Old books, timeless treasures

 In Sunday school class earlier this week, we talked about the value of reading the devotional classics. Different class members shared writers and books that had been formational in their own growth in the Christian faith. It was rich.

Some definitions are in order: Devotional classics are books that speak to the heart, that have the formation of holy habits and personal transformation as their aim. Devotional classics refer to books whose value has been affirmed over time. In other words, these are old books. Maybe beyond old or new, they are works that are timeless in their worth.

Examples that come to mind are the “old” guys and girls: St. Francis of Assisi, Brother Lawrence, Julian of Norwich, George Fox, John Wesley—the list is long. Some of the “newer” devotional classics include 20^th century writers such as C.S. Lewis, Dag Hammarskjold, Thomas Merton, and Henri Nouwen.

A classic that influenced me many years ago was Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle. I first approached this book, not as devotional reading, but as class preparation. I was scheduled to teach a class on spirituality to Latin American church leaders. Since the classic Spanish mystics of the 16^th and 17^th centuries are foundational to current Latin American spirituality, I needed to include them as background to the course. So I found myself reading Teresa, John of the Cross, and Ignatius of Loyola

Teresa was a Carmelite nun and mystic who became influential as a monastic reformer. She was known for her devotion to Jesus and her mystical prayer life. She was often called on to instruct young nuns in the life of faith. Her life story is long and dramatic and her reforms brought deep changes to the Catholic monastic movement.

I got another view into this woman through the poetry of humorist Phyllis McGinley. Apparently Teresa had a feisty aspect to her personality. Here’s McGinley’s poem:

Conversation in Avila

Teresa was God’s familiar. She often spoke
To Him informally,
As if together they shared some heavenly joke.
Once, watching stormily
Her heart’s ambitions wither to odds and ends,
With all to start anew,
She cried, “If this is the way You treat Your friends,
No wonder You have so few!”

There is no perfect record standing by
Of God’s reply.

Interior Castle is considered Teresa’s best work. The castle is an extended metaphor for a person’s intimate relationship with Jesus. The castle is within the person. It’s a mysterious, medieval, and quite asymmetrical structure composed of many large rooms or “mansions.” The seven mansions represent ascending levels of spiritual intimacy. The person progresses to a new room only after having attained to the maturity level of the previous room. It can all be slow going.

I was fascinated by the disciplines and experiences in each room, beginning with silent listening, contemplative prayer, and visions. This is good stuff, I thought. But as the pilgrim progressed through the different rooms, her experiences seemed to get stranger, even extreme. She went through dreams, swoons, ecstasies, mortifications, raptures, and trances, some of them seeming to last for days. Darkness and pain become part of the spiritual cleansing. I had to ask myself, is this the sort of thing I want to experience? No, I decided.

In the sixth room, Jesus tells his beloved daughter that they have reached a level of profound commitment. They are now “novios,” engaged to be spiritually married. I began to worry, wondering what extremes I’d find in the last mansion, the place of mystical marriage.

Teresa surprised me. It wasn’t at all what I expected. Jesus, in essence, tells his beloved, “My bride, we are now united. You have no more need of raptures and trances and swoons. That’s behind you. Now we will leave the castle and go out into the streets of the city where people I love are suffering and dying. We’ll go together. And you will serve the people and tell them how much I love them.”

Wow. I cried as I read that last chapter. The book become more than class preparation. It was a devotional classic in every sense of the term. It said to me that intimacy with Jesus comes before any service or ministry out in the world. And it is the relationship with Jesus that empowers and makes that service fruitful. While God doesn’t seem to be asking me to go through all the stuff Teresa experienced in her castle, the principle still stands. Thank you, Teresa.

Concerning the value of the classics, C.S. Lewis once wrote that “It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between.” Lewis, himself a scholar of medieval literature, was referring to more than the devotional classics, but he included them.

I’m currently re-reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, and finding it tough going. I remember how it impacted me as a young woman, but it’s been many years and I am no longer young. So I’m taking it slow, reading a couple of chapters, then switching to a contemporary (and much easier) book, and coming back for another dip into Dostoevsky. I’m not sure that’s what C.S. Lewis had in mind, but I intend to keep reading.

