Distance makes the heart grow wiser

Or at least it can.

It feels to me like the greatest aha moments of growing older come from having some distance between the hurts that happened & the accumulating experience of life.  Of being able to recognize the times we caused distress without any intention, the moments we lashed out in the heat of anguish, the opportunities for bridge building we let pass, the sulks we got in rather than reaching out for clarity, the hurts we harbored in place of stepping out with compassion.  And accepting that the same is true of others with us.

The power of distance - and the fresh perspective it has the potential to offer - came home to me yesterday, as I listened to a discussion on NPR about the why behind the Russian people turning away from Perestroika - the promise of a more open government - back to all the old ways so neatly embodied in Vladimir Putin.  The upshot was that the people had tried the new ways & were dissatisfied;  the reality didn't match the idealized hope.

SHAZAM!  In an instant, I had a whole new way of experiencing my sister,  opening up possibilities that had never dawned on me before.  A new interpretation I seriously doubt would have been possible twenty years ago, one that might only have happened after she'd passed & active issues ebbed away.

My sister was brilliant, gifted, massively talented, possessing both great intellect & astonishing insight.  That's how I was raised to view Mim & certainly some aspects of that assessment were spot on.  Yet, she didn't seem to do anything with her gifts & graces.

Except, she did.  It just hadn't hit home with me.  At least, not until yesterday, listening to a discussion on the car radio.

Some background - on Friday, my well-being coach asked me about the positive ways I'd been affected by Mim's 07/03/15 death.  It wasn't her death that had an impact, but what others said because of it, things I'd always sensed but had only heard people deny, brush off as negative rather than as caring, loving.  That drew us into discussing the impact of Mom's September 2001 death, Dad's in March 1973.

Dad's death at such a young age - 62 - affected all of us, in vastly different ways.  For Mim, it was an unsought liberation.  As long as Dad was alive, she didn't need to be independent - Dad was always there to help take care of her.  She was almost 30 when he died, without anything that suggested an independent life.  Dad's death thrust her into the arms of life. 

Within ten years, she'd find a spiritual community in the Laurel Church Camp, "go from the back of the room to the front." seek counseling, get her bachelor's from New York University, get a real job working as a houseparent for very young children at a private school.  Within fifteen, she received her MSW from Rutgers, got an even more serious job working with autistic children, was honored at a black tie dinner with a VERY official proclamation from the New Jersey State Legislature honoring her volunteer work with autistic children & families, had her own car, her own apartment, had a life that anyone could relate to & respect.

Within five years, it was gone.  From what I could piece together, she was back to working with children literally within their  environment, often living with the family, never able to completely separate herself from the intense work.  I recall a rare visit - she lived in a little room at the top of the house, which meant going up at three flights of steps on legs that were already in bad shape; as the three of us - Peter, Mim, myself - ate lunch in her room, one of the children sat outside the door & constantly begged to join us.  They were rare visits, because I'd be in a deep depression for days after one;  my brother told me he'd advised his daughter NOT to take her girls over for a visit.

Until yesterday, I'd viewed all that as some epic tragedy.  But, listening to the conversation about the Russian people turning back to what was because of dissatisfaction with the perceived ideal they'd achieved, it shifted into a different possibility. 

It's clear that Mim started to more fully come into her own after Dad died. As I've experienced so many times over my own lifetime, once she set out on a bold venture, the Universe kicked in as an active partner.  Frank Rose introduced Laurel, which - more than any other factor - changed Mim's life.  At Laurel, a place she trusted, she tagged up with a counselor who would help her edge her way into the world.  A benefactor stepped up to underwrite attending NYU.  People & circumstance got her through Rutgers, where additional expenses included her first apartment & car.  She got her degree, got a job working for a state agency, had a normal life.  Except she didn't.  It was possibly a standard life, an average life, but it was far from her normal.

Like the Russians, Mim had achieved what others said was ideal, only to find that it was anything but for her.  What others experienced as normal, Mim never had.  What she did, they didn't.

In this new interpretation, Mim didn't leave the agency in Jersey City because she'd failed in any way, but because it wasn't anywhere close to a good fit.  She'd gotten the degrees, the job, the life -  but it didn't suit her.  Mim was called to a different sort of work.  And back to it she went.

Personally, I believe that - if things had been different in her head - Mim could have done the work that spoke to her ~and~ been able to make a good living, to be financially secure with a stable life. 

