Good-bye, WordPress

I learned about blogs back in 2008. I’ve always enjoyed writing so I decided I wanted to give that a go. It took me awhile to get the hang of it but by late 2009 I had a blog on Google’s Blogspot platform and I was writing/publishing several blog posts a month.  Sometimes the pieces would be autobiographical, sometimes opinion pieces tied to politics and culture, occasionally poetry, and often my own voice just wanting to be heard. I became part of a small group of bloggers who supported and encouraged each other and I enjoyed the camaraderie. But some odd snafu happened in mid 2013. To this day I still do not understand what happened but my access to my blog was cut off. I could view old posts but I could not publish anything new. I think there was some Google deadline that I didn’t understand and likely ignored and so my blog disappeared.

I have always had issues with technology. The ins and outs of the tech world do not come naturally to me but I refuse to fight with the behemoth. It saddened and angered me when the blog was cut off but I was also dealing with a lot of other things in my life and a blog was at the bottom of my list of priorities.  

In 2017, I found myself wanting to write again and wishing for that blogging community again. I didn’t want to go back to Blogspot because I didn’t want to have the whole thing fall apart. I did some research and was wooed by Wordpress. They claimed to be user friendly and that was my biggest concern.  Yes, it was not free but I decided to leap into it. I dropped $300 for a five year contract and started writing again. 

Ha! That sounds so smooth, doesn’t it? User friendly? What a joke.  Wordpress turned out to be complex tool and one not easily accessed by a person with little time or tech experience. I worked hard to figure it out (mostly via YouTube videos) and set up a basic format . It was enough for me to post an piece and then have a place where previous posts could be accessed. I did not find the writing community on Wordpress that I had found on Blogspot but, to be fair, I didn’t really have the time or inclination to investigate that much. I just wanted a place to bank my writing. 

Recently I was informed by Wordpress that my renewal fees were coming due in November. I was astounded to see that it was going to cost me close to $1,300 to renew for another five years. Say, WHAT?  Given that I have been sorely disappointed in Wordpress all the way around, there is no way that I will continue on with this platform. As a matter of fact, I spent some time in October transferring almost all my previous posts to a new spot on Google’s Blogger platform. This is not the same as the old Blogspot but it does give me a place to publish words. I don’t get the sense that a writing immunity is part of this but , at least, I can post my writing and I have a link if I want to send it to someone. I am also investigating Medium as a true writing community. I have opened an account (to the tune of $50/year) there but have not really developed it yet.  As my time becomes more available, I hope to plug into that collection of writers. We’ll see. 

So this is my last post on Wordpress. My account expires mid November but there was something in the fine print that suggested I would not be able to post after October 31? I don’t know. None of it is clear to me. 

This is the link to the Google blog:

https://graciewildeart.blogspot.com

Since I moved all the Wordpress posts to this account over the month of October, all 117 titles are listed on the right side. It’s cumbersome but at least they are there. Once we get a few months down the road and there are new posts, those Wordpress ones will fade into history as they do. 

So good-bye to Wordpress. You gave me a place to put my writing and for that I am grateful. I figured you out enough to get by but not enough to pay that money for. Hello , Google Blogger and/or Medium 

Damn.

 

When my mother died in 2014, my siblings and I were tasked with sifting through and disposing of all her possessions.  I was a regular visitor at my mother’s home in her final years but mostly stayed in the public rooms and didn’t open drawers or closets that were private. So I was surprised at how much stuff she had accumulated and how many decisions we had to make regarding where these possessions were going to go. It was overwhelming.

My mother grew up during the Great Depression and World War 2. These years of scarcity left a forever impact on her. She was constantly acquiring things (often at garage sales or thrift stores) “just in case”.   She also lived in a remote location and didn’t have a supermarket or Target anywhere close by. Going to the grocery was, at best, an hour proposition and, in that scenario, you would be lucky if the small grocery had what you needed. Consequently, she also got into the habit of buying large quantities so as to have a back up (for herself and for neighbors who might be in need).  All this is to say, it made sense that her closets, cupboards, drawers, and shelves were jam packed with stuff.

I am sad to acknowledge now that I was judgmental when we were cleaning out the house. As we emptied cabinet after cabinet, drawer after drawer, box after box, I remember thinking, “What the heck? Did she not know she was going to die? She was 92 years old at the time of her death. Did she not think that this stuff was going to need to be dealt with after her death?” 

In retrospect, I now think that, of course, she knew that. It must have been painful at times to know that everything she owned would one day be dismissed by someone else. Sure, there are pieces of memorabilia that we all chose to keep but, for the most part, her possessions were given to family members, friends, Goodwill, or, yes, the trash can. That was hard. Very hard. For me, it felt as if her hopes and plans and days were being discarded. I wondered why she hadn’t done much of this herself?

Well, who wants to do that? How painful is it to give away your life? But maybe even more than that was the notion that to give away, to dispose of, all of these things must have seemed like an overwhelming job. My father died in 1996 and my mother continued to live in their home until close to her death. She wanted very much to remain independent and she had her daily routines. She had always been a strong, vibrant woman but the years took their toll. I know she was physically tired. I know she hurt every single day. She had severe arthritis and she was old. How was she supposed to dispose of possessions even if she wanted to? I know she would give things away but there was so much there that when giving someone a favorite mug or some books, it barely made a scratch. And she was still in scarcity mode. She still gathered even as she was getting closer to leaving the planet.

I find it all so poignant now. I ache for her. I am older now. I hurt more too. I look around and wonder about the stuff that I have accumulated. I am determined that my children will not have to sift through my things, making decisions, wondering if they are doing it right. I am not my mother. Growing up as a grandchild of the Great Depression, I have a small piece of that scarcity mindset but at least I know it. I also live with easy access to a grocery and general goods store. I don’t have to stash things. But I still have stuff. 

I think about going through and getting rid of things now but, guess what? I find it overwhelming.  I think of all the other things I want to do. The last thing on my “to do” list is to thoroughly clean out that closet. I don’t want to be bothered right now when, instead, I want to read, to write, to paint, to go to the beach, to spend time with family. I tell myself there will be time later to go through accumulated possessions. Is that true? I don’t know.  

What I know now is that it is fine that my mother left her home the way she did. It was fine that she surrounded herself with things that somehow soothed her or made her feel good in some way. I have no business being judgmental. Walk in an old person’s shoes and you know lots that you couldn’t see when you were an arrogant younger person.  In my case, that arrogant younger person is only eight years younger.  A lot has happened even in eight years to humble me. I know that part to be true.  

