enroute365

My Spring Fiction

 We’ve now entered the season where, as Alexander Pope put it, my own “hope springs eternal.” As the temperatures rise and new life slowly emerges seemingly from death -- from faded lawns, sparse trees and decaying leaf piles -- all becomes possible once again!  At least in my mind.

Even now as I imagine blossoms bursting forth from the malformed pear tree that I would have chopped down years ago but for its cheery springtime color, I know that I can perform miracles in my own life.

Whereas yesterday I fretted over when I would find the time to floss (much less, the time to write), today I know solutions will bloom for me. My optimism is not well founded. I’ve run the numbers and know there are not 28 hours in a day. But, Spring has arrived transmuting all known laws of mathematics.

Over the past few months I’ve been keenly aware that making a living in the real world has gotten harder. Springtime, however, is here and the world is resurrected. Can economic recovery be far behind when the robins have returned?

What is it about Spring that renews my spirit … if not my reality?  How is it that any human being can rise above dismal prospects to hope-filled delusions?  And what can be said for those few who translate their impossible dreams into tangible success stories?

So, for today I’ll live in my magical world, the one that fueled my little girl dreams ... where I’d never heard the words “implausible,” “unlikely” or "impractical." That place where denial is the law of the land. Objectivity can prevail another time.

---

Safe within this wish-based space, I now add, "it's good to be back!" Back to this blog ... without a clue of where I'll find the time to write! Perhaps you know the feeling?

Defining middle-age my way

Contemplations on aging.

Last night I woke to a thunderstorm. But it was the storm in my brain that wouldn’t let me return to slumber. Because I desperately need to get a good eight hours tonight, I finally dared ask myself the questions weighing on my mind, “Am I feeling the years … those years that have brought me to midlife? Am I wearing down?” The answer was simply “No.” In many ways, I feel that I'm just now really digging in to life and it's possibilities! I am, right now, my best self!

So, I probed deeper. “Am I feeling the fear … the fear of stereotypes? The fear of being defined, limited by a number.” A pause. Then an admission, “yes." Some people "out there" have lumped me into a category that I don't much care for. One that sees me as past my prime, based on ... what? I do not know.

Finally, unexpectedly, my soul offered this revelation, "... and the fear itself is limiting me, narrowing the opportunities I see.” It's creating boogey-men where there may be none.

At 47, I am young. I’m the “cool” adult with a Playstation game and unconventional ideas. The one who cranks Nickelback while speeding down the road to work. Yet, at the same time, I’m as old as my silvery hair. I always buckle my seat-belt and, if you’re riding with me, you will, too, sonny!

I enjoy the company of peers 20 years younger. And, yes, I consider them my peers, for as much as I teach them, they (in return) instruct me. Through their youthful eyes I see familiar sights in new ways. In me, they gain the perspective that only comes with experience. And together we create synergy.

Time spent with those my own age and older is also relished, however. These folks know what I’m going through and the life passages that lie ahead. I respect their wisdom, their journeys, their stories. Together we explore our purpose.

The young. The old. The in-between. Just who am I afraid can hold me back? Together we all make up society. We create conventional thought! Who is there to limit me to my age or their perceptions of it? Even well-entrenched stereotypes can be shaken. And my generation is quite capable of shaking things up!

Today I ask myself what has changed since I was 27. Is it just that more years have passed by? No, I am different. I’ve gained an inner calm, a deeper honesty and a broader perspective. I’ve learned that I lose nothing by giving; by sharing the credit, offering encouragement or letting someone else have the limelight. I wouldn’t want to turn the pages back, even to once again claim that lanky frame or brunette curls.Of course shedding ten pounds (if not ten years) would be nice! Still, I now have more to give ... and one would be hard-pressed to dismiss that lightly.

I used to imagine that at some point in my life, I’d have more answers. But these days I only have more questions. I don’t even know how to age gracefully. Then again, I’ve never done anything gracefully in my life; I go at it with all thrusters on … or I don’t go at it at all. And perhaps that is exactly how it should be: life is so short that I don’t need time for fear. I’ll simply have to define middle-age my way … making up the rules as I go along. That’s really the only way I’ve ever lived.

A baby boomer enters the Middle Ages

As I continue to discuss midlife issues (a conversation begun earlier this week with my post, "More Than Age-Spots: Boomers' Real Midlife Crises"), I've decided to digress ever so slightly. I want to share with you how it came about ... this realization that I had entered into a new phase of life. You see, my first hint didn't come from an inner voice telling me "wake up, time is running out!" My notice came from external sources that suggested I might no longer be perceived as relevant! That revelation unleashed a fair amount of fear and insecurity, but a greater portion of concern.

I first shared that experience a year ago in my post "Over 45," but I've decided to resurrect that article here with a few modifications ...

I disguise my reading glasses in funky frames, but my fragrance gives me away. It's BenGay and I've applied it liberally to an increasing range of aches and pains. And although the skin still clings firmly to my face and fingers, I've come to realize that I have the new leprosy: I'm over 45.

