Going steady

Back in my high school days, a mark of status and popularity (so important to teenagers) was a state-of-being known as “going steady.” It meant that a boy and a girl decided to exclusively date each other. They publicly declared this intention when the girl wore the boy’s school ring on a chain around her neck. It told the world—I am desirable. I am chosen. I am worthy.

Most of us adolescent girls longed for this. I know I did. But I must confess, I never went steady in high school. I had good friends, yes, but never a steady boyfriend.

College brought a certain level of maturity to relationships. No girl wore a ring on a chain around her neck. But there were couples, naturally, and it sometimes seemed as if finding a marriage partner was one of the main purposes of a college education. A ring around the finger.

Eventually, in the post-college years, I got that ring around my finger. It’s turned out well. I now look back on my high school longings and smile.

The phrase “going steady” is interesting and can almost be seen as an oxymoron,* with going and steady cancelling each other out. In high school it meant simply dating (going out) only one person (steady). Understood. But going is a word of motion, movement, and adventure. Steady can imply standing firm, rock solid, intentional.

I like oxymorons. I may even be one.

Now in my aging years, going steady has become more important than ever. I have a chemical condition inside my head that makes me perpetually dizzy. I am most comfortable sitting in my easy chair where I can look out the window or read a book. But the rest of my body wants more. It wants me to be active, go places, and do things. I need to please both.

So I’ve learned some physical therapy exercises for improving balance, even (or especially) when in motion. I’m currently in an exercise class called “Strong for Life” that allows me to do most of the routines sitting down. Even seated I can break a healthy sweat, with no fear of falling. And I’m taking my walking stick with me when I go out. I insist that it’s a walking stick, not a cane. I’m learning to go steady. Intentionally adventurous.

The oxymoron can also be applied to our relationship with God. “Going steady with Jesus” sounds a bit trite (because it is), but there might be something to it. God is “my rock and my fortress” (Psalm 18:2). David sings for joy because “He lifted me out of the slimy pit … he sat my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand” (Psalm 40:2). Jesus tells us that he is the vine and we are the branches; we are to abide (stand firm) in him in order to bear much fruit (John 15). And Peter promises the early Christians that God is at work in them, making them “strong, firm, and steadfast” (1 Peter 5:10). That’s the steady part.

Jesus also asks us to follow him (Matthew 16:24), to put our feet in motion, to go out to the ends of the earth making disciples of all nations (Matthew 28:19). The whole of the Scriptures tells the story of a God who loves us with a steadfast love, makes us strong and whole in him, then sends us out to befriend and bless the people he loves. That’s the going part.

I’m still drawn to the idea of going steady. And slowly learning how to do it.

*Oxymoron: a combination of contradictory or incongruous words, such as “cruel kindness.”

Journey through time—faith, hope, love

 As a child I memorized 1 Corinthians 13, the great love chapter. Then in high school and college I studied it as literature. “Now there abides faith, hope and love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.”

I’ve always been a wonderer.  I wondered what the difference was between faith and hope. And what made love greater. And how to measure how much of each I might have. I still don’t have it all worked out, but I’ve gained some insight.

I’m learning to see faith, hope, and love as companions on a journey through time. A sort of spiritual time capsule. And these days I’m trying to understand them through the lens of aging.

Faith—a look to the past. Hope—a perspective on the future. Love—to be lived out here and now.

Faith: I see faith as focused on the past and on all the ways God has shown his faithfulness. Certainly, in my own life, I remember God bringing me through dark times into spacious places, walking with me through dim valleys on twisting paths, but keeping me safe. And I see God doing that through the Scriptures—to his people and to individuals such as Moses, David, and the Apostles of the New Testament. We have a testimony about God’s lovingkindness and faithfulness through the years. Our understanding of who God is and how he treats us gives us faith for facing our trials today.

A backward look of faith can actually heal our past. Here’s an example. In kindergarten I was bullied by two huge first-graders. It happened on the brief walk to and from school, which my parents taught me to do on my own. These two girls made fun of me and threatened me. One afternoon they jumped out from behind a tree, brandished sticks like weapons, and chased me to the corner. I ran home in a panic, but dared not tell my parents. They had told me what would happen if I ever said anything about it.