As far as my stuff is concerned? I am focusing now mostly on not acquiring anything else. Yes, I can buy consumable things - art supplies, fresh flowers, gifts for friends/family, toys for the children who visit, an occasional article of clothing just for fun - but I don’t want or need any jewelry, knick knacks, kitchen tools, bed or bath items, seasonal decorations, none of it. My goal is to avoid bringing more into the house. I want to look for ways to let go of things, bit by bit. When the opportunity arises to give away, I plan to do just that. Coat drive this winter? Book drive at the library? Is someone I know excited about certain author and I own books they might like? Here you go! And when I die there will still be things to dispose of. I know that. But I hope I will have had some say over time in the disposal of much of my stuff. And I hope my children will not have odd judgmental feelings in my absence.  I’m doing the best that I can. But so was my mother. I know that now. Damn. 

Hello, Anger. Let's Chat.

Anger and I have always had a challenging relationship. Let’s start with my two childhood introductions to anger. The most powerful introduction to anger came from the Catholic Church: “Hello, I’m anger. I’m a sin.” Yup. That was the message strongly delivered. To feel anger was to be sinful. No, I am not confusing that with acting on or with anger. I was taught that to experience the emotion of anger was to commit a sin. Go figure. But that was my truth. In a way, it was handy for me because, as a Catholic school kid, I was trotted off to Confession every other Friday afternoon. I needed something to tell the priest and, trust me, I was angry a lot. I could always confess to being angry with my mom four times, being angry with my brother five times, and so on. It was a good “go to” sin but it also made me worry that I was going to end up in Purgatory (if not Hell) for a very long time.

The second introduction came from my parents. My father scared me with his displays of anger. He had times when something was gnawing at him and his response was to be silent, except for angry outbursts. He would raise his voice and say things that scared me. He would occasionally throw things across the room or lash out at one of the kids in anger. I know now that there were many reasons for his fury and that he didn’t have the tools to deal with that emotion. Nevertheless, his rage scared me and made me stay far away from him. My mother’s anger was less thundering but still obvious to me. Again, there were reasons for her storms and she had few tools in her toolbox to take care of things. Her anger was much more controlled. I was an observant child. I watched her face for the clenched jaw, her body for the stilted movement. Her words would become clipped and sharp. She would cut to the chase and deliver orders. She would pull back and leave me wondering if she was going to go away. My response was always to up my game, do more chores, write more little love notes, do what kids do when they are scared.

So no wonder I am f**ked when it comes to anger. I have spent most of my life sidestepping my own anger while, at the same time, dodging any situation that might lead to someone being angry with me. It’s as if I have to moderate all activities that involve me and make sure that all participants are happy.  I cannot allow anyone to be angry with me. There are currently two people (that I know of) who are angry with me. In both situations, I have looked carefully at my own behaviors. Did I do something wrong? Was any part of my behavior offensive? What I did, in both situations, was that I did not live up to someone else’s expectations.  In one case, the other person had planning assumptions that didn’t work with my plans. Am I obligated to change my agenda because they are unhappy with my arrangement?  In another situation, the person would like a different kind of relationship than I am interested in having.  Should I give up what I want to please the other person?  In both cases, the people involved are unhappy because I am not behaving as they want me to behave.  It’s hard for me not to just throw up my hands and change things and make it right for them in order to avoid their anger. But is that really the best alternative? In some ways it is the easier but it leaves ME feeling angry and annoyed. I understand  that compromise is important in life and I do have a pattern of looking for compromise whenever anger shows up in the room. I am beginning to think that sometimes anger just has to be. It isn’t necessarily good or bad. It’s a common human emotion and it gets more complex when communication shuts down.

Both of these people matter to me. I know they are hurting and I don’t want to exacerbate that pain. I also have justifications for the decisions that I have made and I owe it to myself to honor those justifications. Maybe my task is to learn to live with anger.  I have spent years learning to repair the damage done to me by the Catholic Church (and, yes, to also appreciate what there was of value there). In the same way, I  have spent time and thought sorting out what was healthy about my family of origin and what was unhealthy. Anger is in this big mix. I am learning now that anger is not the evil it was made out to be. Anger deserves my attention. That doesn’t mean I have to comply with its demands, only that I can be open to what it is asking of me. I want to learn how to sit and have a conversation with anger and maybe have a conversation about anger. I wonder if there is always hurt under the anger?  I wonder if anger is often suggesting different ways to be in the world?  Is there a healthy and connecting way to experience anger? Maybe sometimes anger is a reminder of the value of keeping things in perspective?  I’m willing to experiment with all of this, both when it comes to the anger that I feel and the anger that is directed towards me.  It’s new-ish territory for me. It’s going to take awhile. Be patient with me, World. Please. 

Premonitions and Their Ghosts

*Originally posted on my Wordpress blog 09.27.2022

Warning: This post contains a graphic discussion of death. If you are not in a space to be reading about death, just close it and go on to something else.

For most of my adult life, I have been curious about my night time dreams. I have kept a notebook on the bedside table and, if a dream shakes me awake or remains vividly in my consciousness upon awakening, I write it down. If I don’t write it down right at the point of waking up, it will most likely fade away and I will lose any chance I had of learning something from it. About three weeks ago, I had a short but very startling dream. In the dream, I had a premonition that I was going to be run over by a truck and I was going to die instantly. Here’s the rest of what I wrote in the night:

“Literally, here now, and then dead. I would disappear. I would be gone. I would not matter anymore. I would be gone. I need to go through my stuff. I will disappear. None of this will matter. I will cease to exist. It was going to be night time and the truck will be following me. At one point it will literally drive over me in my small VW bug, crushing me and I will die instantly. I will disappear. I will become nothing.”

So it’s a premonition within a dream. Does that mean it’s a premonition IRL? Is this dream letting me know that I will die instantly? Crushed in some way? It might not be by a truck and I might not be in my car, but will the life be crushed out of me?  One can be on a bike and be crushed (not uncommon around here) and one can be crushed and die from a medical diagnosis . Is this my fate? And when?  

I am intrigued because the dream tells me it is a premonition. But is it?

From the text of what I wrote in the night, I would say I was feeling the dream’s power. Death does mean disappearance in that you are no longer physically available to people you know on the planet. Death does mean that you become nothing in this material world. You cease to exist in your familiar form.  What happens next? No one knows. Scary, I suppose, but the truth is we don’t really know what’s going to happen next while we’re alive so there’s that.  Death isn’t really all that different from life. We just think it is. 

This dream has been in the back of my mind since it woke me that night. Comically, I am uber aware nowadays while driving or riding my bicycle. Not that I wasn’t before but I’m looking for that truck in my rear view mirror all the time now.  But I think the dream is really saying, yes. Pay attention. Death is coming. Death will take you whenever it wants to so, I don’t know? Be prepared? What does that even mean when you are talking about death?

