Stuff

 Stuff is one of my favorite words. I like the round plump way it feels in my mouth. I like the way it starts with a hiss, slowly snaking its way toward the light, only to come to an abrupt halt (we call it an alveolar stop in linguistics, in case you wanted to know), then ending in a slow flat leak of carbon dioxide (a labio-dental fricative). There’s a lot going on in your mouth when you say the “simple” word stuff.

But more than the sound and feel of the word, I like what it means and, more importantly, how it means.

As with many words that appear simple, time spent in the Oxford English Dictionary quickly dispels that illusion. The noun stuff can mean a variety of things from supplies and possessions to textiles suitable for clothing, and even academic subject matter, as in “This teacher really knows his stuff.” It can mean something lofty, a fundamental substance, such as “the stuff of greatness.” Or it can be as specialized as the spin on a fast flying baseball (a new one to me). And, of course, we also have many verb meanings, derivatives (some very edible), and even a few expletives (among which “O stuff and bother!” is the safest for Quakers to use).

There’s a lot of “what” to the word stuff, but the “how” is perhaps more significant. Stuff, in short, is not a reverent word. It is not likely to ever be incorporated into a liturgical prayer, carved onto a memorial plaque, or sung at a wedding. It struts down the halls with a casual, cocky air. Look closely and you’ll see a twinkle in its eye. It’s crossing its fingers behind its back.

Let’s consider stuff in the sense of personal property or possessions. “Hands off! This is my stuff!”

It’s precisely because of the irreverent casual feel of this word that I like to apply it to my possessions. In my heart of hearts, I find myself attached to my stuff in a most unholy way. When someone threatens to take what belongs to me, my emotions flare up. I can become very distressed at breaking some valued pot. Little kids running through my rooms unnerve me.

Labeling my things as stuff helps me put them in perspective. I desire to become less and less possessed by my possessions, freer to value what’s really valuable (like little kids).

As missionaries in Bolivia, we stored our stuff in big barrels every time we came back to the States on furlough. These barrels had to be properly labeled in case something happened to us and the remaining mission staff had to sort, send, or sell our possessions. One time, in a fit of whimsy, I labeled our barrels “General Stuff,” “Specific Stuff,” “Favorite Stuff,” and “Stuff I could get along without if I had to but would prefer to keep if it’s all the same to whoever is reading this label.” (That one took five labels!) Fortunately, nothing happened to us.)

I have this recurring Walter-Mitty-type daydream where my house and all my possessions burn down, but we escape unharmed. I remain calm and spiritual throughout the ordeal. When someone, dripping with pity, says to me, “I hear you were wiped out by the fire,” I reply, serenely and cheerfully, “Oh no, I’m still here, as good as ever. Just my stuff got burned.”

In my saner moments I laugh at that daydream. I know that a real fire would devastate me, that I would lose not only my “General Stuff,” but also my family photos, the teddy-bear my daughter bought me, my great grandmother’s wedding dress, the stories the kids wrote when they were little, and other things I deeply value. I would need help in dealing with loss. This is reality.

Now in my retirement years, downsizing is an ongoing assignment. We simply don’t have the space for a lot of books, nick-nacks, cookware, extra sheets and blankets, and on and on it goes. We don’t want to leave a lot of these decisions to our kids (who, actually, would probably find it easier to dispose of our stuff). So we continue to shrink, both in terms of our bodies and our possessions. It’s not easy.

John Woolman inspires me to put my possessions in perspective. I am especially drawn to the story in his journal about his growing retail business and his struggle with the “stuff and bother” of material success. He finally concludes that “Truth required me to live more free from outward cumbers,” and simplifies his business so that he can give himself to traveling and encouraging his brothers and sisters in the Quaker family. Cumbers is another good word for stuff.

Jesus reminds us that God knows our need of adequate shelter, clothing, and food. Our Father is generous. We are to seek first his kingdom and righteousness, and he will supply all the stuff we really need (Matthew 6:33, Thomas version).