The memory stayed with me, dragging that feeling of panic into the present whenever I thought of it or saw people walking toward me on the sidewalk. That changed when I learned about using my imagination to walk with Jesus into that memory and see him there with me, protecting me, talking with me, and bringing me safely home. It was actually an exercise in reality as Jesus really was with me. But now I could see him, and the fear left. Faith in Jesus’ presence healed that part of my past.

Our memories seem to play an increasing role as we age. How good to be able to reach back in time and touch them with imaginative faith.

Hope: Hope looks to the future. It is fed by faith in all God has done for us in the past and in the scriptural stories of God’s dealings with his people. It senses that, as he has been in the past, so will he be in all our tomorrows. As the psalmist says, “His lovingkindness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23).

The fears natural to the aging process call out for hope. The fear of dementia is perhaps the greatest. A poll taken in 2012 indicates that Alzheimer’s is the disease American’s most fear, edging out even cancer (November 11, 2012, Marist Poll). Anti-ageism activist Ashton Applewhite (that’s a lot of As) says that “Our ageist society pathologizes natural transitions, and our consumer society sells us remedies to ‘fix’ them, like hormone replacement therapy, erectile dysfunction drugs, and facelifts. Our ‘hypercognitive’ culture prioritizes brain function above all ….” All the information in our context bombards us, telling us our fears are valid.

Other natural concerns include loss, potential loneliness, alienation from society, and wondering which body part will give out next. We absolutely need hope. A hope that gives us a new perspective on aging that comes from faith in who God is and how he works in our lives. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11). That promise was made to the people of Israel, but I believe it shows the nature of God and can be applied to us, even as we age. Ultimately that hope reaches to a time when we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Love: Love is primarily a present tense verb. For the here and now. Among the actual people we live with, worship with, and meet in the street. As faith moves forward in time to effect today and hope circles back to encourage us now, we become free to love. Love is an outward focus.

I’m thinking first of my husband. Neither of us are as “beautiful” as we used to, nor as energetic. We’ve grown used to each other. Yet I find, thanks be to God, that this is my easiest love-assignment. More now than when we were young. Just as I find it natural to love my grown kids, grandkids, and the greats.

It’s all the others I need help with. I’m thinking of the cranky lady who lives down the hall and always has something to complain about. I need help to listen with patience and try to see her as God sees her. I need help being kind to the grocery store clerk who’s had a hard day and treats me as a typical tiresome “old lady.” I need help respecting the doctor who tells me there’s nothing wrong; “It’s typical with people your age.” I need help loving certain political leaders in our country. I need help even praying for those I see as oppressing immigrants and minorities.

I need to more frequently sit in the presence of God and let faith and hope stir up love.

Faith and hope help me to love my aging self. I’m learning to look in the mirror and see white hair, wrinkles, and sagging muscles, then say, “Wow! What’s not to love?” I’ve learned an audacious prayer that goes, “Lord, help me accept the truth about myself, now matter how beautiful it is.”

The more I grow in my relationship with God, the more I can lean into the Great Commandment to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37-39).

This is timeless. It doesn’t matter what age we are.

Faith, hope, love—but the greatest of these is love.

The Big Thing--remembering my father

 When I was in junior high school, a Big Thing happened in the high school across the street. Really Big. The football team, the Ramona Bulldogs, won the California State Championship. At the time, I didn’t know anything about leagues or levels or any such official classifications. I realize now that we had to have been in a league of small high schools. The smallest. All I knew then was that we were #1 in the state. The best! The winners!

Ramona was definitely a football town with the Friday night games the biggest event of the week. Even for away games, people filled buses and cars to get there and yell.

The thing is—my dad was the coach. He was actually famous. His picture graced the front page of the Ramona Sentinel more than that of the president of the United States, whose name I don’t even remember.

The night the mighty Bulldogs growled, clawed, and scrabbled their way to the championship went down in history. At the noisy conclusion of the game, the team carried my dad off the field on their shoulders. Everyone was yelling and stomping and throwing their hats in the air. Pretty impressive for an adolescent daughter. I just sat in the bleachers, feeling warm and happy. I knew Dad was pleased.