I think immediately that being prepared for death means making sure that all is right in my world, making sure that I have fixed any hurt that I might have caused.  Check. (at least to my knowledge). Then I think of my legacy, what is it that I leave for the world. I don’t know. It feels as if, for the most part, that has already been established. My legacy includes my children and my influence on them. My legacy includes my impact on my larger family and my community. It includes my influence on the people that I have known. It includes the way I treated people in my life. I can say that I have always attempted to be the best I could be, to be as tuned in to others as I have been to self. You can only ask that a person do the best they can do with the tools that they have. So, yeah. Legacy? Check.  Of course, as of this moment, life isn’t over for me yet so both of these checked items require monitoring.

I wonder if another part of being prepared for death includes living life now. If death is coming, have I done what I want to do in this life? Again, it’s an “I don’t know” kind of answer. That bucket list thing that people talk about? I don’t have that. I enjoy traveling and would be delighted to do more but there is no travel adventure that is a MUST do kind of thing. There are people with whom I would like to visit but it’s not imperative. There are books to read, movies to see, classes to take, adventures to be had but they are all attractive and not essential. So, living life now? Check. 

It seems kind of funny but the one thing that I do think I could do to prepare for death is not so much for me but for those I leave behind. I own a home and a moderate amount of possessions. My home is not stuffed with possessions but I do have a basis of comparison. When my mother died, my siblings and I cleaned out her house. The cupboards and shelves were jammed - and over-jammed - with things. It was both poignant and a big job to clean out her house.  I find myself now looking critically at the things that occupy my closets and cupboards. I am starting  to divest myself of possessions. I am dropping a book a day  off at one of the local “little libraries”. I’m not giving up my best book friends but there are plenty of book acquaintances that can go to new homes.  I could do that with clothing too. I have things I used to wear to work but never wear now. Let them go to new homes. Ditto some kitchen items that I maybe used when the kids were here but not now. Let them go. In fact, it feels good to let things go. It makes the house feel more expansive. When I die, there will still be stuff to go through but it will be manageable. And, possibly, between now and the time that I die, I will move away from this house. If so, then my culling now makes that job easier for myself. 

All this thinking about death. Again, I don’t know. I need a way to fully grasp death. Yes, I have lost loved ones and I know how it feels to be left behind but I don’t know how it feels to be the one going. Can I compare it to moments in life when I have taken leaps into the unknown? How’d that work out for me? Usually, in the end, it all worked out just fine. If that’s the example I have to go by, then maybe I can practice simple curiosity. I can think of death as transformation of a sort. We human beings are made of energy.  The laws of energy say it can be neither created nor destroyed. So that leaves transformation. I can stay open to a transformation of some kind. I can pay attention to the things I wrote about here and just wait? I don’t know.  

Living "In Joy"

*Originally published 09.25.2022

Recently someone remarked that he had a strong ability to enjoy life. Hmmmm, I thought to myself. Enjoy life?  Really? Is that the point of it all?  The comment truly caught me by surprise.  I mean, sure, there are moments that I enjoy life, moments of joy and delight, but those moments just sort of happen. They aren’t something I necessarily orchestrate. They happen and I notice. My associate was suggesting that he intentionally enjoyed life. What a revelation!

It seems to me that my life has mostly been about getting things done. The “things” included school, chores, school, family obligations, work, family obligations, body maintenance for good health, work, family obligations , work,  repeat. Forever. If some of that stuff turned out to be enjoyable, well, then all the better. But enjoyment was not the point. The point was to get the stuff done. 

And here I am. I’ve gotten most of the stuff done.  I did the work, I raised the family, I made responsible health choices, I achieved “the good life”. What’s left to do? My associate was suggesting that enjoying life was what was left to do.   

I’ve been thinking about the one person I know currently who seems to live a life of joy. She almost always wakes up with sparkly eyes and a crib full of giggles. And why not? She has an open day in front of her with no responsibilities. Someone prepares her breakfast, someone provides warm, clean and often cute clothes for her to wear and someone lifts her out of her safe crib so that she can truly get into motion.  She seems to move “in joy” throughout her day, big smiles as she looks at books, pats the dog, and pushes her pink shopping cart around the house, dropping into it whatever treasures she finds along the way (mom’s slipper, the little Elmo toy, dad’s toothpaste, her favorite colors book). She is willing to eat whatever the trusted one puts in front of her and often giggles her way through a very messy lunch. She does the nap time routine with joy - cuddling for a couple of books, singing a couple of songs, snuggling down for a 90 minute nap. Everything in this child’s day seems to be done “in joy”. She enjoys life. 

I wonder if it’s even possible for me to be like the 20 month old child and simply keep eyes open, see the play in everything, trust that “someone” will provide.  Can I go beyond enjoying life in those random moments when the stars align and happy events are giving to me? Can I take a lesson from the 20 month old happiness genius and simply life in joy?  Sure, she has no responsibilities except to grown and learn. Maybe all I have to do is be likewise? Maybe my job was always her job only I made it more complicated? 

I am ready to lift my nose from the grindstone. I am ready to sit on the beach and do nothing but feel the sand, hear the birds, let the sea breeze lift my hair, smell the ocean, and breathe. And then I can take that experience into the rest of my day. I can practice being mindful of this moment and all that is beautiful about it. I can practice taking on the responsibilities that I choose to take on with a joyful outlook. Or, at least, I can experiment with that. 

 

What I Know

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 09.21.2022

What I know is that, despite the disappointments in life, despite the loss of what used to be, despite how achingly lonely life can be sometimes , despite the  grief and sadness inherent in the human condition, despite that, I am what? Smart enough? Old enough? Observant enough? Experienced enough? Open enough? Resilient enough? I don’t know. I am enough to stay curious. I am enough to see Beauty in life. Not just the obvious physical beauty of coral pink roses and deeply veined changing color leaves and toothless baby smiles and blue ocean fringed in white but I am enough to see Beauty in emotion, in fragility, in longing, in wonder, in loss, in connection, in hope. That's enough, isn't it?

The Chair Rocks: A Book Review

*Originally posted on my Wordpress blog 09.07.2022

I heard Ashton Applewhite, the author of This Chair Rocks, on some podcast a few weeks ago. The lively, enjoyable, and timely conversation prompted me to request the book from the library. It came at a good time for me as I find myself staring rather uncomfortably at an aging face in the mirror. But, then again, one is aging from the time they are born so there’s that…. 

This book has been heralded as a manifesto against ageism. It’s well researched, engaging, and is an important addition to the current literature on aging. Some of what is presented in the book  (maybe even most of it) is not new to me. Ms Applewhite chronicles the history of ageism and the social/media influences that make ageism  so powerful and so much a part of the current American culture. She shows how being over 60 (or some other arbitrary age over 50) is the kiss of death when it comes to  attraction, productivity, and value - at least as the youth culture promoters would have it. At one point she talks about how the number we are becomes glued to our identity (for that year and then moves on to the next) and, with it, all the negativity of that age.  