Mim had so much to share with others, insights & creative approaches to an issue that was as red hot twenty years ago as being an eldercare anarchist is for me, now.  Mim had the right educational background, the right developed skills, her unique & wildly relevant lifetime of experiences.  She was totally in the right place with the right background, the right credentials & even accolades for doing things HER way. 

One thing that Mim lacked was trust.  Trust that the times were on her side, trust that others were there to give every form of support, trust that the Universe thought she was totally terrific & utterly able.  Most of all, Mim seemed to lack trust in herself, which always stunnd & downright horrified me.  What was the sense in being the all-brilliant, all-gifted, all-wondrous Mim is she didn't believe it?  

It's taken me 64 years, Mim's death & listening to a radio discussion about Russia to have a different, more resonating interpretation of what might have been going on in my adored older sister's life  She set out to do great things, she accomplished them, reached the sought-for pinnacle; knowing she'd been there, done that, she was freed to do her work in her way.  She was the Russian people who tried Perestroika, found glasnost to be lacking & went back to how things had been, a life that others find "less"  but they believe best suits them.

Could I have come up with all of that even ten years ago?  Nope - still mucking my way through the aftermath of the perfect storm that broke at the time Mom died.  Could I have made the connection before Mim passed?  Will never know.  But this I know for sure - distance, of every sort, has made my heart grow wiser.

DOES time teach "all things to he who lives forever"?

In his marketing/life lesson classic, The Greatest Salesman In The World, Og Mandino writes, "Time teaches all things to he who lives forever..."   Ah, if only that were true, if only we were all like Bill Murray in Groundhog's Day, accepting the proffered mantel of learning through a loop of endless opportunities.  

Those who are willing & able to learn are the ones who do, while those without interest in or inclination to see through new eyes will be just a blind a thousand years from now, regardless of what new awareness is presented.

I think about people like my mother, Katharine Reynolds Lockhart.  Mom was always interested in learning the new, in taking a new view, in having a new perspective on old issues.  I know other people who seemed entrenched in their personal & world view from their teens.  And others trapped in a universe of pain, wrapped in a fear that keeps their head down, their heart armored up & their spirit squelched. 

It would be comforting to believe that "time teaches all things to he who lives forever," but it doesn't.  All time does is to present opportunities that we can see if we wish or are able, that we can seize if we so desire, that we can LIVE if we have the guts.

whackadoodle perceptions of the older mind

Over the past few years - after hitting 60, especially over the past year - am often taken aback by my mind's increased ability to leap about through & within time & perceptions.  Maybe this is peculiar to my experience, but my guess is that it is common as we inch upward, especially as we ease out of "middle age," when the mind tends to be more ego-bound than at other epochs. 

Maybe it's the result of accumulated experience which helps us see all the times we got our knickers in twist over what turned out to be no big deal, see all the times we held back from doing something we came to regret, see all the times we were harshly judgemental only to discover that things were not at all what we assumed, see all the times we could have said something encouraging empowering emboldening (especially to ourselves) & stayed silent.

Early last night, driving with John a bit of a ways to hear a performance at a coffee shop (both the singer & the coffee shop being dear to us), so many thoughts about my mother & sister surged through my heart & mind - it felt like moments in time were actually with us, in the car, brightly colored ribbons dancing all around us. 

As I spoke, anguished, to John, images of them as children & youth, young adults & older, flashed back & forth.  I re-experienced what I'd felt over the confusing decades, yet never forgetting that they - like my sister & mother - were a bundle of perceptions, not actual reality, my compassion for their pain far greater than my heartbreak over ancient hurts.

As we drove over Bristol up Hatboro over Temperance up Spencer over Sackettsford & Rushland to Swamp to Edison-Furlong to Pebble Hill & into the heart of Doylestown, my mind was all whackadoodle with flipping through snatches of time & anguish, of hurt & empathy, of old wounds & blessed healing.

Gosh, but I do like having more years under my belt.  Life doesn't make the sense I craved over years past, but that, in itself, makes sense.

As I said - whackadoodle.

A twisted situation

Here is a truly twisted situation - the people who are typically responsible to support friends & family with a lot of years under their belt are typically the worst ones to provide it. 

Studies have shown that people tend to be their happiest at the beginning of their lives and as they near the end.  Who tends to be the most unhappy, the ones with the most dire view of inching up there in years?  Those in their middle years.  And what a mess that can make, as they struggle with helping support their older loved ones' decisions or shoulder full responsibility for them.

