have a problem with the name. I feel very patriotic about the name America, from childhood connecting it with equality, dignity, integrity, honesty, and welcome. But I’m willing to part with it. Even if Americus Vespucius’ part in our national story is dubious, the founding fathers should have chosen his last name, rather than his first name. (Colombia and Bolivia did it right.)

Therefore, I propose that the name of our country be changed to the United States of Vespucius. It sounds much more imperial and in keeping with our new developing image. It even sounds volcanic, as in, “If all you other nations don’t follow my lead, Mt. Vespucius will erupt and you’ll all be sorry!”

I admit, there are some problems with my proposal. In the case of a miraculous bi-partisan passage by Congress, it might be hard to adjust to changing our great national hymns. “God Bless Vespucius”? “Vespucius the Beautiful”? And then there’s that national anthem beloved by all, “Here She Comes! Miss Vespucius!”

Gardeners would have to become accustomed to the Vespucian Beauty Rose, and immigrants would need to place their hope in the Vespucian Dream. We would need to take pride in products that are Made-in-Vespucius. And our national motto would need to shift to Make Vespucius Great Again (MVGA). Could we do it?

Maybe. Maybe not. Of course it probably won’t happen in my life time, but I will do my part and present my modest proposal.

What do you think?

*Note: Americus Vespucius is our hero’s Latin name. He is also known as Amerigo Vespucci (Italian) and Américo Vespucio (Spanish). Just so you know.

Up with mugwumps!

 Almost every time I read a book, I discover a new word. Most of the time I guess the meaning from the context and continue reading. But sometimes the new word is so intriguing I have to stop and look it up.

In the newest book by Louise Penny, A World of Curiosities, I found “mountweazel.” Who wouldn’t stop for that?! Webster’s Dictionary didn’t even list it, so Google to the rescue. The short definition is “fraud.” The more precise definition is “a bogus entry deliberately inserted in a reference work.” It comes from a fabricated entry in an encyclopedia about a person who didn’t exist, one Lillian Virginia Mountweazel. About this entry, one commentator noted that “Its inherent fakitude is fairly obvious.” And that gave me the word “fakitude” (also not found in Webster’s). Are you smiling?

But this blog is not about “mountweazels” or “fakitudes.”

It’s about mugwumps.

I don’t remember the book I found the word in, but it stopped me in my tracks and made me look it up. You US history buffs probably recognize the word, but it was new to me. And I found it in Webster’s: “a person who is independent (as in politics) or who remains undecided or neutral. Otherwise known as a noncommittal fencesitter or individualist, especially in politics.”

Some sources believe it originated with the Algonquian native tribe as the word mogkiomp, meaning “big chief” or “war leader.” It entered mainstream English in the US presidential election of 1864 when a group of Republicans refused for vote for their party’s candidate but instead supported the Democratic candidate, Grover Cleveland. Some switched parties and others became independents.

They were ridiculed in the media and called mugwumps in derision by Republicans. One sarcastic journalist described a mugwump as a strange bird who sat on the fence, his mug facing one direction and his wump the other.

The word is not used much anymore, except in US history books. That’s a shame. It’s a good word, and even though its original sense was derogatory, it has definite positive qualities. For one thing, it’s the opposite of partisan politics. We could use a few mugwumps in Congress today, from either party.

So, what is all this doing in a blog on “Life in an Old Growth Forest”? Let me tell you.

Our retirement community is growing with a new neighborhood of duplexes recently inhabited and a new apartment complex going up, soon to be occupied. We will change from roughly 400 residents to more than 600 in a short period of time. This community was founded by Quakers in the 1960s and still calls itself a “Christ-centered Community.” Our new residents represent the whole broad spectrum of Quakers and Christians, and some would probably not claim any relationship with Christianity. We welcome them all and celebrate our diversity. At least most of us do.

A concern has been expressed by many that we will lose our “family feeling.” Some fear we will gradually lose our Christian values and our focus on being Christ-centered. So the Residents Council, with the approval of the administration, is setting up a focus-group of residents to do some hard thinking and reflecting on how the community can keep its original focus and values. It’s a serious undertaking, and those participating are committing to twice-monthly meetings of two hours each. Participants have been chosen for their “supposed” ability to listen respectfully. I write “supposed” ability because I find myself a part of this group—and a little nervous about it.

One of our assignments is to consider how we can help all residents be able to talk about difficult issues in a respectful way, inviting anyone to enter the conversation, no matter their point of view.

A stereotype of older people is stubbornness, a refusal to change. That’s by and large not true. And this is where mugwumps enter the picture.

The positive side of mugwumpism (yes, that’s a real word) is being open to listen to other perspectives.  I don’t think sitting on the fence is what we’re after; in fact, I’d rather there were no fences. Being open and kind is the goal. We older folks can do that.

Up with mugwumps!