She makes a good point about how the media always includes a person’s age when featuring that person. No matter why - traffic accident, hero of fire, business promoter - no matter why the name is in the publication, the age is almost always part of the identifying facts. And why is that? It shouldn’t be unless it is directly related to the story. Including the age sets up expectations based mostly on the anti aging propaganda. There was a time when a person’s race or ethnicity was included but not any more. That’s how it should go with age as well. 

She nailed it as well when she wrote about how people ask you how old you are.  Why do they ask that? Because they want to match you to their expectations for a person of your age (whatever the age is).  People have ideas in their head about what it means to be different ages. There’s a standard profile for 20 and one for 50 and one for 75 and one for everything in between. Ms Applewhite clearly demonstrates how we shortchange ourselves and others when we ask another about age because we are taught by the culture to think of people in stereotypes, including age. If you are 60 years old, then this is what that means. If you are 80, then this. And, for the most part, the older you are the less attractive, positive, capable, endearing, lovable this youth centered culture would have you be. 

Ms Applewhite does a great job, in my opinion, of charting the values inherent in getting older. She reflects on how, as people in middle age, we make a mistake  when we think that successful aging means being just the same as we are at 50. That’s not true. “Successful” aging means also gaining social maturity and and growing in psychological and emotional realms. We can continue to expand as we get older and that only gives us more in life. We can notice less fear when it comes to death and illness, we can develop deeper relationships with fewer people, we can find joy and delight in the ordinary moments, maybe more so than we ever could in middle age when we were fighting career battles and building homes and families. We often have time, in later years, to be exactly who we are and to do our lives exactly the way we want to do them, one day at a time.  That doesn’t happen so much when we are 35 or 45. When we’re young we are constantly worrying about what lies ahead and if we are living our best lives. Later, though, our anxiety diminishes. Laura Carstensen , longevity researcher, made this observation: “In some ways - I think of this as the silver living of growing older - we’re relieved of the burden of the future the older we get.”  There’s something to be said for that acknowledgment. 

The author does address some of those issues around cognitive decline which is not as certain to happen as the media would suggest. She has some specific strategies for staving off cognitive decline which are valuable and not really new but worth the reminder. She addresses physical decline as well. Yes, she does say there is no way around physical decline. It’s going to happen but it could be a slow down as opposed to a falling apart. She talks about how, yes, you have to deal with chronic illness / pain - that’s the price you pay. But dealing with chronic illness/disability is doable. She does fault the current medical professionals for often not taking the complaints of the over 60 crowd seriously. Too often older people are not interesting patients or the physician’s attitude is , “Well, what did you expect? You are, after all, old.” 

I loved her chapter on sex and intimacy. It was so real, so down to earth, and so necessary. What Ms Applewhite emphasizes over anything else is that, in all things, and especially in the world of sex and intimacy, we are all different. There is no set description or expectation. I am appalled at how much the contemporary culture derides sex and intimacy in older people. There is this idea that once you reach what? 60 years old tops? You are done with the world of sex and intimacy. As she says, “We don’t ask when people age out of singing, or quite eating ice cream; why on earth would we stop making love?” I am angry that people laugh or say “ewwwww” when it comes to grandparents or people of a “certain age” being sexual. Why wouldn’t they be? They are human beings and human beings long for intimacy. As I read recently in another piece by the late New Yorker writer Roger Angell, “Getting old is the second-biggest surprise of my life, but the first, by a mile, is our unceasing need for deep attachment and intimate love.” That was from his article This Old Man (2/14/2014 edition of The New Yorker) and it is the Truth. 

There is a chapter devoted to the end of life and to the choices that can be tied to that. “The appearance of the bull changes when you enter the ring”. In other words, the matador’s point of view is different from the spectator’s . The end of life looks different when you are on the brink than when it is a future abstraction.  There is a thoughtful discussion about how olders view their lives as olders and the need for open dialogue about end of life choices. As the author noted, “the profit-driven, often legally mandated interventionist default of the medical - industrial complex is powerful.”  Modern medicine is all about fixing things and keeping people alive but that might not be what the older wants. Ms Applewhite offers some useful strategies that open the door to those kind of hard conversations. 

Ashton Applewhite concludes the book with strong words about the need to focus on ageism in the same way that we have taken on racism and sexism . She has a complete list of ways that will help individuals and the culture make this adjustment and I highly recommend looking them over.  This is a five star read and it’s time for people to dismantle the outgrown ideas about aging.  

“It’s not loving a man that makes life harder for gay guys; it’s homophobia. It’s not the color of their skin that makes life harder for people of color; it’s racism. It’s not having vaginas that makes life harder for women; it’s sexism. And it’s ageism  far more than the passage of time, that makes growing older far harder than it has to be.” 

Some quotes from the book:

“What’s the best answer to ‘How old are you?’ Tell the truth, then ask why it matters. Ask what shifted in the questioner’s mind once they had a number.” p. 52

“Aging is life itself, which is what makes it so damn interesting.” p. 202

“We see old age through the lens of loss. From the outside what people lose as they age is more obvious than what they gain. The losses are real and wrenching. But from the inside , the experience is different. Abandoning preconceptions takes open-,mindedness as well as imagination. Perspectives shift.” p. 220

“Since the only unobjectionable term used to describe older people is “older people,” I’ve shortened the term to “olders” and use it, along with “youngers,” as a noun. It’s clear and value-neutral, and it emphasizes that age is a continuum. There is no old/young divide. We’re always older than some people and younger than others. Since no one on the planet is getting any younger, let’s stop using “aging” as a pejorative—“aging Boomers,” for example, as though it were yet another bit of self-indulgence on the part of that pesky generation, or “aging entertainers,” as though their fans were cryogenically preserved.”

“…we’re brainwashed by a culture that reduces older people to the grotesque caricatures that birthday cards routinely offer up. Institutionalized ageism is responsible for producing those careers and internalized ageism for the fact that they sell.” p. 223

All the Selves

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 08.30.2022

I remember when I was 24. I thought I had figured out one of the basic truths of life. And it’s true. I had learned something huge. I just didn’t know that I was only getting the tip of the iceberg.

Here’s the deal. I got married at an unbelievably young age. In retrospect I realize that the marriage was ill suited. I married a good person but I married mostly because I didn’t think I would ever have another chance at marriage. I thought I had to accept this proposal because there would never be another one. WHY I thought that is beyond me now but it is what prompted me to go ahead with a marriage when I had just barely turned 19. The thing is that there was a deep part of me that knew that this was the wrong decision for me.  I was waiting for someone else to say , “Hey, hold on. Is this really what you want to do?”. But nobody said that. No one questioned it or me and so I allowed plans to unfold.

Fast forward five years later.  At 24 I had completed my BA, I had traveled extensively and yes, the divorce was finalized that year. I had come through the most difficult experience of my life and had grown in confidence and strength. There was one thing I knew for sure. I knew that I would always listen to the voice in my head. I knew that, in getting married, I had ignored something that I should never ignore again. 