Old books—they’re sort of like us. We’re all growing older. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could feel we’d reached a high level of maturity and passed the test of time. I know older people who, indeed, have earned the respect of those who follow them and have become almost legendary. Probably not many of us will win the distinction of becoming a classic; most of us would not want that title anyway.

I will keep on reading seasoned old books, along with the new. I won’t be too concerned with becoming a human devotional classic. I’ll let myself be content with my grandson’s recent assessment: “You’re a really cool grandma!”

That’s classic enough for me.

Liturgy for missing someone

 A good friend died yesterday. This is a common experience here in the retirement community. But it doesn’t seem at all common, ordinary, or even acceptable when it happens to someone we love. And even though as Christians we know that this beloved person is rejoicing in God’s presence, our joy and gratitude are tempered with sorrow. It’s as though something bright, beautiful, and good has gone out of our lives. We—I—miss her.

I didn’t have a long-time friendship with Marcile. I admired her from a distance and then, a few years ago, I invited her to share a meal and we enjoyed our conversation so much we decided to keep it up. We shared many meals in the dining room and good conversations in her apartment. We talked about our families, our marriages, our struggles, growing older, and the books we were reading. She loved to read. We found mutual joy in our friendship. Words I would use to describe Marcile are gentleness, kindness, compassion, and encouragement.

We learn, somewhat, to accept death as a part of life. Belief in God’s grace in giving eternal life helps. Life goes on, and so do we. Yet I find that with some people, I continue to carry a certain sadness with me. They played such an important role in my life that I don’t get over missing them. I don’t call it sorrow, but rather a gentle, wistful sense of gratitude. Bill, Anita, Arthur, Mom, Dad—thank you, thank you, thank you.

Of course, the “bright, beautiful, and good” has not disappeared from my life. God promises that his goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life. Jesus preached from the passage in Isaiah where God promises his people that he will “comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning….” (Isaiah 61; Luke 4)

I love Douglas McKelvey’s book of liturgical prayers, Every Moment Holy (vol. 3), for times of death, grief, and hope. The “Liturgy for Missing Someone” focuses on the redemptive, transforming aspects of grief that God works out in our lives. I quote part of this prayer:

 

A Liturgy for Missing Someone

O Father,

You created our hearts for unbroken fellowship.
Yet the constraints of time and place, and the
stuttering rhythms of life in a fallen world dictate
that all fellowships in these days will at times be broken
or incomplete. We acknowledge, O Lord, that it is
a right and a good thing to miss deeply those whom
we love but with whom we cannot be physically present….

Therefore we praise you even for our sadness,
knowing that the sorrows we steward in this life
will in time be redeemed….

Use even this sadness to carve out spaces in our souls
where still greater repositories of holy affection
might be held, unto the end that we might better love,
in times of absence and in times of presence alike.
We now entrust all to your keeping.

May our reunion be joyous, whether in this life
of in the life to come.
How we look forward, O Lord, to the day
when all our fellowships will be restored,
eternal and unbroken.

Amen.

(From Every Moment Holy, Vol. III, Douglas McKelvey)

Goodbye, Marcile. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yikes! I forgot!

I had two ideas for what I was going to write about this morning. I was developing them in my head all week, complete with introductions, illustrations, and snappy conclusions. Then yesterday, just in case, I looked back through my previous blogs and, sure enough, I had already written and posted both of them.

I had forgotten. I’m glad I checked, although chances are you would have also already forgotten them.

Growing older and memory loss is almost a cliché. Memory jokes about old people abound. For example,

“My memory is so bad.”
      “How bad is it?”
      “How bad is what?”

Not only is my short-term memory bad, but so is my short-term memory.

As you get older, three things happen. The first is your memory goes and I can’t remember the other two.

OK. Feel free to groan. Three times. But memory loss in the elderly is not just a funny stereotype. It’s a common reality, affecting all of us to a certain extent.