The thing is—I never liked football all that much. I thought it silly how all those big boys in their stupid outfits ran around bumping into each other, then throwing other big boys on the ground and jumping on top of them. The rules didn’t make sense and sometimes people really did get hurt.

The thing is—my dad knew I thought this way, but he never seemed to hold it against me. 

He was also the Senior class English teacher. He was a writer and he liked literature even more than he liked football. He admired classical Greek culture and he told me once his job in the high school was a good Greek job. He loved the old Greeks plays and epics and he admired the Greeks for beginning the Olympic Games. He said the motto of the Greeks during their Golden Age was “a sound mind in a healthy body.” He reasoned that when he combined sports with literature, he was like the Greeks. A real Renaissance Man.

As was required of high school teachers in California, he took classes during the summer for professional enhancement. Instead of coaching or sports classes, he studied literature. He favored the University of Arizona as his sister lived in Phoenix. One summer he drove across the country to Massachusetts to study Shakespeare at Harvard.

I took Senior English from my dad. I remember as a class we read through “Romeo and Julliet” out loud. He made it come alive. Even the football players in the class became lovers of Shakespeare.

Actually, he was mostly like himself. And he let me be like myself, even though I was not Greek-like, nor did I enjoy football. For my 16^th birthday, he gifted me with a poetry book and wrote on the flyleaf, “To Nancy, for being Nancy. Love, Dad.”

So, I felt OK about the football team carrying him off the field. I would have liked it better if a bunch of writers could have carried him on their shoulders for writing the Great American Novel (a phrase he sometimes used). That never happened.

On Father’s Day I have no problem celebrating my memories of Dad. I recognize that many of my friends and colleagues have to work hard at forgiveness, at facing and bringing peace to their memories of fathers that were not so loving or appreciative. I feel privileged and blessed.

I’m grateful.

 

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. 

A psalm for growing old

 “David sang to the Lord… when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies.” 2 Samuel 22:1; Psalm 18

My enemies were like the waves of a stormy ocean.
They threatened to overwhelm me:

--my failing body
--the death of loved ones
--a downsizing that seemed to diminish
--loss of my place of service and contribution
--going from limelight to invisibility
--losing my home, my job, my place in line
--not knowing where I fit in my family
--fear of losing my memory, even my personality
--the ever-present approach of death.

But you, O Lord, drew me out of the deep waters,
lifted me from the chaos, lit the darkness,
opened the snares of death that threatened.
You rescued me from the fear
of illness, obscurity, dependence, and loss.

Thank you for getting so angry at the attacks against me
that you thundered, quaked, and stormed!
You terrified them all even as you held me in gentle hands.

The wall of stigma, of being white-headed, wrinkled,
stooped and stupid—look! I just leaped over that wall!
Where did all this juice come from?

Instead of a nursing home, you set me in a spacious place
of beauty. You opened the windows of my heart.
You enlarged my imagination and the scope of my understanding.
You gave me eyes to see. You are my Lamp.

You, O Lord, are my Rock,

--a solid place to stand
--a space of belonging
--a room with a view
--security
--safety
--hope.

The difficulties remain.
I’m growing older, stiffer, less energetic.
I use a walking stick that someday will become a cane,
then a walker and a wheel chair.
One day I may decide to just stay in bed.
Yet you lift me high! You give me courage and hope.
I will not despair.

I will bless you, my Rock, my Lamp, my Redeemer!
I will sing! I will give thanks until the day of my death,
the day of my deliverance, my beginning.

Bless the Lord, O my soul! Let all that is within me
bless his holy name!

(Note: This prayer is based on 2 Samuel 22, also Psalm 18, a psalm David wrote near the end of his life.)

Death, choice, and mystery

 I come from a large family. While I have only one brother and one sister, my parents lived in more generous households. There were 13 kids in Dad’s family, raised in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, and seven kids in Mom’s family, raised in Des Moines, Iowa. That makes 18 aunts and uncles, not counting spouses. And these all reproduced, some prodigiously. My sister Becky and I added up at least 50 first-cousins, again not counting spouses.

