Tag: aging

Re: Walk

In my time at University it was popular to hang posters with inspirational sayings. I remember seeing the one with a set of footprints in the sand describing how someone might walk with you in times of trouble. Another poster showed various pathways to talk about the road less travelled. Still another suggested the end result was not as important as the journey itself. Walking was central to many of these themes, and woe be the person who didn’t walk their talk, ideologically or in campus conversation. No one wants to be labelled a hypocrite!

There are many songs that depend on the word Walk to drive the message: Who among us has had boots made for walking, or been advised to just walk away like Renée. Maybe we’ve walked like an Egyptian after two many drinks or walked 500 miles just to be the one who falls down by your door. I’ve walked the line between good and evil, just to please the one I wanted to love me back. In the olden days if a boy walked you to the car or to your doorstep he was considered a keeper.

My 95 year old special mom sets a good example by going on a daily walk around the block. She takes seeds in a bag for any bird friends she finds along the way. As do other elders, she has a stable walker with handles suited to her height, a seat, and wheels she can brake so she doesn’t roll away when she chooses to sit and take a rest. I go with her sometimes but I find her slow pace a challenge to my balance. In a metaphorical sense I am taking a walk with her during this twilight part of her life. Watching her deal with the changes that come with aging is a privileged learning experience.

I’ve felt fortunate to have legs that can carry me to where I wish to go. Now in my eightieth decade I neither have the will nor the ability I once had to cover great distances. I have a friend who has mastered the famed Camino de Santiago trail. My son has tramped the beautiful West Coast Trail of Vancouver Island. My hikes have been much less impressive but I have enjoyed the ground I’ve covered. I have taken part in fund-raising walks and once, in late elementary school, I spent time training on a track in the manner of Olympic walking. I wasn’t fast enough to make the team but my hip-work impressed my weekend extra-curricular dancing instructor so much that he designed a special dance character for me. I was a cop-on-the-beat in a dance recital routine that had me walking around a Paris neighbourhood dressed Charlie Chaplin style: Rubber legged, bum waggling, and twirling my truncheon. The audience loved it!

Alas my 15 minutes of fame on that stage would not have propelled me to a career in show business or to be noted on Toronto’s Walk of Fame. But here I am talking about my walks.

Re: Missing

The thing about saying you miss something is not about the ‘something’ so much as missing the collective stuff that came with it. The smell, sound or visual may remind us that we are missing a moment in time: Being OF that time. But, just like realizing you can’t be in two places at once, you also can’t be in multiple time frames at once. Freaky but true.

When someone asks me what I will enjoy first after a ‘time away’ I have many answers. The cliché for people being on holiday and returning is the Dorothy statement; ‘There’s no place like home’. In that sense home can be a catch-all term to describe aspects of what makes our life unique. I can imagine that prisoners or soldiers love satisfying cravings upon release from their duties. I haven’t often felt that I wished I were somewhere else. I don’t think I’ve ever wished for another reality either, so maybe that’s why I can’t say I’m missing something or someone. That makes me lucky I guess. I can appreciate stuff while simultaneously minimizing the big picture importance, if that makes sense. Hang on tightly, let go lightly.

Looking forward to something might suggest what I have missed.  Luxuriating in a long hot shower certainly delights me.  Walking in the summer rain makes me wonder why I don’t do it more often. Slowly licking an ice cream cone must never be a rare treat. When I’ve been away from the touch of my bride my heart doesn’t quite beat to the same rhythm. I guess when we can conjure up a sense of longing, which is a projection into the future, we know better of those things that have left us gasping for joy in the past.

I’ve sometimes been missing in action in a metaphorical sense when I have not paid close enough attention to the delights of the present. Shame on me! Regret comes from this place when I should have known better to capitalize on the moment. Carpe Diem must begin each thought that leads to action. Indeed, being remiss is not a good fall back position. A healthy dose of forethought might reduce feelings of FOMO.

I’ve been having some illuminating conversations with my special 94 year old mother-in-law. She’s missing things that she hasn’t used in forty years. There are tears. And then she surprises me with a question like, “What have we discovered today?” I’m on a mission to find out how it might be for me if I get a chance to look back on my life after so many decades. We both keep talking about the importance of staying grounded in the now of life, not necessarily the know of it. There is no point in being upset when you can’t recapture something from your past. Politically or otherwise we can’t make the past great again.

I’m learning that time has its own plan. We won’t miss out on anything if we tend what is before us. Plant the seeds. Watch your garden grow.