With Hal, it’s mostly his glasses, although his wallet and car keys also have a way of wandering off. Typically we’re out the door and half-way down the hall when he remembers what he forgot and has to go back, leaving me nervous and fretful about being late.

I can’t fret too much though because lately I’ve been misplacing my apartment key and the fob that lets me into this building. It’s not that we don’t have designated places to put important stuff. We do. It’s just that we keep forgetting to put the stuff there.

It helps to laugh. All this is funny.

Except when it isn’t.

It’s not funny when I forget appointments and obligations. It’s not funny when my memory lapses affect other people. Or when the consequences impact my own life.

I love my doctor. After six years consulting various specialists, trying to find out what was wrong with my head, I found her. On our first visit she named the monster and gave me hope we could find a way back to stability. As the “head” of the headache clinic of Oregon’s largest research hospital, she is in demand. So our consultations come roughly every three to four months, often via Zoom. But that’s enough to consider the effects of the latest experimental medication and plan out the next steps. She always gives me a huge dose of hope.

You’ve probably figured out where this is going. Our latest meeting was scheduled for last week, on Zoom. The date was well marked on the wall calendar and in my phone. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. I was pre-checked in. That morning I said to Hal, “Help me remember to get online at 1:00.”

It was a busy day. I remembered my appointment. But at 4:00. My heart fell when I looked at my watch and realized what had happened.

I’m still reacting to my breach of courtesy and responsibility. Chagrin. Regret. Embarrassment.

I made contact with the office, offered my apology, and managed to get an appointment this week with a nurse practitioner. The earliest I could schedule a time with my doctor was in March 2025. Seven months away. Like I said, she’s a busy lady. (By that time she’ll probably have forgotten who I am.)

Yes, there are strategies to help us remember—calendars, notes placed around the house, perhaps an irritating alarm on the phone, etc. There are things I can do and I am determined to double down on my remembering strategies. But right now, I’m frankly discouraged.

We read in the Scriptures that God cherishes us so much that he writes our names on the palms of his hand. That’s a metaphor, certainly not a strategy to help God remember who we are. But I wonder if that’s something I could do. Write “Doctor. 1:00” on my hand and hope I don’t wash it off.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. Have mercy on us all.

(Have I written about this before?)

Beyond limitations

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

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

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

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

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

These are middle-of-the-night thoughts.

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

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

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

Exchange

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

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

Every day I watch with wonder

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

Yes! I am saying. Yes yes yes.

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

Yes.

Massaging the lion’s paw

 I recently learned about Alex Larenty, an animal handler who works in the South African Lion Park near Johannesburg. More specifically, Larenty is a lion trainer and, apparently, a lover of lions. Moving from England to South Africa in 1999, he began setting up a family business that trains and supplies big cats for TV shows and movies. Currently he also leads safaris into the park where he demonstrates his ability to relate to wild animals. (The tourists are safely caged in the back of a jeep.)

About 15 years ago Larenty discovered that when he applied a healing cream to an infection on a lion’s paw, the lion relaxed; it almost seemed to smile at him. According to an article published on Facebook, “Since then, he has massaged all the lions in the park on a daily basis. Thanks to the pampering, he created a bond such that just by seeing him arrive, the lions lie down, begin to stretch their legs and smile.” You can find YouTube videos of all this. Amazing.

This story is not without its dark side. Apparently, some people who learned about Larenty assumed that the lions in the park were now tame. Not so. As a result of this assumption at least one person was mauled to death and several others have been wounded. The park has become controversial with animal rights advocates, some of whom feel the animals are being exploited. I sympathize with the animal rights advocates.

Even so, I’m amazed at Larenty’s ability to befriend the lions and, in effect, minister to them. It speaks of the power of gentleness and touch.

Another example of what happens when humans are gentle with wild animals is a fishing technique called “trout tickling.” I read about it in a biography of English novelist Charles Williams. I love Williams’ strange novels; he was a companion to C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and the three met together regularly to read their manuscripts to each other. So I was delighted to learn more about his life.