And here’s the rub. It’s one thing to say at 24 that I will listen to the voice in my head. Life, for me, was fairly simple at 24. I had no partner and no children. I was curious about so many options in the world of work. I was open to living in different places. It truly was a matter of trusting myself and making choices based on what I heard from myself. All good. I was pretty self assured by 24. I thought I had it figured out.  However, I had NO idea how complex life was going to get. That’s what I mean by the tip of the iceberg. 

A few decades and a lot of living later, I am flummoxed as to how to hear anything but a roar from the voices in my head. Back then? Back then it was one clear voice. Now, it’s the voices of all the selves that have lived since then. They are strong and they are sure and they all want to be heard. They all want me to honor their wisdom. 

Hey, 24? You want to know something. It’s not that simple. In fact, it is anything but simple. It is loud and frustrating and discouraging and exhausting. 

I can’t hear my self among all those voices.  How do I tell them to go away and leave me alone?  

Invisible Dream

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 08.24.2022

I am keenly aware of my mortality these days. My kids are raised and are now raising their kids. My professional life has drawn to a close. My body lets me know every day that I am not the youthful runner with the smooth skin that I used to be. It is painful for me to lose the things that used to be. I haven’t lost everything. I still have my curiosity, my quick smile, my joie de vivre, my attention to detail, my desire not to be frumpy, my drive to learn - these are all important and still present. But I miss the physical energy and the attractive youthful appearance. More than anything else I miss the dreams that no longer happen.  I watch the losses in my head - the days that used to be - and it feels as if nothing could compare to those days. Nothing can hold the promise of 45 or 50 years ago - even 30 years ago. There were dreams about homes and children and trips and jobs - so many dreams and plans and hopes and big ideas. Now? Not so much.

I know you will say what about Rory and Liv? Sure, I will enjoy watching them grow up but I know the time will fly by. I can’t predict how much contact I will have with them. I know I want a close relationship with them but there are no guarantees around that. I can only make myself available and present and so that’s what I do. But they really can’t be part of my dreams.

So I look at my life now. I struggle every day with an awareness of what has already gone by. And I walk through the house and, in some ways, am burdened by the things that I once thought I would be or do. That is infinitely sad. I took Alex’s old bedroom and made it into an art room where I have created some cool art work but really? These days when I go in there I feel pressure to produce something. I wondered this morning if it wouldn’t be okay to simply empty that room. Let go of all that stuff and all the pressure it puts on me. Dismantle this part of my life.  Take the pressure off me.

I look around at all the books I have. It’s painful to know that they were acquired with such excitement and hope. I am guilty of collecting books because I very much want to read them but I have more books that I will ever be able to read (especially since I also read the reviews on new books and get those routinely from the library). I have 50 or more art books related to either studio art or art history.  I foolishly thought once upon a time that I would look at them all and look at them repeatedly. I would use that pastels instruction book to expand my skill. Ditto the acrylics guide. And the watercolors guide. And the drawing guides. I believed that I would page through and read the beautiful art history books but really? Will I ever? I am sad because the books were all acquired with such excitement and so many plans - plans to paint, to improve my skills, to be proud of my pieces. Now they just sit and remind me of all that I did not do.

I look at the various tools I have for exercise. I have fewer now than 20 years ago but I have the same issue here. I bought the yoga instruction books, the weight training books, a couple of bike maintenance books - but why? I don't look at them. Yes, I do yoga work and weight training but only the same stuff every day. I say that “some day” I am going to expand and I will do more but is that true? Most sad of all is my bicycle. I am mourning the loss of long bicycle rides. Sure, I can ride in town errands but those long Sunday morning hours of solitude, beauty , challenge? I have had too many bike accidents to continue. The bike accident itself is not the issue but the long and painful recovery (which never fully happens) is what I don’t want anymore. I can hike and walk .That’s something but it is not what I most want. The lovely years of challenging myself with bicycle adventures are gone. No more dreams there.

I have a whole shelf of travel books. I say I want to travel . Now that is something that is still calling to me. But it has gotten complex and expensive to travel. It’s demanding to do the actual act of traveling . Once I get to the destination, it’s fine but the driving or the flying?  Challenging in so many ways. And, on top of all that, I am oddly afflicted with FOMO on the home turf.  I also don’t have a playmate, although I could arrange for a sibling to come along most likely.  But that’s not the same as traveling with a lover. Travel dreams are still alive but they seem to be infected with reality. Who knows how long they will live? 

It really boils down to four things: family, outdoor excursions, books, and writing.  It’s kinda sad but that’s what I see for the next 15 years . I will watch the little girls grow and continue to support their parents in whatever ways I can. I will take walks and hikes and sit out at the beach and enjoy the ocean. I write for fun and games. I can still do that. It doesn’t take a bunch of supplies but it takes time. I can read. I can write. I can watch YouTube videos and learn lots of things that way. I can even just watch some good old movies, something I rarely do these days. And I can wait to exit the planet.

Social life? Yes, I guess that factors in there too. It’s been difficult to get back into the swing of it post pandemic.  I only want to stay home. I don’t want to give my precious non child time to anyone other than a book or a hike. Yes, I spend some time in the online world but that overall is making me feel sad and lonely. People disappoint. Or people put stuff up and I feel stupid (the curse of social media.) In short, I can work toward re-establishing some social ties but I will be discerning. I am not going to meet up with anyone unless they are interesting to me.

I imagine a house reduced to the bare essentials - the books I WILL read, the space for family to visit.  There is house and yard maintenance that I could do even more of. Not paint. Not whatever.  IDK - I feel pressure to do things. As long as I am in this cordial but not intimate marriage,  all  I really want to do is read, write, and be outside.

I AM grateful for all that I have been given in life. Make no mistake about that. Is it okay to want more though? Is it okay to be grateful but also to be aware of wanting more? Wanting an intimate relationship, someone to share these last years with? It's okay if it never happens. I have plenty of goodness but I can also want it to happen too. I think it I did have that close , playful , intimate, loving connection, images of the the past would not dominate my days. I would be able to dream again and make plans and have big ideas. IDK 

Being Okay

*Originally posted on my Wordpress blog 08.19.2022

When it comes to life, I am way beyond irritation. Irritation is when some entity doesn’t return a call  or when you can’t find your favorite brand of PB on the store shelf anymore. Those are annoying moments in life but I deal.  I know there is a ton of beauty and grace in the Universe and I am open to all of it.  But then there are days/weeks/months/years like this when life is disappointing.  NOT disappointing across the board, not everything.  I know I have much for which to be grateful.  I am, however,   in some significant arenas, defeated and disillusioned.  I don't think I am the only one who is walking around wearing a happy mask but I might be one of the few willing to say it out loud (or, actually, hide it in a blog post that has a limited audience :).   Too funny. I am deeply mourning the loss of connection.  This absence leaves an aching emptiness that feels as big as the universe.  A confluence of factors has led to this loss. I am in a long term marriage that provides financial stability and serves as a  reservoir for family connections and memories.  We have a cordial and respectful relationship which has dissolved into superficiality.  Enough said. Our children are responsible, kind, and understandably busy working and raising families. I delight in supporting them in ways that I can (child care mostly)  but their needs/interests have shifted.  Connecting with me beyond the family rituals is beyond what they need to do as adult children of mine. I have eight siblings and I do value my connections with all of them.  Unfortunately they all live more than a couple of hours drive from me and I let that distance get in the way. It's hard for me to deal with all the driving and the necessary overnight stays so that's a bummer.

