WHY AM I STILL HERE?

We should all be aware that people don’t hear things until they’re ready to hear them. It came as quite a surprise to me a day or so ago when I heard, for the “first time,” that we all have to have a purpose …. a reason for getting up in the morning. This time I really heard it.

 And I have to admit that it is very, very hard for me to get out of bed in the morning. I love being in my bed. It’s a Flo Bed and everything that they claim a Flo Bed to be. I’d rather be there than anywhere else on Earth. I’ve tried to restore my need for a cup of coffee when I wake up, I’ve tried to develop a desire for tea, or food, or to see what’s on TV. Nothing seems to work.

 When I finally got the message about purpose, I realized that that is missing in my life. I have to find a new purpose. I hope that this is not discouraging to all of you people who are younger than I am – which is almost everybody. But it is true. Real estate is not serving me as a purpose for being here.

 I had given quite a bit of thought already to the fact that old people used to have a purpose. They served younger people. They were looked to (even looked up to) to share their knowledge and experiences. They filled a need in society; some were even called wise ones. Well, you know what happened to that.

 Google came into being. It’s right at your fingertips, it’s very fast, it’s free, and it knows everything. Old people rarely, if ever, have that advantage. So why in the heck are we living longer than ever before – without purpose? I guess we have to outsmart Google. For me that would be to talk about astrology and relationships, the stuff I’m made of and Google can’t answer.

 I already have a blog or two. We could start there. I could invite readers to ask me questions, things they can’t find out on Google.

 Shall we give that a try? Do you know what sign your Moon is in? Ask Mavis.

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I’VE MISSED BLOGGING?

This is all so completely new to me and so out of my “territory,” I can’t believe that I’ve actually missed blogging for the last few days. But I have. And that’s that. I’ve been unreasonably busy at other things, mostly fun things, but also accomplishing a great deal.

For several years of my life, I came home to somebody to talk to, to share the day’s events with. That’s been missing in my life for decades now and somehow, crazy as it seems, being connected to the rest of humanity with this blog sort of replaces “someone to come home to.”

It’s OK to laugh or to think I’m weird. This is NOT what I expected from the  internet a few years ago when I toyed with the possibilities of this new “gadget” in my living room and where it might lead. It was quite evident to me, from the very beginning, that the internet held the possibility of bringing about “the brotherhood of man”, a method of connecting so easily that we would accidentally stumble upon the fact that we’re all more alike than we are different.

That it should happen this quickly and this easily comes as a complete surprise to me. It gives me one more reason, possible the best reason of all, to be grateful that I have been allowed to live this long and still be independent, resourceful and comfortable.

I hope the day will come when all of my fellow human beings will know what I mean by that.

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DEMONSTRATIONS ARE FUTILE

After pulling on my warm gloves and taking one last look into the mirror to make sure my wool cap was covering both ears, I reached for the door.

Although the calendar says that it’s early fall, it will be cold out there. My eyes met their reflection in the mirror and those eyes asked me to take a long, deep look into the motivation behind what I was about to do? I was leaving the warmth and comfort of my peaceful home to participate in an attempt to “demand” settlement of the conflict in the Middle East, to stop a war, to rid the world of terrorism.

I had never actually seen a public demonstration before leave alone been a part of one. But I know this is something people do when they want desperately to change something that seems beyond their capacity to change, when they feel utterly helpless as to what to do about it.

And that describes what I am feeling. I have never for a moment questioned the sincerity or the intentions behind a public demonstration. But my reflection in the mirror was questioning me now.

It wanted to know, if  hidden behind my longing for peace, there may be some anger within my own heart? If my ego is, in some way, seeking gratification by publicly pronouncing my objection to what is nothing more and nothing less than group anger—people warring against other people?

Am I subjecting myself this night to anger magnification by participating in the emotion of a group? We all know that anger feeds upon anger and that both war and terrorism are consequences. Is there a more effective way?

If we believe that gathering together for a common cause, publicly demonstrating our objection, and bearing banners can actually have a positive effect on a situation, can we take a look at the larger picture as well? Are we aware of the message that the demonstration itself sends forth? Are we perpetuating separation rather than the very peace and unity we proclaim?

Aren’t we saying, “We’re over here and you’re over there”; “We’re right so you must be wrong”? It seems to me that nothing is ever so black or white as all that; that we can agree with a principle while disagreeing with what needs to be done about it.

It was a wise person who said, “Of course, love is the answer. What’s the question?”

Maybe love can overcome the anger, the fear, and especially the ignorance that drives people to rise up against other people. Maybe if there were enough love, neither war nor terrorism could exist.

I closed the door, removed my protective gloves and my wool cap.  I built a fire in my fireplace and sat down in my favorite chair.  After taking some deep breaths and growing very still, I summoned up my capacity to feel love and gratitude.  And then I imaged a hate-filled terrorist kneeling before me, pleading for understanding, and I embraced him in this beautiful feeling that was consuming me.  I was at peace and was reminded once again that peace has to begin with me.