Williams was a complex and troubled man. He did not treat his wife well. Florence was a gentle woman. In the chapter about her early life, we see her uncle teaching her the art of trout tickling. She learned to lie by the side of a pool in the river, waiting until a trout swam in. Then she slowly reached her hand down and under the fish and began to stroke. It relaxed the trout. When enough time had passed, she closed her hand and pulled the fish up onto the grass and watched it thrash about until it died. Later, dinner was served.

This is bittersweet story, but I guess it’s a more humane way of fishing than a hook through the mouth. Catching a fish through gentleness. But it does seem deceptive. Befriending a beast with the intent of the ultimate betrayal.

I now have a dilemma. I had intended to use these two examples of the power of gentleness to write a blog on how important gentleness is as we grow older. But I find that these examples are too dark. In fact, it seems ridiculous to apply them to my life. Or to yours.

So I’ll just switch to a different kind of animal: grandmothers.

I was privileged to have had relationships with both my grandmothers. Grandma Nichols (maternal) was the epitome of gentleness. She was blind but that didn’t seem to dim her love of life, especially her love for her 26 grandchildren. I remember when I was with her, I just knew I was her favorite, and I’m sure everyone of the others felt the same way. She was quietly cheerful and so happy to be with me. I felt peaceful and well-loved in her presence. She gentled me.

No one would call Grandma Forsythe (paternal) gentle, but all 25 grandchildren loved her. Again, I was her favorite. Having raised 11 kids (not counting the two who died in infancy) in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, she learned to be tough. She never lost that characteristic as she grew older. She was tough, no-nonsense, and feisty. I felt energized and stimulated in her presence. I loved being with her.

I want to be like both my grandmothers. I am drawn to gentleness, one of the fruits of the Spirit the Apostle Paul writes about in Galatians 5. In another letter, Paul encourages the believers to “have a reputation for gentleness” (Philippians 4:5). I’d like that reputation. Kind, gentle, thankful, joyful. While I have no desire to stroke the paws of lions or tickle the undersides of trout, I’d love to be able to bless people—grandchildren and great-grandchildren—just by having a gentle spirit.

But I also want to be feisty, adventurous, and maybe even a little outrageous. Like Grandma Forsythe. Frankly, that sounds like more fun. And in the older years, fun is really important. Plus, I bet the great-grandchildren would love it.

Gentle or feisty?

Why not both? Not gentle or feisty. Gentle and feisty. Is that possible? I hope so. I think I have both tame and wild parts of my nature.

Can they get along? Live together in peace? And still have fun?

What do you think?

Mighty Mouse saves the day

It’s Saturday morning as I write this, approaching 7:00. I’ve already been up several hours. This is my favorite part of the day, setting the stage for whatever else happens. If it’s gone well, as it usually does, my heart is at peace and my mind awake. My body is as ready as it can be for the challenges of the day. And I’m hungry.

I think back to the Saturday mornings of my childhood. That was one of the happiest parts of the week, but entirely different from what my mornings are like now. Saturday mornings meant—Saturday morning cartoon time! My parents exercised strict control over our family’s big, boxy, black-n-white TV set. They decided what we would all watch together in the evenings, mostly comedies like “The Honeymooners,” “I Love Lucy,” or “The Jack Benny Show.” We liked being together and we kids learned to laugh at the same jokes my dad laughed at. But TV time was strictly limited.

Saturday morning was the blessed exception. Beginning at 7:00, Tommy, Becky, and I, still in our pajamas, would sit on the floor in front of the Big Box. Mom would turn it on and the marathon would begin. Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Daffy Duck, Tom and Jerry, Popeye the Sailor Man, Betty Boop, and a score of others entertained us, made us howl with laughter, passed on to us some of our culture’s precious values. For several wonder-filled hours.

The variety was good, but I had my favorites. The following poem tells about one of them:

Saving the Day

‘Here I am to save the day,’
means that Mighty Mouse is on the way!