COVID shot to hell the small but important cadre of  personal friendships that I had.  For some reason (and I hear many other people comment on this), I have reconnected with very few of the people I used to get coffee or a glass of wine with back in pre-Covid days.  IDK why.  I admit that I am not a compliant ZOOM person so that is my bad. I do have an active on-line  friendship group (primarily but not exclusively through Twitter) and that has had some delightful encounters. But it's a screen world.  Screens can only offer so much.  There's only so much depth to be had absent all the cues that come with IRL interactions. There are also so many ways to unintentionally hurt or disappoint (or be unintentionally hurt/disappointed)  by on-line connections. It's a dicey place, the world of screens and images. That world contains it all:  candor, hopefulness,  duplicity,  vulnerability, fear, humor, levity, loneliness, kindness, beauty, tears, ordinary day stuff. You name it, it's there and it wants your opinion.

I know a few things though. I know I am an expert at putting one foot in front of the other. I know the strength and value of curiosity.  I know that everything changes. I know enough to appreciate the beauty and grace that I see and feel every day in the Universe. They are real. I am not afraid to question everything. I'm not afraid to sit in stillness on a regular basis.  Life is absolutely messy and, even though I am a Virgo and am not fond of messy, I can also enjoy the messiness of days fully lived. So there's that.

Oh, and I have one superpower. I know how to pretend until pretend becomes real. I will be okay. 

One Early Lesson

*Originally posted on my Wordpress blog 08.18.2022

A certain small child went to her first full day of child care this week. Because she was born in the time of COVID, she has not mingled much with other children and, in fact, has never been cared for outside the family circle. She knows the homes of close family members but that’s about it. Her dad took her to visit for awhile at the small day care location last Friday so that she could  gain a bit more familiarity with the people there (she had been there with mom once before). She was fine when dad dropped her off last week.  She didn’t object when he left and she was interested in the other kids. Nap time arrived and she actually did go to sleep. Unfortunately, she woke up from the nap disoriented and upset. She cried the entire hour and half before mom arrived to take her home.  

All the adults in this child’s life were concerned about how today was going to go. Mom reported that there were HUGE tears at drop off (hard for mom too).  The day care provider sent a couple of photos of a not crying (but clearly subdued) small child at a couple of other points in the day. She did, however, lay down at nap time.  Yes, she woke up crying but she calmed down after a bit and was content to watch the other kids.

This feels like a pivotal day / week in this girl’s life. Up until now, her days were always in the steady and familiar care of people she knew. She was innocent and had no idea that there were going to be days like this. It feels as if she was blindsided. Her world got shaken to the core.  She found herself in a situation where she knew no one. Yes, of course, this is life. We must all get used to it but isn’t this experience  going to change her at the core?  Now she knows fear where I am not so sure she knew it before. Now she knows abandonment. She knew nothing about being on her own and now she does. 

Of course, it has to happen sometime. That’s the goal of parenting: to raise independent and competent human beings. It comes at a price though. Her bewilderment and fear/anxiety are partly about the fact that she has had such a secure life so far. If her parents and the care provider handle it well, she will come out of this week with new skills and an expanded world view.  She will discover that she can manage in an unfamiliar environment. 

In the end, she will most likely eventually enjoy playing with the other kids. She will bond with the provider and, leaving mom most mornings will not be the painful experience that it was this week. Is there a residual impact? Well, don’t we all have residual? Yes, I guess so. That’s what makes us the mix of humanity that we are. These are the adventures and ordeals that make us into the people we are. This is why childhood events are so important. Lessons get learned. It can be hard to unlearn them so we are lucky when the lessons teach us the truth and not just some random misrepresentation. Small girl is learning how to take care of herself. She is learning that she can manage life. She is learning that she can trust her parents to secure loving and capable child care providers when they have to work.  Those lessons translate into confidence and ease in life. If only all children could have the same safe and non stressful learning environments that this little girl of privilege has enjoyed this week. Maybe she will grow up to be a person who can facilitate such experiences for all human beings? One can hope.

*Originally posted on my Wordpress blog 07.04.2022

I was on my way to somewhere else this morning, when I thumbed open my journal and re-discovered this poem. I do that sometimes. I find a poem or a piece of writing that impresses me and I print it out and tape it into my journal. Later I get a delightful surprise when I chance to find it hidden away. Today's  encounter with an uncovered treasure only served to demonstrate the presence of serendipity. The last few mornings have been a wee bit dark in my head.  There are lots of reasons for that (not the least of which is the state of the world) and I can too easily allow myself to be sucked under by gloom and dismay.

So imagine my surprise when the phrases in this poem stared back at me. The poet speaks about all the words that are absent, the words that don't exist. The word for a break in friendship , for example or - get this:

"No verb for accidentally
breaking a thing
while trying to get it open
- a marriage, for example."

He lists several examples of words that don't happen in our vocabulary, spaces that remain empty.  Finally, he ends the poem with this:

"No word for waking up in the morning
and looking around,
because the mysterious spirit

that drives all things
seems to have returned,
and is on your side again."

I swear. That is exactly what happens to me all the time. I think it used to happen to my dad too. He would go weeks in a dark frame of mind and then, one day, for no reason that any of us could discern, his frame of mind would lighten and he would be okay again. I likely have a more complete understanding of moods and mood disorders than my dad had. I certainly have more tools than my dad ever had to deal with the scattered energy of emotions. Yet I get pulled down and what pulls me up? Some mysterious spirit.

Mystery is a guest in my life all the time. When I was younger, I think I generally just declined her presence. I would simply not answer the door. Or I would politely answer the knock and then give the same line I gave to the Mormons or the Jehovah's Witnesses who used to frequent the neighborhood:  "Thank you. I like my life as it is so you don't need to waste your time here."  In other words, don't bother me with your pointless words about things that don't make sense.

But here I am, some years later, older and perhaps wiser? Or perhaps simply more open? More curious? More receptive to that which I don't understand?  At the moment, I don't care what has changed, only that it has changed.  Life is nothing if not mysterious, amirite?

 

Here is the full poem.