As the kids grew up and formed their own families, they scattered. Now my extended family lives all over the country and is no longer united. The few family reunions have been geographical and not well attended.

A few years ago, Becky and I decided to take cousin-trips every other year, in order to get to know our family. The first trip had us staying in homes in Iowa, Illinois, and Wisconsin where we were warmly and enthusiastically hosted by our only living uncle (Illinois) and aunt (Wisconsin) and four cousins. Everywhere we stayed, it felt like family to all of us. Instant rapport.

We took our last trip in February 2020, just before the pandemic forced us all into isolation. We spent time in the homes of three cousins in Florida and South Carolina. Since the pandemic lifted, my body is no longer happy about long trips. That’s sad.

My parents had strong family ties and made sure we kids knew our aunts, uncles, and cousins, even if it meant long car trips across the country. I loved it. I remember our periodic trips to Phoenix, Arizona to visit Dad’s sister, Cusie, and her four kids. Cousin Diane and I were especially close, being the same age and of the same mischievous temperament. The two boys and the older sister largely ignored us. But I admired my older cousin Loretta from a distance. Diane and I were around twelve that one vacation, while Loretta was in college and engaged to be married. I looked up to her as beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant, and now, about to join with her Prince Charming. Loretta was kind to me, but I’m not sure she perceived me as an actual person. More like a pesky little cousin.

One afternoon, Diane discovered a book Loretta kept by her bedside. It was entitled Ideal Marriage and was a sex manual for young virgins about to be married. While Loretta was out of the house, Diane and I lay on Loretta’s bed and began reading parts of the book and devouring the drawings. If not totally new information, the book literally fleshed out details that surpassed our previous imaginings. We founding ourselves giggling hilariously at the astoundingly shocking things we were learning. (Today, 12-year-olds would already know this stuff.)

We stopped laughing when Loretta walked in and caught us. She was not happy. The last memory I have of her is the anger in her eyes as she made us leave her room. Can’t say I blame her. That was years ago.

Last year I learned that Loretta was battling cancer, but I didn’t know the details. Then just last week I received a letter from my cousin Cathy, conveying information from a phone call with Loretta.

Cathy wrote, “Loretta wanted me to contact you and to convey how much all of you in our Forsythe clan meant to her…. Her cancer has progressed. And so she has made the decision to engage in physician assisted dying, which is legal in New Mexico. The “ceremony” (she called it) will take place Friday morning….

“I am so sorry to have to convey this news. She clearly gave this decision careful consideration, a very intentional and thoughtful decision…. I can only imagine what pain she has been in.”

As I write this, the “ceremony” was yesterday morning. Loretta, my beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant cousin, is no longer in pain. I felt sorrow all day, and it lingers now. O, Loretta.

My emotions are mixed. I will not judge my cousin and I will not call her act “suicide.” That word carries a stigma, especially in Christian communities. Many of my friends would label her decision sinful and consign her to hell. That makes me shudder. I find no support for that conclusion in the Scriptures.

Most of us don’t know ahead of time when our death will come, just that it will. Loretta chose her time. She had her reasons, and whether or not those reasons were morally sound, I can’t say. I don’t know where Loretta stood in her relationship to God, but I believe in where God stands in his love for her. A mysterious mercy.

This is all mystery to me. I cling to David’s agonizing prayer in Psalm 139:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

My Lord, I bow before the mystery of your love for all of us. Without understanding and without knowing what I’m praying for, I ask that your presence be with my cousin, wherever she is. Let her know your love. Hold her fast. Turn the darkness to light. Amen and amen.

The "Happiness U-Curve"--Is it true?

 I’ve been reading a fascinating book entitled This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism by Ashton Applewhite (2016). The author defines ageism as “discrimination and stereotyping on the basis of a person’s age,” and she goes through the whole book detailing its manifestations in our culture. She expresses some of the fallacies of ageism as Wrinkles are ugly. Old people are incompetent. It’s sad to be old. Applewhite counteracts the prejudices of ageism with her very positive take on the values and joys of being an older person. She almost overdoes both ends of the sad/happy continuum, and contrasts with another fascinating book I blogged on earlier this year, Susan Jacoby’s Never Say Die: The Myth and Marketing of the New Old Age. (See my blog on January 9, 2024.)

