we must become truth tellers.telling the truth to ourselves is almost as challenging and painful as telling the truth to another. part of the process of conscious eldering is the acknowledgement of our life's path...the valleys of despond
and the peaks of ecstasy.
to look at the times we have caused hurt, the times we have made a disastrous decision, or the times we hated ourselves is undoubtedly a painful process. and yet, it is the way to freedom.we have decades of 'stuff' to deal with. not everything demands our attention. we need only address the incidents and events that still carry a 'charge'. these are the ones that still can cause a tightening in the belly, a catch in the breath. offering compassion to the self who feels the pain can heal the wound that remains inside.we can hold that self as we would hold an infant, with profound tenderness and care. slowly the belly relaxes and the smile can return. ihe interior space the pain has occupied can be freed for other emotions, ones that support us and enliven us. breath can now flow freely in that space. compassionate self-regard allows the liberation of energy and can turn despair into love.this is one of the many practices of spiritual eldering, one that will probably need to repeating regularly! this is not always an easy path. we are challenged by old voices of blame and shame. we are challenged by societal expectations of expiation and atonement. we are challenged by the sense that we can never make amends sufficiently. these challenges too can be held in compassion, in the heart of love.the truth is, to err is human. we've all done those hurtful or silly things a billion times, so why hold onto them? granted, some errings have a greater impact than others. these are the ones that can hinder our evolution by taking up too much internal space. once again, we are called upon to let go, to surrender to something greater. compassion paves the way.once on this path, we can see what we might have gained from these painful incidents. this is not to dismiss them or cloak them in denial. Instead, we can come to the acknowledgement of our human-ness and the ability to take heed of lessons that only life can teach us.we are where we are now because of the lows we have experienced as well as the highs...the valleys and the peaks.without the burden of 'stuff' long past, we are free to explore the present...in this very moment.
rebellion
one of the luxuries of youth and early adulthood is the facility to rebel. each step of individuation is a small rebellion on the road to self-knowledge. one of the luxuries of elderhood is the facility to choose. it is no longer necessary to rebel. it is only necessary to know what is appropriate, in this moment, for each individual. and then to act on that knowledge.no longer do we need to rebel, to go counter to what is, in order to be who we truly are. of course, we may still participate in political demonstrations, carrying placards that read, "i can't believe I'm still protesting this s--t". we may continue to sign petitions, send emails, shop for longevity instead of planned obsolescence, grow our own veggies, live sustainably and support the candidates who support us. we do all this knowing that it is appropriate, that it is an expression of who we are at the core.or, to feed that ever-energetic self within, our form of rebellion might take us to decorating our walkers/zimmer frames/mobility scooters with streamers and flags, becoming visible. this could be the elders' form of a hi-viz jacket! or we might ask someone who has ignored us on the street, " didn't you see me"? or we might, in a group of 20 or more, crash a rave and show them a move or two!or we might stay home and meditate in our group of 20.
something new
they tell us, we who are aging, to learn something new to create more neural pathways in order to take advantage of the plasticity of our brains. okay! I accept the challenge.backstory....i have "normal wear and tear" in my left thumb. for most that's not a life-changing issue. For those who, like me, are left-handed, it is. opening things, holding things, lifting things all suddenly became achey at best, very painful at worst.
acupuncture has helped. but not completely. i had to let go of my beloved knitting as i could no longer hold the needles properly.suddenly, i opened my heart in compassion to everyone who is living with some sort of change in mobility/disability. wow! this was only a thumb, not a leg or an arm or a neck or a back.then i decided to try to train my right hand to do some of those tasks. progress was made and my right hand has become more adept. next step...train my right hand in fine motor coordination. at this moment i discovered zentangles (www.zentangle.com).
each zentangle is a unique piece of art, created with mindful attention, using repeated patterns. perfect! this is exactly what i need to reframe the loss of agility in my left thumb. with the deep mindfulness each tangler (anyone who creates zentangles) approaches her or his work, i can work very slowly to express myself in a way that strengthens my right hand at the same time as i am in a meditative state and creating new grooves in my brain. this is a no-brainer for me! all my favourite qualities wrapped up in a creative endeavour that will keep my brain from shrinking.most important to me is the mindfulness. certainly my right hand slips or doesn't quite do what i would "like" it to. with this art form that simply doesn't matter. each zentangle is unique and bears the stamp of its creator’s mindful attention. i'm brought to the present moment with each stroke of the fine-line pen. each pattern has individual shape and form that can be varied in many ways.no two are alike.just like all beings.
walking gratitude
it's a miracle. the movement of legs, lungs, eyes, arms in synchrony. the ability to place one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, heel to toe. more than likely, there will come a time when i'm not so sure-footed, when i will not be able to place feet on the pavement.my mother, an avid walker, insisted on walking up and down the corridor in her apartment building until a week before she died. may her spirit imbue me (and all of us) with the same determination!as i walk i am filled with gratitude and awe. these moments of appreciation and gratitude seem to increasingly fill my awareness. the sensation of gratitude arises in my core, the very centre of who i am, and pervades my entire being.are humans hard-wired for gratitude? do we have a built-in tendency for the good, the beneficial? while we certainly can make choices that don't work out very well, we seem to always desire the best, and are thankful for it. what draws us, inexorably, to gratitude?it may be that gratitude is the least complex way to connect with the Divine. gratitude is available without dogma, without any religious trappings. and there is much that is universal to hold in the embrace of thanks.the challenge to the elder might be to hold the ageing process itself in that embrace...all of it, the joys of wisdom and the pains of illness, the gentle passing of days and the awful terrors of nights, the drawing of each breath and the knowledge that the last breath is within sight.