Special Problems in Vocabulary

BY TONY HOAGLAND

There is no single particular noun

for the way a friendship,

stretched over time, grows thin,

then one day snaps with a popping sound.

 

No verb for accidentally

breaking a thing

while trying to get it open

 —a marriage, for example.

 

No particular phrase for

losing a book

in the middle of reading it,

and therefore never learning the end.

 

There is no expression, in English, at least,

for avoiding the sight

of your own body in the mirror,

for disliking the touch

 

of the afternoon sun,

for walking into the flatlands and dust

that stretch out before you

after your adventures are done.

 

No adjective for gradually speaking less and less,

because you have stopped being able

to say the one thing that would

break your life loose from its grip.

 

Certainly no name that one can imagine

for the aspen tree outside the kitchen window,

in spade-shaped leaves

 

spinning on their stems,

working themselves into

a pale-green, vegetable blur.

 

No word for waking up one morning

and looking around,

because the mysterious spirit

 

that drives all things

seems to have returned,

and is on your side again.

 

Tony Hoagland, "Special Problems in Vocabulary" from Application for Release from the Dream. Copyright © 2015 by Tony Hoagland. 

Listening to Sunday Rain

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 06.05.2022

Sunday morning dawn
Cold under the covers
Wanting to listen.

I listen to the rain
And hear the sharp sting
Of needles on my skin.

I listen to a familiar voice
Repeating “breathe, just breathe”
And hear my lungs respond.

I listen to the pounding in my head
Thoughts and fears demanding freedom
And the walls echoing their alarm.

I listen for some god to say
You’re okay and they don't
Or I can't hear  them.

I listen to their absence
Sounding like a crack in my chest
An ache so deep
That it makes me invisible.

I listen to the roar of my past lives
Running away,
Angry at being dismissed.

I listen to my breathing
And hear an emptiness
Begging to be filled.

I listen to my partner turn away
Lean as far as he can
to the other side of the bed.

I listen to my future
Greeting my present.
Or is it the present
Nodding to the future?
They really aren't speaking
Or I can't hear them anyway. 

I listen for what is:
The buried lament of loneliness,
The heavy roar of regret,
The casket lid clicking into place,
The explosion of blue orange flame.

I listen to the crows outside in the rain
Crows being crows
Watching their territory,
Tracking down breakfast.

I listen to the crowded voices of the past
All talking at once,
all the crying, the laughter, the anger
the stillness, the wonder.
A great cacophony
becoming more and more quiet.

I listen to the life force
Saying shush,
A little old lady whispering hush.

I listen to my own denial,
Soft and muffled screams
Growing into fierce and strong truth.

I listen to echos of past screams
And wonder what is the point.
What is the point?

Stillness.
I keep listening. 

Baby Liv cries.  She wants to be heard,
to be touched, to be taken in fully.
To be safe, to be loved. 

I hear the ocean.
How is that possible?
Oceans can’t be heard from ten miles away.

I hear the magic and the mystery,
and the murmur of what if,
The sigh of the unknown.

I hear gratitude replying to
the kiss of hope,
the giggle of surprise.

I listen to the rain stabbing the air
and wonder what the sun sounds like.
What does she say? How does she sound?

I listen to a memory of the sun.
Sounding like creek water over shiny rocks
gentle soft sounds of water jewels
singing as they dance.

Alive and aware
Listening not for what was
or what will be. 
Simply listening for now.

Shifting Gears

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 05.31.2022

The Universe has spoken. Well, the Universe speaks all the time but this time I am listening. I got hit by a car while riding my bicycle early on Sunday morning. I thought I was being safe: waiting until it was light, wearing a safety vest, lights on the bike, mirror to be aware of what is behind me, choosing a time of day/week when there is little traffic. But this is a largely rural county. The roads have always been viewed as the purview of cars and agricultural equipment. Bicyclists ride on them at their own risk. I have been taking the chance for years. 

This was the fourth bicycle accident in twelve years and, finally, I am listening. I was only mildly injured. I am lucky that I am not having to make a date with a surgeon as I have had to do after previous accidents. But I am done with road bicycling. The accident occurred on a narrow road and the driver admits to taking her eyes off the road for just an instant. That’s all it took, right? I was thrown to the ground but the driver did have the decency to stop and offer assistance. I declined the 911 call because I knew I did not need that level of care. I needed a ride home and a way to get the damaged bike home (both of which the driver could provide via her Subaru). When I got home I had my local EMT (who also happens to be my son) check me out and we agreed that I could lay low with ice and Advil for a day and see if more was needed. 

I know how lucky I was. It could have been so much worse. People die riding bicycles in this county all the time. People are permanently disabled from accidents. I have pushed my luck by riding all these years.  It is time to find another way to get the exercise and exhilaration that I get from bicycle riding. I will still allow myself to ride on designated bike trails but not on highway bike lanes. They are simply not safe from vehicular traffic. The designated bike trails (rails to trails often) around here are not challenging enough nor are there very many of them but they can give me a feel for the good old days of road biking. I also will allow myself to continue bicycling on errands in town. Yes, my most severe bike accident occurred right in the downtown sector (right hooked by a truck pulling into the Safeway parking lot) but, when I ride in town, I ride on wide residential streets. I can get to the library, the post office, the Whole Foods, the dentist, the Art Center, and other locations by selecting  my route carefully, Yes, I could still end up in a bike accident but all the risks are diminished. 

Those long Sunday morning bike rides mattered to me. I am enchanted with the eye candy of this county. The colors, the views, the fresh air - they are intoxicating.  I do listen to music via one headphone and that added to the experience. I am also a person who thrives on movement and enjoys my own physical strength. Even though it can be a killer, I love the long and/or steep hill work. There is satisfaction when the hill is climbed and exhilaration when I descend the hill. In truth, it felt to me as if cycling was my perfect exercise. So now what? 

For years I was a runner and that had a lot of appeal. I developed arthritis at a relatively early age and subsequent total knee replacements have put running out of my game forever. I turned to swimming for a couple of years but the pool lap schedule just doesn’t work in my life. I will add that I am not a natural swimmer and find swimming to be too difficult to be fun for me. I like kayaking but that is a big proposition. I have to rent the kayak and just deal with the inconveniences so not such a great option for a routine exercise activity.

I have considered adopting mountain biking as an option. There are still the charms of eye candy and exhilaration but getting injured continues to be an issue. The cars might not be present but rocks, gravel, other bikers, tree branches/roots are still along the trails - all potential accidents waiting to happen. Additionally, I would need to invest in the bike and the equipment - a different helmet, more padding, and a rack for the car. And then there is the matter of driving to the mountain biking location so I would need to tack more time onto the endeavor.  

I like working out on a bicycle so I am wondering about investing in a recumbent stationary bike. I can use this for half hour periods (about the longest I can handle the boredom of stationary machines) several times a week and then also take daily neighborhood walks. I live in a town that has plenty of hills so I can push myself as much as I want. I currently do some free weights on a regular basis and some yoga on a daily basis but both of those have become ritualized. Perhaps now is a good time to refresh those activities?