Re: Tolerance

I learned much from my dad when it came to tolerance. He had to put up with a lot from my mother. I watched as a child at the way he navigated his hurt feelings over accusations and recriminations delivered at random moments by his wife. When I was older I couldn’t help but feel he should have stood up for himself more often. Ironically my mom’s intolerance for him led to a temporary separation.

Much of my understanding of tolerance comes from my parents’ examples. How one lives with tolerance is instructive. I’ve learned to recognize differences, inconsistencies, strengths and weaknesses in others. That awareness has helped me feel tolerance, but for a healthy relationship you need a step further: If you want a relationship to last you have to accept the other, flaws and all.

My father worked at a ball bearing manufacturing plant. He used to amaze me with his precision drawings and schematics of all the individual working parts. He had a position in the quality control department towards the end of his career. Long before computer technology, he used specific tools to make the measurements. He talked about perfecting the tolerances so that wear and dysfunction was kept to a minimum. Engineers often worry about stresses on material so they work hard to create designs that increase the tolerance against environmental hazards like weather. The mechanics of anything we build must meet rigid standards to keep risks of injury at a low level. For example, the last condo building I lived in boasted of being erected on top of springs to reduce potential earthquake damage.

Humans can react to life’s challenges on a tolerance spectrum. I have a low tolerance for small talk. My wife can’t tolerate silliness. We all have our pet peeves. Some things can grate on our nerves while other stuff sheds our psyche like water off of a duck’s back. I tried to list my top ten non-tolerances but only got to eight: anger, gambling, tattoos, war, waste, heat, pets and stasis.

We sometimes judge others by their patience or lack thereof. Recently I squirmed along with others in a medical clinic waiting room while an anxious patient pulled a Karen on the receptionist. “I can’t tolerate this medication!” She shouted until the doctor came out to calm her fears. Meanwhile we sat with our own thoughts on how we might have managed such a crisis differently.

Perhaps our tolerance for people or situations mellows with age. Elders have gained wisdom from multiple trials enabling them to better tolerate the shocks of life. Getting older gives us a sense of a continuum more akin to a lazy river rather than a cloverleaf intersection on an interstate highway. A feeling of urgency or desperation can be part of youth which can lead to intolerance and dismissiveness. On the other hand being aged can make us cranky and view the world as something no longer recognizable.

My grandkids will likely have to learn to tolerate a robot’s view of things. Oh my!

Re: Sense

With the luck of my second marriage, I acquired a ‘Special Mom’. She has a quiet, accepting presence that I appreciate whenever I get the chance to be with her. I watch her and discover nuggets of wisdom. She has lived long enough to share many treasures, among them, common sense.

Many might agree with the notion regarding ‘common sense’ as being anything but common. It’s a sense that seems to grow as the traditional senses diminish. Caution is part of this sense as well as patience. I feel for those who have lost one or more of the tradition five: Taste, Sight, Sound, Touch, Smell. Losing one of these gems will necessitate adjustments I don’t know if I’m brave enough to face. But age does create new challenges to overcome.

I remember a childhood talking game that proffered which sense you could manage without. In order to help us decide, we might playact with a blindfold, stuff Kleenex up our noses, plug up our ears, or wear thick gloves. We were young scientists and needed props to facilitate our silly investigation. I felt that being blind would create the greatest amount of trauma. I’m mildly claustrophobic and being without vision added to that closed in feeling. In fact I remember feeling fear the first time I saw someone walking on the street with a cane.

In that way I think Emotion is a sense. It comes from the heart. When we speak of feeling something, it is beyond our physical senses. I feel that Emotion is the sixth sense that is so often stated in fiction. If it is suggested you are using your sixth sense you are likely tapped into something you can’t quite explain yet you know there is truth to what you are experiencing. You are engaging with intuition, such a misunderstood sense. Like an ‘Empath’ in some space SciFi story you are sensing something ‘out beyond’ even though others can’t detect it with their lesser senses. Spiderman would know what I’m talking about.

We link our senses to our emotions with our language choices. We might have a ‘Bad taste in our mouth’ after an uncomfortable event. We could be ‘blinded’ by love. Perhaps we feel that we are ‘out of touch’ with a current reality. Someone’s idea may illicit, “That smells fishy to me.” At the end of a tiring experience we can feel we have ‘carried the weight of the world’ on our shoulders. Western medicine is slowly becoming aware of what Eastern practitioners have know all along: our sensual experience can focus attention where it is needed.

We know we are alive when our senses are engaged. Depression is often characterized as a state where senses were numbed. Depression is the closest we get to death while still breathing. I think the experience of the senses is the whole reason for living.

My mother-in-law has poor vision and weak hearing yet I haven’t sensed that her reality has got her down. That’s a comforting thing for me to witness.