each grateful step, those on country lanes and those on city pavements, hold the potential for awakening. our steps may falter in time, yet each one can be a connection to our deepest selves.this is the purpose of the walking meditation of the Buddhist tradition. the conscious placement of each foot...heel, rolling to toe; heel rolling to toe...creates a field of awareness. nothing else exists but the movement of each leg and foot. there is spacetime, in this snail's pace walking, to fully experience the rotation of the leg in the hip joint, the bending of the knee, the swinging of the leg, the flexing of the ankle, the pushing off of the toes. here the mind has the opportunity to quiet, to still, to appreciate, to hold in gratitude.and as the steps become less sure, as they begin to falter, mindful attention will guide us on the path.
how victorian !
a strange longing for a black armband arose strongly today.
no one knows my sensing of grief except those close to me. the people i encounter in the shops or pass on the pavement have no idea. there is, these days, no public display of grieving. there are no black wreaths on doors, curtains remain open, black is a commonly worn colour, no longer reserved for mourners. and so no one knows.at the same time as i want the world to know, there is a deep desire to remain at home, to stay sheltered in my cave. every errand, every email, every phone call draws me out of the cave. i feel no hurry, though a friend is already becoming concerned about my "withdrawal". is there a prescribed period after which one is supposed to "get on with life"?in the jewish tradition, there is.we find three distinct periods, defined by the intensity of grief and mourning. the first three days after the death are the most intense and are designed to focus the attention of the mourners not only on the death of the person, but also on death itself. a jewish burial will take place during these first days.the following four days, comprising the first week after the death, are less proscribed. during that week friends, family and community come to visit and share memories of the person who has died. the mourners sit on low chairs, to be closer to the ground where the deceased person now abides. no music is played, no parties attended, no social activities at all.for the next three weeks, some of the initial restrictions are lifted...the mourners resume work and still refrain from social interaction.after these 30 days in mourning for a close relative (other than a parent), life resumes its normal course of daily activity (for a parent there is a year of mourning.) not only does it resume, but this re-engagement is an important part of the process. music, parties, social events are back in the diary.in a close-knit community everyone knows of the death. there is common understanding of the grief. in our contemporary culture we are expected to "get over it" quickly, not show any outward display and to be the same person we were before the death.we can not be the same person. the world has a different axis. what was once the structure of family or friendship is no longer. it takes however long it takes to establish the new structure. someone new is now the eldest. someone new now takes the role that the dead person held in the network of friends. the place they held in the larger community is filled by someone new.while we may no longer wear black armbands, grieving and mourning are a vital aspect of life. the ever-flowing life force is honoured in death.when the 30 days after my brother's death have passed, i will remove my virtual black armband and once again listen to music, dance, sing and find joy in my engagement with life.
sheepwash, devon
i've come away from life in brighton to rural devon for four days focused on writing. there are five of us here to do the same thing. one is writing a novel about a group of older women living together. one is writing about her process of becoming blind. the third is writing a novel about life as a 20-something teacher of autistic children. and i am writing these reflections on conscious ageing.this is luxury...no cooking, no shopping, no washing up, no clearing of tables, no cleaning of toilets or showers, no laundry...nothing but devon air (and butter and cream), village life and companions (if one wishes). each room has a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and comfortable writing chair, sufficient lighting, and, of course, internet access.bliss.i had a fear that the words might not come, having created this space for just the purpose of writing. would i freeze? would i hit the wall of writer's block?on the first morning i walked outside at 6:00. on the way i met a man who must have been in his 80s. he had a bucket of feed in his hand. it was destined for 'the pony'. as we chatted i noticed his cap. originally it must have been cream in colour. now it was a grimy, shiny brown. i imagined he has worn that cap each day as he feeds his pony for the last two decades, or more. he may not even remove his cap indoors, adding layers of grime, sweat, and fingerprints to its patina. i thought he may even wish to be buried wearing his cap.then i asked myself, how do i wish to be buried?in a willow coffin, in a natural burial ground..the answer is clear. i want my various constituent parts to go back from whence they came...to Mother Earth, to the void. i want no stone, only a wooden marker as is permitted in these graveyards. i want nothing permanent, nothing to tell anyone who i was, when i was born or when i died.i want my friends to plant trees instead of a headstone. let the trees grow and bring life to Mother Earth. let them bring shade to those who are sun-baked. let them bring nesting places for birds to rear their young. let the leaves whisper and rustle their song each day. let the trees grow to their full height, unfettered by pruning and coppicing. let the trees be unmanaged and wild. let the trees grow, and let them die...die by fire or drought or wind or lightning.i want to be buried in the trees.without a cap.and then i want my friends to have a tea party, complete with scones and devon cream.