Every Saturday morning
Mighty Mouse saved the day,
even though the day
didn’t know it needed saving.
We three kids sat on the rug
in front of the old black ‘n white
TV, cartoon-happy.
We grinned in wonder
at the Mouse’s amazing feats.
Not at all like the grinning Mickey
or the simpering Minnie,
Mighty Mouse swooped down
from the sky, his puffed out
chest and hero suit a sure sign
help was coming.
Time and time again Mighty
saved the day, rescuing it
from the clutches of night
and from all that was dark
in the world of animals
and little kids.
This minuscule
but valiant rodent
let us know that justice
would prevail,
although at nine-years-old,
I didn’t know what that meant.
But he did, indeed,
save my day.
Every Saturday morning
at 8:00 am.

I’ve always loved movies. Occasionally our parents took us three kids out for a drive-in movie night. We saw all the Walt Disney movies. Enchanting. In the adult years when we lived in Bolivia, movies were a thing of the past, partly because of the legalistic nature of the churches we were working with. (We made an exception when “The Gods Must Be Crazy” came to town.)

Since then, things have changed for the better. There came the time when we purchased a video player. A few years later it became a DVD player. Now, of course, we stream movies directly through the internet. We have to discipline ourselves not to overdo what we’d previously been starved for. (Actually, I had felt the lack, not Hal. Movies were not part of his growing-up years.)

And now we’re retired. If I wanted, I could completely indulge. I’ve got the time. And sometimes, I do indulge, especially if I let myself get hooked into a good series, like “Madam Secretary” on Netflix. I confess I’ve watched “Downton Abbey” several times.

But there’s something inside me that checks this indulgence. I’m not sure I’d like the person I might turn into if I watched too many movies—overweight, flabby muscles, lazy brain. Am I exaggerating? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

It’s not so much that as it is there are better ways to spend my time. Even though I stay seated to read a book, my brain stays engaged. I could also walk outside under the trees, visit a friend, join an exercise class, play in the garden, write a poem, etc., etc. You know the list. But it’s true. It’s good to be reminded.

Not that I’ll give up movies. No need for such an extreme reaction. A good movie relaxes me, makes me laugh, and can even give me something to think about. But I’m determined not to let characters portrayed on the screen become my chief form of relaxation, laughter, or food for thought. People do that for me. Real right-here-in-the-flesh people. Actual life lived rather than watched.

I need more than Mighty Mouse to save my days.

Notice: What I’m about to say now has nothing to do with movies or Mighty Mouse. But I just have to announce that yesterday I met my brand-new great-granddaughter, Ariah Hope Burgi. Very little at just under five lbs., but heathy and growing. Such a miracle. Life just goes on and on. Welcome to the family, little girl. We love you already.

Benefits of the aging brain

 The title of this blog seems counter-intuitive. It's almost contradictory. The phrase “aging brain” naturally brings to mind terms like “cognitive impairment” (nasty scary phrase), decline, dementia, or, at the least, forgetfulness and “senior moments.” But benefits? Is the aging brain in some ways superior to the young or middle-aged brain?

That’s what Ashton Applewhite, author of This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism, claims. At the beginning of her chapter on “The Older Brain”, she makes several affirmations:

--“Serious mental decline is not a normal or inevitable part of aging.”
--“Most forgetfulness is not Alzheimer’s, or dementia, or even necessarily a sign of cognitive impairment.”
--“About 20 percent of people in their nineties seem to escape cognitive decline entirely, and continue to perform as well as middle-aged people.”

Applewhite recognizes the realities of cognitive decline and dementia, something that causes fear in most of us. She also admits to what she calls “basic brain aging.” This refers to things like a decreasing ability to recall names or numbers on demand. It seems to getting harder to find the right words or remember where we left our glasses. Missing appointments happens more often. I’m no longer able to multitask like I did when I was a younger more productive woman. It’s easier to be distracted; I notice this when I try to contemplate or pray. All of this happens.