I need to be frequently reminded of this. I’m still far from John Woolman’s courageous act of throwing it all off. I’m still cumbered by more stuff than I need. But the desire for freedom and simplicity is growing. I pray God will help me to hold my possessions more lightly, and to know that, no matter how pretty, bright, or enticing, when all is said and done—it’s just stuff.

--Adapted from an essay published in The Evangelical Friend, 1992.

The weight of years

 The Book of Jeremiah is heavy. Long and exceedingly gloomy. One disaster follows another in the prophet’s personal life: called in his youth to a task he felt totally inadequate for, he went out and preached Bad News to the nations and, for all his work, ended up dying exiled in Egypt. Not to mention that his mission was a failure. He persisted in obedience to God (and was, in that sense, deeply successful) but no one repented and the prophesied disasters took place.

Jeremiah warns the people of Jerusalem that unless they repent of their idolatrous ways, the wrath of the Lord will be poured out on “the children in the street and on the young men gathered together; both husband and wife will be caught in it, and the old, those weighed down with years” (6:11). At this point I want to leave behind the gloomy prophet and focus on his definition of old people: “those weighed down with years.”

Talk about heavy! And yet this may not be an exaggeration.

In this retirement community, the older people get, the more they tend to walk with a stoop, as if some vast heaviness is sitting on their shoulders. Walking sticks, canes, walkers, and, in time wheel chairs mark the movement from one stage to another.

The aging body testifies to weight in other ways, with sagging muscles and a spreading out in a strange redistribution of mass. It’s definitely harder to lose weight, diet and exercise aside. And, on the other end of the weight spectrum, many people lose too much weight as they approach the end of life. Loss of appetite and zero energy level aren’t states-of-being any of us look forward to.

The years can weigh us down ways that affect more than the body. Regrets, past traumas, unhealed relationships—these touch most of us from time to time in the journey that is aging. Many people achieve maturity and manage to face the past and move on. Other people live in this dark place, and that is heavy, indeed.

The word weight has other meanings, of course. One is denominational. In my family of faith we have the term weighty Friend. It’s an old term, not used as much in these days. I wish it were; it always makes me smile, in spite of the gravitas it carries. I think, “Fat Old Quaker.” Seriously, it refers to older respected Friends who have proven themselves trust-worthy over time. Their words carry weight and people take them very seriously.

And then we have the association of weight with glory. C.S. Lewis wrote a marvelous essay entitled, “The Weight of Glory,” coming from what St. Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 4:16-17: “Even though our outward [being] is perishing, yet the inward [person] is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” Lewis sees the weight of glory as something we shall attain in the presence of God. Glory means “acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of God.” It also means “brightness, splendour, luminosity.” It’s a golden glory, and gold is the heaviest metal. Yet our transformed bodies will be able to bear the weight of all this glory. That’s certainly something to look forward to, no matter what is going on in our current aging bodies.

I imagine it could make even Jeremiah smile.

Sentimental “P”

Do you have a favorite color? How many times have people asked you that? You probably have an answer; for me it’s all shades of blue. People have favorite colors. We also have favorite songs, favorite flowers, favorite fruit, and sometime favorite Bible verses or poems, although these tend to change with time. It’s part of our humanness to have personal tastes and perspectives.

But a favorite letter of the alphabet? Who has one of those?

Well, I do.

It all started when I was three years old. My parents valued education and wanted to give me a head start, so they began teaching me the alphabet song. It’s bouncy and easy to memorize, even if it doesn’t make any sense. And it didn’t, at first.

You know it—a,b,c,d,e,f,g and so on. The problem was the middle part. The letters between k and p are sung at a faster rate and they run together. My child brain couldn’t separate the sounds or repeat them. It was “blahblahblahblah p.”

I finally figured it out with the help of my mom’s favorite song on the radio. I now know that the song was called “Sentimental Journey.” The word I glopped onto was “sentimental.” It had just the right number of syllables and could be said quickly. So I resolved the conflict with a “sentimental p.” It worked and now I could sing the whole song.