My fall back activity since childhood has always been hiking. I am thinking that I can trade in those long Sunday morning rides for long Sunday morning hikes. That’s doable, isn’t it? Again, there are many hiking options available in this county and even in adjacent counties. I would never run out of places to hike. I have also returned to a long ago interest in birdwatching. Birdwatching is not easy to do on a bicycle but it seems like hiking is the ideal partner to birdwatching. I enjoy photography and was accustomed to stopping for photographs while out on those long bike rides. Hiking might slow me down enough to discover more photo opportunities. I own a high quality Canon camera. I could even learn how to maximize its use rather than turning exclusively to my iPhone. 

Yes, the Universe is speaking to me. They are saying, “It’s time to shake things up a bit. It’s time to try on something new. You’ve been in this cycling thing for quite some time. That’s all very well and good. There is more, however, to life than a bicycle. Look around you, girl!"  In general, I’ve been asking myself how to listen. Maybe the Universe is showing me how to listen and also how to respond.  I can stay open to possibility, I can stay curious. What a ride, eh? 

On Being

*Originally published on my Wordpress blog 05.27.2022

I’m a long time fan of the podcast On Being. This podcast, hosted by the articulate, intelligent, and always equanimous Krista Tippett, began life as radio program on NPR in 2003. Its original title was Speaking of Faith and, at the onset, it was relegated to one of those Sunday morning church spots. I would catch it occasionally but didn’t really pick up on the program until it morphed into a podcast and the name changed to On Being. In the beginning, the program had a focus on creating content that would treat religious and spiritual aspects of life as seriously as the media treats politics and economics. Over time it has evolved into something broader, more all-encompassing. As the On Being website explains, On Being “takes up the great questions of meaning in 21st-century lives and [examines the questions] at the intersection of spiritual inquiry, science, social healing, and the arts. What does it mean to be human, how do we want to live, and who will we be to each other?”

I often listen to this podcast while taking a very early morning walk in the neighborhood. The predawn darkness and the solitude allow me to focus on the conversations while watching the night sky turn to day. It’s the perfect ambiance for such existential discussions. There are close to 300 episodes in the archives so I have gone back and listened to some more than once. The interviews have introduced me to new ideas, new books, new poems. I sometimes carry ideas from the podcast into conversations out there in my own world. Anyone who knows me well, knows I have a reflective and curious child living in me who gets so excited about mystery, art, ideas, and connections. That young person owes a lot of gratitude to Krista Tippett and the On Being staff.

I was thinking of highlighting just three episodes that had an impact on me but, when I went to the website, I found this page which is so much better than I could have done. It’s called Starting Points
(https://onbeing.org/starting-points/) and it is wonderfully curated collection of some of the best loved shows. It gives a short synopsis that give the reader a place to start exploring the podcast. Ms. Tippett has interviewed guests ranging from poets to physicists, doctors to historians, artists to activists. Her guests include the 14th Dalai Lama, Maya Angelou, Mohammed Fairouz, Desmond Tutu, Thich Nhat Hanh, Rosanne Cash, Wangari Maathai, Yo-Yo Ma, Paulo Coehlo, Brian Greene, John Polkinghorne, Jean Vanier, Joanna Macy, Sylvia Earle, David Whyte, Pádraig Ó Tuama, Mary Oliver, Jane Goodell, Sharon Salzberg, Sylvia Boorstein, Esther Perel, Elie Wiesel and so many others.

One thing I really like about the website is that you can listen and/or download the episode but you can also see a transcript of the episode. I appreciate that as I often want to go back and read some particular part of the conversation or I want to capture the words on paper for future reference.

And, yes, that graphic at the top of the page appears not to be an error. The graphic for the program always appears as O Being. There has to be a story about that somewhere but I can't find it.

Here are summaries for just three recent episodes that I enjoyed. Perhaps you will find these and others as engaging as I do.

David Whyte: Seeking Language Large Enough

“It has ever and always been true, David Whyte reminds us, that so much of human experience is a conversation between loss and celebration. This conversational nature of reality — indeed, this drama of vitality — is something we have all been shown, willing or unwilling, in these years. Many have turned to David Whyte for his gorgeous, life-giving poetry and his wisdom at the interplay of theology, psychology, and leadership — his insistence on the power of a beautiful question and of everyday words amidst the drama of work as well as the drama of life. The notion of “frontier” — inner frontiers, outer frontiers — weaves through this hour. We surface this as a companion for the frontiers we are all on just by virtue of being alive in this time.”

Sylvia Boorstein: What We Nurture

A few years ago, Krista hosted an event in Detroit — a city in flux — on the theme of raising children. The conversation that resulted with the Jewish-Buddhist teacher and psychotherapist Sylvia Boorstein has been a companion to her and to many from that day forward. Here it is again as an offering for Mother’s Day — in a world still and again in flux, and where the matter of raising new human beings feels as complicated as ever before. Sylvia gifts us this teaching: that nurturing children’s inner lives can be woven into the fabric of our days — and that nurturing ourselves is also good for the children and everyone else in our lives.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: “This fantastic argument of being alive”

Pádraig Ó Tuama is a friend, teacher, and colleague to the work of On Being. But before that was true, Krista took a revelatory trip to meet him at his home in Northern Ireland, a place that has known sectarianism and violent fracture and has evolved, not to perfection, yet to new life and once unimaginable repair and relationship. Our whole world screams of fracture, more now than when Krista sat with Pádraig in 2016. This conversation is a gentle, welcoming landing for pondering and befriending hard realities we are given. As the global educator Karen Murphy, another friend of On Being and of Pádraig, once said to Krista: “Let’s have the humility and the generosity to step back and learn from these places that have had the courage to look at themselves and look at where they’ve been and try to forge a new path with something that resembles ‘together’ … Right now we should be taking these stories and these examples and these places and filling our pockets and our lungs and our hearts and our minds with them and learning deeply.” And that’s what this hour with Pádraig invites.

Oh!  One More!  MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE ONE

John O’Donohue: The Inner Landscape of Beauty

No conversation we’ve ever done has been more beloved than this one. The Irish poet, theologian, and philosopher insisted on beauty as a human calling. He had a very Celtic, lifelong fascination with the inner landscape of our lives and with what he called “the invisible world” that is constantly intertwining what we can know and see. This was one of the last interviews he gave before his unexpected death in 2008. But John O’Donohue’s voice and writings continue to bring ancient mystical wisdom to modern confusions and longings.

And his poem:

John O’Donohue: Beannacht

On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.
.
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The gray window
And the ghost of loss
Gets in to you,
May a flock of colors,
Indigo, red, green,
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
.
When the canvas frays
In the curragh of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
.
And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.