Re: Skin

My skin has been aging. It’s getting that thin parchment paper look that I remember when my parents got older. When I look at the onion skin on the top of my hand I immediately think of my father. I’m not alarmed. I play with this loose skin the same joyous way I grasp the tiny fresh finger buds on my baby grandchildren.

Skin is the covering of the soul. It is not immortal yet it is valuable as the body’s first line of defence. Humans carry almost 4 kilograms of skin, making it the biggest organ in the body. A soft exoskeleton to be sure yet it protects us from chemical and biological invasion. Early concerns for our skin came after a ‘Booboo’ or an ‘Owie’. A simple skinned knee often caused a rush of welcomed attention as we were attended to by loving hands. We watched with wonder as a scab formed.  Some of us learned to develop a thicker skin to repel hurtful words.

I used to hate being called a skinflint, but if you want to have skin in the game you have to acquire a level of toughness. We embellished stories of how we survived by the skin of our teeth. Maybe we later grinned in the mirror to see if there actually was skin on them. And maybe that’s why we brushed!

And what’s the skinny on mule skinners? Such expressions and meanings we give to words can be baffling when they pop in your head as a skinny little snippet from your long ago past. My grandad used to ask me for some news with the phrase, “What’s the skinny son?” I used to own a mule skinner’s knife when I was a boy scout. I kept it in a leather holster that fastened to my belt for easy access on canoe trips. My dad referred to hard labour work he did in WWII as mule skinning, yet I’m sure he was never put in charge of a team of mules.

I have an urge to launch into a debate when someone tosses off the cliché; Beauty is only skin deep. Or the similar platitude; You can’t judge a book by its cover. I love the beauty of a person’s skin and I love the beauty of their character. The meaning and wonder of Martin Luther King Junior’s speech notwithstanding, I have a dream that we celebrate both skin and soul for the gifts that they are.

The sight of skin often brings me in for a closer examination. I was never a pudding lover as a kid, but one look at the caramel skin on a baked rice pudding drew me in for a delicious taste. I pet fruit in grocery stores. It’s something I miss as a result of Covid19 restrictions. It’s intimidating to see a sign next to the melons, ‘Please take the one you touch.’ I like to stroke a nectarine before choosing. I’ll palpate for softness on a cantaloupe skin. I can’t resist.

Re: Time

There is a certain pathos with thoughts of time, especially when you realize, like I do, that you have less time left, than the time you have already lived. There are some parts of my life I return to in memory, but mostly I focus on the present. Sometimes I’ve wanted to save time in a bottle as Jim Croce once wished. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AnWWj6xOleY

I have seen Time as a friend when I have been grieving or ill and as an enemy when I have had to meet a deadline or complete a test in school. I’ve enjoyed the thrill of meeting someone at just the right time and, on another occasion, I felt the disappointment of recognizing that the timing wasn’t right for a lasting bond. I’m old enough to have experienced a change in societal culture called the ‘end of an era’. I’ve impatiently timed contractions during the birth of my sons, measuring minutes as though they were hours. I’ve learned how to use time to make the most of a bad situation. Most of the time I think I use my time wisely.

I used to be quite fanatical about man-made time. My first watch, a practical Timex with a brown leather strap, was a gift from my parents on my tenth birthday. This timepiece removed uncertainty from my day. I could plan my away time and become less reliant on others. My friends and family began to rely on my timekeeping abilities. I put my third watch in a drawer on my thirtieth birthday and haven’t worn one regularly since. As I grew older I became resentful of my timepiece, and clocks in general, since I found them a reminder of responsibility and the sadness that can come from reflecting on time passages. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCJkbrQF88A

We celebrate anniversaries and birthdays as milestones in our lives. Numbers represent years, then decades, somehow giving us a sense of personal achievement, however unwarranted. Nature wins out in the end. We only have a lifetime, which can’t be predicted on a calendar. These days I respect nature’s symbols of time more than the programmable kind. I’m close enough to an ocean to enjoy the magic of tidal rhythm. I love being aware of the seasons. I pay homage to the moon cycles and delight in the change in daylight hours marked by solstice and equinox.

I’ve come to see time as a gift rather than a goal. I chuckle now when it seems to fly by. Then I marvel when it slows to the natural rhythm of my breathing. I like seeing my lifetime as compartments: Many separate moments that have created the current me. Time can take you on a journey as vivid as a train trip. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdQY7BusJNU

Time has wonderful healing properties that have allowed me to put events into a broader perspective. Some of my memories have faded, making it easier to make peace with loss. I’m not necessarily wiser, just a bit calmer.