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YOUNGER MAN TURNS SIXTY

My friend who called recently, see MY YOUNGER MEN, will be turning sixty tomorrow. That happens to be 9/9/09, a date which in itself, seems to suggest significence. Happy Birthday, Craig. 

For me, sixty was a life-directing birthday back in 1986. I gave myself a wonderful gift and it’s saved me a lot of stress. I vowed that from that day on, I would preface every decision I had to make with these words, “If I knew for certain that I had only one more year to live, would I do this?”

I’m sure that nothing works for everybody, but I highly recommend that you consider pausing a moment before making a decision to ask yourself that question – no matter how old you are. I’ve found that it never takes more than a moment, and it always feels so right.

 

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THEY WON’T LET YOU DIE

That’s why Nancy gave up nursing. After years of working at hospitals, she could no longer tolerate watching vain efforts to revive, rescussitate, or further diagnose teminally ill patients.

It was one thing if there was the slimest chance that the patient might live. Quite another when the poking, probing and gurney rides to take another test were making the patient miserable. 

Nancy could no longer bear to see frail, old people who were trying to die being dragged from their beds and taken for yet another X-ray or another MRI.

If people have the right to live, why shouldn’t they have the right to die? No amount of denial will change the fact that the human body is not going to live forever. It’s going to die. The person in that body may very well know when that time has come. 

Does anyone have the right to interfere with that process? Nancy didn’t think so. Neither do I.

My Do Not Recussitate order is in place. Right now I consider that  correct and even partiotic. Keeping people alive who are ready to die, gobbles up most of the insurance money paid out each year. I hope none of it prolongs my life when I’m ready to go.

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HERE’S THE DEAL, KIDS II

Four kids was the magic number. Everybody born in the 1920’s wanted to have four kids. That was because so many of our generation had been only children. They felt cheated that they didn’t have brothers and sisters.

That had never happened before–that only child thing. Women’s liberation really came about when women had a contraceptive for the first time, you know.  That’s why they called that whole era “the roaring twenties.” (The device was made of gold and was called a pessary. It’s now plastic and called an IUD. The pill came later.)

It would not surprise me to learn that “the universe” now questions whether it was maybe too soon to turn loose those unprepared young women.

The first thing they did with their emancipation was to almost turn their backs on feminity and begin to emulate men. They’ve taken that about as far as it could go. Now we’re seeing signs of a return to balance.  

Take, for example, “Dancing With the Stars” surprising success. I think it’s symbolic. It’s a beautiful thing to watch men and women dancing together again.

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HERE’S THE DEAL, KIDS

When you’re 83, everybody on Earth is a kid – by comparison.  Furthermore, you can call anybody anything you like when you’re over eighty. No rule book has ever been written for people with that particular claim to fame. Nor am I proposing to write one.

I’m sitting here at my beloved Vaio, in the picture window of my glorious yard, with the fascinating challenge of introducing you, the younger reader, to what it’s like to be over eighty. Hang with me, and you’ll begin to look forward to it.

I have a particular kind of love for the whole baby-boomer generation – being wholely responsible for bringing four of them into existance. Well, OK, I was impregnated by their father. Yep, the same man for all four. That was acceptable, if not expected, “back then.”

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YOU GOTTA LEARN

When the bottle cap won’t budge, the lid won’t part from the jar, and the plastic wrapped article remains inaccessible, it’s time to learn to love yourself a little more. Patience is a virtue.

You’ve joined an elite club. You’re eighty. It’s OK to ask for help. Just don’t forget to be grateful, to say so, and t0 mean it.

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YOU GOTTA LAUGH

It was another cold day on the Mendocino Coast with patches of rain. I found myself in town following a one o’clock class with time to kill. I impulsively decided to go to the gym.

When I passed the fabric store in the same shopping center, I realized that they would be open because it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. I made a U-turn and pulled in near the door. A lovely young woman offered to help.

Two years ago when I was eighty and anticipating hip surgery, I had, for the first time, made some preparations for dying. I had a will drawn up and purchased and filled in MaggieWatson’s, A Graceful Farewell to save my heirs a lot of frustration, time, money, and maybe sanity. I had checked out the local crematorium, but I had not yet made my shroud although I felt strongly about what I wanted to wear for my cremation. It would be a simple white gown.

I asked the clerk what she had in white, 100% cotton fabric. Synthetics don’t burn cleanly. She walked me directly to a section where she found three white, cotton fabrics. We decided which one of them was less sheer and then she directed me to the patterns. There was not a vast selection, no caftan pattern at all so I spent quite a long time finding one that would work. It was a long dress pattern.

When I took the pattern over to check out, she helped me decide how much fabric it would take and started measuring out the four yards. As she did this, she attempted to make conversation and, so help me this is what she asked, “So are you going to some nice, warm place where you can wear this?” There were other people in the store or I might have told her the truth, but instead I quickly replied, “Yeah, I’m going to hell.”

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