When I asked my mom what “sentimental” meant, she said something about feeling kind and loving toward something. Without any logical reflection (remember, three-years-old) I began bonding with such a sweet good-natured letter. I hoped I could be like the letter p when I grew up.

I did grow up, of course, and became somewhat more logical. I’ve since learned the alphabet in various languages and have left behind any romantic fantasies about individual letters. But childhood affections run deep and I’ll admit to still having warm feelings about the letter p.

Think of all the great words than begin with p. There’s peace, pleasure, poetry, plecostomus(1), passion, plethora, panorama, pantheon, people, prayer, poplar, ponder. I could go on and on, but you get the point. A marvelous letter. What’s not to love?

During my active adult years, I frequently pondered my life’s priorities. Over time I came to understand that God was calling me vocationally into three ways of being: prayer, poetry, and people. I did not intentionally try to find vocations that began with the letter p. Call it coincidence. I’ve always felt drawn to prayer, both in terms of mystical contemplative prayer and the more active intercessory prayer for the needs of the world. I’ve been a poet since age seven. And as a child of God I’m drawn to relationship, friendship, family—in short, people.

These were to be my priorities no matter what else was going on in my life. And plenty was going on. Education, marriage, kids, career, committees, church stuff, crises, and all the busy-ness that takes time and sucks energy. “Real life” it’s called. And so it’s been a challenge all my life to live out my priorities. I’ve had to be deliberate.

And sometimes it didn’t work. I’ve known long periods of prayerlessness. Several years I only managed to write a few uninspired poems. People were always around, of course, but I’ve known lean times in terms of genuine friendship.

And yet the Spirit never let me forget my vocations. No matter how much I wandered, I always circled home.  Prayer, poetry, and people.

Now that I’m retired, I’m realizing that the pressure of “real life” no longer needs to be a barrier. I’m free to give actual time to learning how to pray. I can clear space everyday to sit in silence and let the poems emerge. I can know and enjoy the people in my life, including my own family and all my neighbors in this community. I have time to listen.

This is all ideal, of course. “Real life” follows us into retirement communities, and it is totally possible to become wrapped up in a tangle of committees, obligations, and unnecessary commitments. But, the thing is, it’s more of a choice now. I can say NO. (I repeat to myself as needed, “I can say NO.”) And, of course, I am still human. I have bad days where I don’t give a hoot for priorities and want nothing to do with the letter p. Somedays, I wake up grumpy and, perversely, I enjoy it.

But eventually, the Spirit interrupts my complaints, reminds me I now have time to be who God made me to be. He draws me home again.

These are the so-called “golden years.” There’s gold hidden in the floor of this old growth forest.

Lord, help me to mine the gold by living out my priorities. Please. (Another great p-word, by the way.)

 (1)  Footnote: The plecostomus, otherwise known as the “suckermouth catfish,” is helpful in cleaning up algae in fish tanks. This is your factoid for the day.

Bless these bones

Recently I’ve been studying Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount” from the Gospel of Matthew. It includes this teaching on prayer:

Ask and it will be given to you;
seek and you will find;
knock and the door will be opened.
(Matthew 7:7)

I wrote the following prayer based on the three verbs in Jesus’ teaching:

Prayer on Growing Older

I ask on behalf of my body.

I know I’m growing older and I don’t ask for a reversal of that process,
but I would like to become a healthy old lady, one who still hikes and swims and circumnavigates her world with appropriate energy and joy, who handles the inevitable physical limitations and changes with grace.

I seek friendship in these autumn years.

Just as the trees turn gold, so let the gift of friendship grow richer and more beautiful, with my husband of so many years, with my grown children and their spouses, with my grandchildren and those greats yet to come, with my neighbors, and with friends from years past.
Help me to delight in them all and be a joy to them in turn. I seek warm conversation, laughter, intimacy, mutual adventures, and shared silences.
I seek opportunities to love my neighbor as I love myself.