Mom didn't need studies to tell her that - she knew it from personal experience.  "Looking back, the toughest years were when my energies were beginning to flag  and my body started slowing down.  The proprium - sense of self -  feels  threatened  as it becomes clear that an individual is far more than just the  sum of physical parts. To get to the light, we have to work through the darkness."

No getting around it - my Mom was one smart cookie!  I love how she described too many middle-ish youngers - as in that "hanging-on state," feeling the one invincible body start to decline, the ego rearing up in fury at being displaced by something...  it's not sure what. 

To my dear old Mater, as "middlers" move out of that confused befuddled afraid state, as we move more solidly into an awareness that we are not our bodies, then  "the concepts of physical being, of time and relationships,  are liberated."

What WAS our Creator thinking, designing it so people at a low point on the happiness spectrum, with the greatest fear of decline & decay, are typically the ones having influence or holding sway over the care of oldsters elders ancients?  It seems a truly twisted situation.  Except... 

Speaking from my own experience, from what I've seen in friends, when we middlers set aside our own ego to fully honor older loved ones (as well as the barely tolerated & negative issue laden)  & clients, the more we can see a richness to their experiences & circumstances, the deeper & more resonant we can help them be.  Maybe tying into the "that our days may be long..." promise in the 10 Commandments.

It's not easy getting up there in age.  Mom loved the Bette Davis quote - "Old age is not for sissies."  The elderly CAN be cranky & quarrelsome & scared.  But they likely are much more, if we have ears for hearing, the patience to be present, and the heart to love.  I

It might feel like our Creator got some serious wires crossed in sketching out how we age upward, but stick with it.  Whether you are somewhere in the middle & feeling overwhelmed (that's typical for your age; it gets better). ~or~ you're gliding upward - - give the ego a drop kick, experience the richness & new perspectives accessible because of the years. 

Ideally, middlers & oldsters will twist their individual perspectives histories expectations together, conjoining with the other's, intertwining into a cord that can connect & wrap together their hearts.

Peels of thanks!

It's taken every moment & memory & all the multi-layered WOW!s of my 64 years to tumble to the realization of having been born with an internal set point for what works for me.  That basic aha realization explains SO MUCH, especially John.  Given my background, it surprised me that there was only a sense of sweet homecoming when we connected, not a scintilla of "I'm not worthy of this sort of happiness."  Worthy didn't even come into it - my internal set point just sensed, "Yep, this works."

Mind you, I was raised with the teaching that humans are born with inherited evils of every kind, which sounds pretty daunting.  If that describes the messing up attitudes instincts inclinations that pretty obviously worked against my best interests instead of for, then I can relate.  But behind all of them, deep below their heft, was another "truth" taught to me from my mother's knee - all of us are born predestined for a heavenly life.  The Great What Is created us for happiness, for productivity, for giving & receiving joyously, for glorious BEING.

Yes, yes & YES - my life has gotten me to the point where that rings true in my head, my heart, my soul & spirit.  I embrace it as the greatest truth in my life - I was born preset for wonder, for finding the most exquisite glee in doing for others, in doing my best to get out of my own way so awe can find a ready path to tread in my life, that having the opportunity to do each day a bit better than the last is the coolest of the cool realities. 

This awareness doesn't feel like a great flash of insight, but a gentle peeling away of layers.  If I had years of journaling to look over, would seen mentions of some sense of it reaching far back.  What delight, knowing countless more layers wait to be revealed!

I was born with a preset for happiness, for loving, for a DEEP sense of the flat-out fun of doing things, from practical to frivolous, for others.  That is MY set point.  Trying to extrapolate that personal reality to a larger field is silly.  It's my resounding YES.  See it, celebrate it, move deeper into the ab fab mystery. And always always always remember to give thanks.

For all that has been - thanks!

For all that is to come - YES!

~ Dag Hammarskjold ~

The pain & enduring sadness of isolation

To beat the heat (in the grip of our 5th heat wave!), John & I headed to the library.   John made a beeline for magazines, while I surfed the internet for "crowd-sized" recipes to try out for a new season of brunches at our local retirement village ~ and ~ the To Kill A Mockingbird cast party.

The woman sitting at the next computer & I struck up a conversation.  It came up that I work across the age spectrum, particularly with oldsters elders ancients & their families.  Her body sagged & sadness draped itself across her face. 