As usual, I find questionable extremes along with much of value in both books.

Applewhite refers to what is to me a new concept—the U-curve of happiness. “People are happiest at the beginnings and the ends of their lives. If you don’t take my word for it, Google ‘U-curve of happiness.’ Even as age strips us of things we cherished—physical strength, beloved friends, toned flesh—we grow more content.”

I love that idea, but is it true? Is it true for all old people (obviously not), most old people, or a special group of really mature oldsters? Is it true mostly among white, wealthy, healthy retirees? Is it a cross-cultural reality (one study says yes)?

Applewhite cites research that “proves” that little kids and old people tend to be the happiest people in the world. (She doesn’t mention it, but I assume that refers to people not living in war zones or depressed neighborhoods.) She includes a 2008 combined Gallup poll and University of Chicago study where 340,000 Americans between the ages of 18 and 85 were surveyed, with mentally sharp old people winning the happiness trophy.

The author quotes an expert on aging (these seem to abound) who “points out that in contrast to the doubts and insecurities of youth, growing older enables us to become more self-aware and confident, less fearful of being judged, and authentically happy. Not that life gets easier, but that it becomes easier to focus on what truly matters—and that makes it better.”

I like that and I think there’s truth to it. But I’m not sure how widely it applies. I look at it as something to grow into.

Applewhite says that “age itself confers very effective coping mechanisms upon ordinary people…. savoring the small things, letting go, and practicing gratitude.” That could refer to mature people at any age.

While this list obviously does not exhaust the ways we cope with old age, it’s sweet. I want to briefly reflect on these three coping mechanisms. How am I doing?

Savoring the small things: Does that mean that, even though I couldn’t afford to go on an exotic cruise even if I wanted to, I can savor the wonders in my own back yard? I hope that’s true. As a poet I naturally gravitate to the small, concrete stuff of life: tiny blue flowers alongside the trail, the toes of small babies, my husband’s smile, comfortable shoes, no back ache this morning. Yes and hurrah to all of the above!

Letting go: This one is trickier. Some of my friends have recently had to let go of their life partners, their mobility, even their memories. Not so easy. And it’s not as though they had a say in the matter. I guess in these cases, it’s coming to a point of acceptance that matters. Will I be able to handle these kinds of losses with maturity? Probably, with God’s help. In the meantime, I learning to let go of my role in the family, my books, my ability to run along the beach, chocolate, more than one cup of coffee a day, my place in line. And maybe I’m learning to hold closer to things that matter. I keep narrowing down the list of those things. Letting go of the rest. And after the sorrow of loss, breathing a sigh of relief.

Practicing gratitude: Most self-help, how-to-be-happy books mention the importance of being thankful. Because it’s true. But it’s also hard not to be glib and fluffy about gratitude. Realism is important as we age. Loss, pain, and inevitable death are no laughing matters. So, a mixture of realism and gratitude would seem to be the way of wisdom. A sort of gritty gratitude that faces the unpleasant realities of the aging process and dares to say thank you anyway. That’s hard. And that’s why we need to practice.

So this morning I say Thank you for all my body parts that are functioning just fine—my heart (that’s a big one!), my tear glands, my kidneys, the right side of my brain, and so on. At this point in my journey, there’s more stuff that’s working well than not. Thank you for early morning sunshine, in spite of a rainy forecast. Thank you for the “leaping greenly spirits of trees,” as e.e. cummings put it. Thank you for poets. Thank you for the new glasses that let me read the poets. I could go on and on, but I won’t. I just pray that the next time I’m feeling grumpy, woeful, or old, I can still think of something to say thank you for.

Are old people, in general, happier than younger adults? I’m not sure. The studies are provocative, but not totally persuasive. I do know that as I’ve been reading my old journals, I notice that I’m currently a calmer, more peaceful person than I’ve ever been. Interesting.

Guess I’ll just keep practicing—savoring the small things, letting go, and saying thank you as often as I can.

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