Above all, I seek a deepening friendship with you, my Lord.

I knock on the door of wisdom.

I know that growing older does not automatically mean growing wiser which is why I’m knocking.
Help me approach the mysteries with awe and joy.
Open my eyes and let me see.
Open my ears and help me to listen.
Give me hope that one day the door I knock on will open wide and invite me out into a new place where I shall know, even as also I am known.

I thank you for this time of life.
And I ask, I seek, I knock.
Amen. So let it be.

The kaleidoscope of change

It’s a cliché to say that change is the one constant in life. Of course it is. We all know that. And we know that it’s our attitude to change that makes the difference. That’s common conventional wisdom.

But it’s easier said than done.

I sometimes think that the changes brought about by aging are the toughest to adapt to. Some days I don’t have a good attitude at all about those changes. I wonder who I am now.

This reminds me of a passage in Alice in Wonderland. I’m currently reading this book aloud with my friend Harriet who lives down in the Health Center. Harriet is 104 years-old and has been through more life changes than most of us. The time she’s in now is especially difficult. But she loves Alice and laughs in all the right places.

The passage describes some strange changes and their resultant identity crisis. Alice was a little girl, not an old woman and her dilemma had to do with magically changing sizes as she swallowed potions and ate cookies. She wrestles with change like most of us and wonders who she is now. In this scene she has just come in contact with a caterpillar.

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence; at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.

“Who are you? said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”

“I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.

“I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”

Being so many different sizes in a lifetime is confusing. Sizes, shapes, roles, tasks, relationships, responsibilities, circumstances—it’s a kaleidoscope and its constant spinning makes me so dizzy somedays that I can’t stand up straight. (Is that why so many of us use walkers and wheelchairs?) Which of all these selves and sizes is the real me? Is there such a creature? Is it even important to know?

The tiredness aside, most days I feel almost young and vital on the inside, much the same person I’ve always been. But then I look in the mirror.

I was startled this morning
to see a strange old woman
staring at me from the bathroom mirror.
Who is she? How did she get here?
Should I pull the emergency cord
by the toilet? Am I safe?
Such white hair!
Those lines around the eyes!
Those spots! Poor thing.
Even as I pitied her,
something about the pathetic look
she gave me made me laugh.
She laughed back.
In that very instant, I recognized
her, accepted her, and loved her.
Just as she is.

I realize that all the changes of my life come together to help make me who I am today. The changes are real and I’m at a different phase of life with its own challenges, but I’m still me. I’ll keep changing, but my core self, the essence of the person created by God, stays. It’s like the woman in Lisa Genova’s novel, Still Alice, who suffers the drastic changes of Alzheimer’s, but her family recognizes that she’s still the person they’ve always known and loved. She’s still Alice. And I’m still Nancy. And you are still your own unique self.

Joan Chittister in her book The Gift of Years writes that “We don’t change as we get older—we just get to be more of what we’ve always been.”

I love that passage in the book of Revelation that says that the person who remains victorious in all the challenges of life will receive from God “a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (Rev. 2:17). I’ve wondered if that personal name is God finally telling us the essence of our identity.

The search for identity, extending through the later years, is ongoing, perhaps until God tells us who we are. In the meantime, there’s a better way. We are to love our neighbor as ourself. Maybe these retirement years give us the leisure to appreciatively explore and affirm the essence of our neighbor—whether spouse, adult child, grandchild, or friend. Although we will never know the secret word written on their stone, we might come closer to genuinely knowing another person. What a good way to spend our time.

That’s a challenge for any age. 

On being ripe

 Really old people are sometimes referred to as ripe, as in “She lived to a ripe old age.” What exactly does that mean? When does ripe old age begin and when does it end?

Ripe seems more like a fruit word than a people word, but with language being the wonderful wiggly thing it is, words can go all sorts of places. People and fruit have things in common.