She felt heartsick about having to put her Mom in a care facility.  She remembered her parent's family, three generations living in a large home, with the chain of care & caring cutting across the ages - babies & youngsters were left in Grannie's tender hands while Mom did housework or made meals;  when Grannie needed extra care, there were loving hearts & hands ready to give it.

The woman - she looked around my age, perhaps in her mid-60s - had felt so isolated in making & carrying through & living with her decision, a choice made by necessity, over the protests of her heart.  Her mind dwelt on memories of her Mom's parents, tucked in the heart of their multi-generation home, each age showcasing its own strengths, turning to the others for support - a balance of needs & abilities. 

Life has changed, in more ways than we know.  Work & lifestyle realities make it more & more difficult for families to stay close to each other, let alone have the ability to provide the sort of care possible in every previous generation. Our lives are no longer routinely cut short by heart disease, cancer, diabetes & other health conditions that winnowed out previous generations long before most hit 80.  We find ourselves are trailblazing areas we never dreamed of back in the '50s & '60, when we hadn't a clue that modern medicine & technologies promise of longer life actually would turn out to be mean, in too many cases, prolonged death. 

How well the others behind us deal with similar challenges will depend, in large measure, on what sort of guides & pioneers we are.

Listening to the woman, to her haunting pain, made me mentally scream at how isolated most of us are in our most vulnerable moments, in spite of the wonders of our digital age.  Back in Mom's day, she had mid-morning coffee with "Aunt" Kit from next door; in the afternoon, she might struck up a conversation with a neighbor as they both took down clothes from the line; a faithful correspondent, Mom kept in touch with her sisters out to California & her best friend, who'd headed down to Texas & a wealth of friends all over.  They communicated, shared their trials & triumphs, exchanged recipes & heartfelt advice, unburdened themselves & were lifted up.

That was my Mom's reality, as I saw it.  Folks tend to idealize things, so they might not have been as rosy & warm as I recall.  No matter - we have our own realities to work with, our own ways to craft more effective outreach caring compassion. 

How do we take what we've got & come up with a WAY better response to the challenges we face nurturing & supporting tenderhearted, caring relationships?  What needs call to be supported?  What tools & technologies are on hand, waiting to be put to use in helping ourselves & others feel bucked up, encouraged, restored? 

It would have been a help if the woman I met today had the opportunity to talk to someone who'd been there, had experienced her or his own version of the pain, could be someone with whom to touch base when the sadness draped over the heart, whether it was as she was making the decision, sharing it, making it so, dealing with it afterward. 

HOW can we get these conversations & connections going?  Because my boomer generation are the guides for this unprecedented lifestyle that's not tribal, not clan, not familial in its nature.  The guides & pioneers.  How well WE learn to alleviate the pain & sadness - felt by all sides as we balance physical & emotional needs - will largely decide how well we did for those oldsters elders ancients who are dear to our hearts. 

It means going to new places, taking new routes, braving the unknown.  We need to rouse ourselves - all of us - to make bold attempts, search for innovative approaches, explore options & openly share with each other the good times & hard moments.  We are both the front line & the final recourse. 

Sounds daunting - it is.  Get over it, get going!

Jerry Seinfeld says it all

Working on a still-in-progress posting about the joys of carpool karaoke with my Mom & other older friends, came across Jerry Seinfeld's series, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee.  There isn't any singing, just riffs bouncing off the walls of classic cars, but it's old enough that it might have inspired Corben's epic Carpool Karaoke, which lead me to a youtube posting of a grandson doing his own version of carpool karaoke with his granddad, who has dementia.  

Much as I expected it to be super cool - Jerry is driving one of the coolest cars ever, with the 2nd coolest POTUS (TR is still #1, which even they sort of admit) - did not expect to hear Seinfeld sum up my feelings about what I do, why I do it.

POTUS has asked, "How do you keep respect?" in the midst of Seinfeld's massive fame fortune acclaim.  Jerry answers:

I fell in love with the work.  And the work was joyful. And difficult.  And interesting. And that was my focus.

Could not have put it better.  And whether I make a pittance or beaucoup bucks, whether I subsist on Social Security or my work provides a full-throttle fortune, the focus will never change.  What drives me will always be the love of an always-news, always joyful, always difficult, always interesting work I absolutely positively have loved from the first breath I took.

And that, along with the love of a good man who holds my heart in his hands, is about as good as it gets.