So, what are the benefits of the aging brain? Applewhite devotes most of the chapter to the following positive traits (that I sincerely hope are true):

--The aging brain is more emotionally resilient. She writes that “As we turn eighty, brain imaging shows frontal lobe changes that improve our ability to deal with negative emotions like anger, envy, and fear.” Apparently we have less social anxiety and fewer social phobias. “Even as its discrete processing skills degrade, the normal aging brain enables greater emotional maturity, adaptability to change, and levels of well-being.”

I can see that. While I still experience negative emotions and what I consider immature reactions to situations, in general I’m more at ease with my life. I used to be painfully shy, even into my middle years, but now I’m freer to speak up, hold my own in a group discussion, and even assume leadership roles. Sometime I look at myself and am amazed. And when I experience those angry or envious feelings, I recognize them, tell myself to “snap out of it and grow up!” Sometimes I listen to myself. (Sometimes I don’t.)

--“Brain changes can boost creativity.” Grandma Moses is a case in point. She didn’t start painting until her older years. Several friends have also discovered a talent for painting since they retired. I know I’ve never been as creatively active, but I also know I’ve never had so much time for writing, painting, or playing my guitar. Is leisure time the cause of my creative burst? Partly, of course. Is it also the benefit of my artistically aging brain? I’d like to think so.

-- Aging gives one the ability to use both sides of the brain. Now that idea fascinates me. When I was younger, I was good at school stuff (reading, writing, and even arithmetic, believe it or not) but I also loved to write poetry and dream up imaginary countries. So was I a left brain (reason) person or was I right brain (intuition)? I was told it had to be predominately one or the other.. Applewhite writes that “A 2001 brain imaging study out of Duke University showed that while younger subjects relied predominantly on one side of the brain or the other (depending on the task), older people began to use both sides in a more synchronized way.” Interesting. She means both at once, an ability to draw on both reason and intuition when facing a situation. Again, that’s something I’d like to think was true. True integration of personality. Sounds wholesome.

--“The older brain has access to more information.”  That seems logical, as long as we can remember all the information we have access to. Her application of this idea borders on hilarious. She says that “When a word or phrase takes time to come to mind, the pause may reflect not decline but mental processes at work. According to a growing number of studies, the apparent lapse reflects the fact that older brains are sifting through the store of information accumulated over a lifetime, filtering, placing information in context.” Concerning not being able to come up with the right word, Applewhite proposes that “Since older, educated people have larger vocabularies than people who haven’t been around as long…. it takes longer to find a word… because it’s a bigger job.”

So the next time I’m awkwardly groping for the right word, I’ll just say, “I know that word. Be patient. My experienced brain is processing my encyclopedic treasure trove of information. It’ll be worth your wait.”

--The aging brain has more ability to assimilate and prioritize information. Applewhite calls this wisdom. It’s a capacity for integration and an ability to handle ambiguity. “Wisdom allows for seemingly contradictory ideas or events to exist in our minds with less dissonance.”  If this is true, we older people may be better able to handle the current political situation. But so far, I see us elders as frustrated and confused as the rest of the country. Maybe we just need more processing time. Then we will be at ease with it all and share our conclusions with the electorate. I hope this happens before November.

I like Applewhite’s positive take on the aging brain. It gives me hope. But I do wonder about some things. For example, it seems to me these benefits are not automatic. Wouldn’t they apply mainly to people who have lived a reasonably good life, who, while not perfect, have gradually matured in positive ways. Do people not reap what they sow? What about people who have lived through trauma and not received healing? Does old age heal? I think not, not age alone. And how cross-cultural are these conclusions? Does the brain age differently in different cultures? Does the aging brain of a Cherokee or an Aymara person respond differently than that of the middle-class North American? Does this list of the benefits of the aging brain express something universal about human beings? Or do cultural and personal variables make a difference? I wonder.

In the meantime, I’ll take all the good news I can get.

If I can’t figure something out, it’s because my mature brain is processing, integrating, following the path of wisdom and this takes time. Surely that’s what’s happening. Surely.

Who needs multitasking anyway?