What is it about old age that makes it ripe? Is it an apple just about to fall, not yet wormy? Is it a whole vineyard full of choice grapes, ready for the presses? It is an avocado, getting soft, needing to be picked, pealed, and sliced away from its huge seed? Made into guacamole? Is it a lemon, tart and acidic? Or sweet like a plum? Why do we call old age ripe?

Is there an implication that after ripe comes…..dead?

The Collins English Dictionary tells us that “ripe implies completed growth beyond which the process of decay begins.” That’s OK in reference to fruit. Not so much for people. Taking that definition literally would mean that people become ripe in their mid-twenties, after which it’s all downhill, physically speaking. (“At the ripe young age of 25, he climbed Mt. Kilamanjaro.”)

But of course that’s not how we use the term. Ripe, as in “ripe old age,” refers, obviously, to old people. Webster’s informs us that a ripe person is one “having mature knowledge, understanding, or judgment” (would that were true!) or, more simply, a person “of advanced years.” The Cambridge Dictionary gives a positive description of “ripe old age”: “the condition of being very old; used especially to talk about someone who has had a long healthy life.” Christine Ammer in The Dictionary of Clichés says that the “expression itself is of a ripe old age—it dates from the second half of the fourteenth century—and is generally used in a positive, admiring sense.”

Well, then. I wouldn’t mind heading toward ripeness if it meant having finally achieved maturity of understanding after a long healthy life. Who wouldn’t want that? But if that’s what it means, then not every worthy old person could be considered ripe. Think of the one with dementia, an unfair disease of the mind that seems to attack the virtuous as well as scoundrels, and all degrees of character in between. What happens to “maturity of understanding”? Many wise older people die of diseases like cancer or heart trouble. These probably wouldn’t be considered ripe, lacking the health factor. Could a healthy old scoundrel be considered to have lived to a “ripe old age.”

Or are all these questions just silly?

Hal said to me last night, “I don’t want to get so ripe that I begin to stink.”

Me neither.

I’m playing with this term partly because I love language and am always curious about the origins and meanings of idioms and figures of speech. But I’m also pondering it because so many terms referring to older people border on stereotype. And I’m allergic to stereotypes, especially if I’m in the category being referred to.

In my search for information about the phrase, “ripe old age,” I came across a list of related words and phrases that refer to old people. It’s from a collection called SMART Vocabulary, produced by the Cambridge University Press. Here’s a sample from the list:

aged, buffer, centenarian, codger, crock, crone, dotard, elder, gaffer, geriatric, infirm, old boy, old girl, old man, old woman, old folks’ home, old-timer, oldie, ripe, second childhood, senile, senior citizen, supercentenarian, the gray dollar, the gray market, twilight years, wrinkly

Sound attractive? What images entered your mind as you read each word? Did you see yourself? Your parents or grandparents? I’m tempted to write a poem about Hal and me entitled, “The Codger and the Crone.” Gaffer’s a nice word; Sam Gamgee used it with affection to refer to his father. But I’ve never heard it used around here.

Actually, I love figures of speech and am always on the look out for new ones. I feel a certain affection toward “a ripe old age” and wouldn’t mind that referring to me someday, as long as I don’t stink. It’s that tendency toward stereotyping I resist. Stereotypes tend to erase personality. The categories and images make it hard to see people in all their uniqueness, no matter their age. I’m not a “senior citizen;” I’m a citizen. I’m not an old person; I’m a person. And I hope I’m never a crone.

Now that that’s off my back (another interesting image), I need a snack. I think I’ll go eat an apple.

Let’s hope it’s ripe.

Coming unglued

It was a simple exercise in a poetry writing seminar. The idea intrigued me. The facilitator had told us to choose a common cultural idiom, a figure of speech everyone knows and uses. The exercise was to take that idiom literally and write a poem.

I chose the phrase “coming unglued.” I was hearing that a lot, occasionally applying it to myself when a too busy schedule was making me grumpy and disorganized. Similar to not “having it all together,” or not “having your ducks in a row.”  

As I engaged my imagination, the image of body parts slowly coming unattached from the trunk made me grin. I know, it’s gruesome, but I tend to find weird things funny (except when they’re not). I began writing as the pictures formed, basically just playing with words. Nothing serious in mind. But, as sometimes happens in creative endeavors, the poem itself took over and led me where I didn’t want to go. Hansel and Gretel walked into the story and the whole thing ended up with us entering a darkening forest. Not knowing where we were going or what would happen next.

Sometimes, when a person asks me what one of my poems means, I have to confess that I don’t know. It was that way with this poem, until I figured it out. Apparently my unconscious self wanted to bring something up to the surface where I could deal with it. Poems can act like dreams, telling us stuff we need to know.

But first, here’s the poem. (You’ll notice I don’t even use the phrase “coming unglued.” No need.)

Coming of Age

It's all right, he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

At the time I wrote this poem Hal and I were in our early 50s, still young and somewhat vital (as I know from my current vantage point). But we were noticing subtle bodily changes, things like lower energy level, less visual acuity, aches in places that had never ached before, and, of course, those wrinkles and grey hairs. Hal especially faced some serious issues involving operations.

I always knew I’d grow old someday, but it wasn’t of great concern. I couldn’t actually picture myself with white hair, using a walker, or living in an “old folks’ home.” And I didn’t pay too much attention to the tales my aunts and uncles told about doctor visits and body parts wearing out. Boring.

But while I wasn’t consciously worried, something else was going on deep inside where monsters and dragons dwell. The poem told me that I was afraid of growing old and especially of what might happen to my body and mind. My mother had died in her 50s and my father at age 63, both from debilitating illnesses. I was approaching that age. Would I be like them? It was unknown territory.

It was good to get the fear out into the open and look it in the face. Hal and I could then talk about it, pray, and make plans for when we’d actually enter the forest.

I’m over 20 years from the writing of that poem and I’m actually living in a retirement community (which I would never refer to as an “old folks’ home”). It’s turned out to be a lovely old growth forest where the sun slants through the trees, although there are days when path ahead still looks dark.

But I must confess that the image of body parts coming unglued is no joke. This forest is full of decay; ironically, that’s part of what makes it healthy. We try to laugh about it, and most days we do.

There’s a joke about how that when older people get together to talk, it always turns into a musical event—an organ recital!

I hope I’m not about to give an organ recital here, but in order to illustrate the idea of slowly coming unglued, I will say that my main concern is something called vestibular migraines, but that my marvelous doctor is helping me control the symptoms. Other than that, I have a bit of osteoarthritis in my hands and neuropathy in my feet. (There’s some other stuff that I won’t mention. Be thankful.) All in all, not too bad.

Hal is another story. (Hal is always another story, but that’s what makes him so interesting.) He’s looking at three possible operations this year—lower back, prostrate, and left hand. Plus he continually fights diverticulosis, assorted skin rashes, and leg cramps. And both of us find ourselves saying WHAT? more than any other word in our vocabulary. Wonder why? I guess we’ll have to look into that.

On the other hand, we have good hearts, lungs, kidneys, brains and other organs that are growing older but still doing their good work. Since cataract removal surgery, we see the distant hills as well as the words in our books. We have much to be thankful for.

Now that I’ve written that, I am determined not to give you another organ recital. Ever. Please hold me to it.

We need to face the rebellion of body parts as a reality of aging. We have no guarantee that we will not get cancer, break a hip, or suffer dementia. I read the description in Psalm 92 of the upright person who “will still bear fruit in old age, who still stay fresh and green” like a cherry tree or a cedar. A beautiful image—and one I hold on to. But I will still grow older and one day I will die. What does this fruit in old age look like? What does it mean to stay fresh and green, even as some of my limbs break off and fruit drops to the ground? As I become unglued?

I don’t know exactly. I just know that, on most days, I’m no longer afraid.