Mind you, I was blissfully unaware of my predicament until days before my 46th birthday. That's when a well-meaning executive confided that he was “looking for fresh blood under the age of 40” to run the department where I worked. While I had no plans to pursue the position myself (preferring a more hands-on role), I was dumbstruck. Was my blood was past its expiration date? And since when did younger mean better?

These questions hit me full-on because I was only beginning to discover my greater potential. I hadn't given in to career passivity, but was at the top of my game and the technology behind it. I was (and remain) innovative. And it had only been in the last few years that I had come into my own on a personal level, with a confidence and an acceptance of my strengths and weaknesses.

"What am I missing?" I wondered.

"Since when is over 40 considered too old?" I asked my peers. "I can be quite immature if it would help," I added chuckling. 

The laughter quickly died down as this baby boomer group attacked my question. It seems that I am not alone in feeling the sting of an anti-aging society.

"How old is too old ... and how accurate are the values our society assigns to the aging process?"

Hearing voices (in the blogosphere)

I’m hearing voices … again! More than whispers, these are the words born of beautiful minds … great writing that lends originality, honesty and humanity to the blogosphere.

But I’m behind the times … again. So forgive me if some of these posts are a bit dated. They remain messages that deserve to be heard.

I’m referring to the Progenitor who is finally a father. Hear the love that’s been awakened in him in a recent poem to his newborn daughter:

Baby girl…
Expanding our world.
Perfection in a soft cheek,
The curve of your spine as you lie on my chest …

Your reality completes…
Our home,
Our lives.

At the other extreme, I’m hearing the voice of Mimi at Mimi Writes who recalls the miracles of her grandmother:

I don't know if she was gifted with a healing vibe or just knew how to get things done. All I know is that my great-grandmother … had many old fashioned cures for whatever ailed us…

Inquisitive and annoying child that I was, I asked her all the time to tell me her secrets. She would not …

Perhaps her gift to me was a knowing and silent belief that sometimes wisdom lies in things that cannot be explained.

I hear the the message of Sarah at My Life as it Was, Is, and Will Be who reminds us to participate in life, even as we grow older:

The water broke a path behind her as she raced onwards. There were whistles and hoots and hollers on the lakeshore.  She continued, oblivious to the cheers. Her path reflected a straight line across the bay. She was riding her jet ski.

And she was 91 years old.

I’m also hearing journeyers who are taking a closer look at their worlds. Writers like Linda at Uncommon Adventures who recently found new appreciation (then life-and-death drama) as she explored her world by bicycle:

Because I see my usual bike route more often than others, it can sometimes seem boring or uninteresting. But if I pretend to be new to the area and unfamiliar with the rolling to flat hills, straight country roads, weathered barns, fields of who-knows-what-yet... corn, beans, alfalfa... I can see the plainness exude a mercurial beauty unlike the scenery presented by a mountain view or an ocean-scape.

I invite you to take a moment to listen to the voices with me by reading full posts via the links provided. See if these bloggers' words resonate within you!

More than age-spots: boomers' real midlife crises

My aging father has dementia. There ... I've said it. I don't like saying it. I especially dislike seeing it here on the screen in black and white. After all, dementia is not a black and white issue. It's colored with all kinds of emotion ... primarily fear and denial.

Many of the issues I face as a baby boomer are tinted in these same hues. For instance, only in the last few years have I come to grips with the fact that I am in the stretch of time called "midlife." Maybe that's because I feel so young. But the U.S. Census Bureau classifies baby boomers as "the generation born between 1946 and 1964." I console myself that I'm at the tail end of that era ... but I'm there nonetheless. Besides, I know the government wouldn't lie to me. Not about something like that anyhow.

Other signs confirm that I have reached midlife. I've passed 45, the age I literally consider mid-life ( I plan to reach age 90 out of sheer spunk). Age spots increasingly dot my arms. And with my acceptance of Dad's health concerns comes the realization that the roles are changing between parent and child.

Yet, there is more to it than that. I'm losing my "cool factor" with the younger generation. My bifocals have replaced standard eye-glasses. And, most heart-breaking of all, I now can only watch as 60-something friends are forced into retirement. 

All of this, in sum, might help to explain why I've begun reading several "boomer blogs," including that of the self-acknowledged Midlife Crisis Queen. Her recent post, "Midlife and the Mainstream Media" really grabbed my attention. There, the author -- Laura Lee Carter -- discusses how various media outlets "always seem to miss the mark in terms of real life midlife experiences."

Carter has a point. In referring to MSN Lifestyle Boomers, she invites, "go check out their take on us and our needs. I don’t know, between an interview with Pierce Brosnan on how ordinary his life really is, and 'How to throw a summertime party' all of my needs have been addressed."

Like Carter, none of my concerns are covered in the featured articles. And that's a shame, because baby boomers face significant issues at midlife. Having said that, however, several other sources are willing to look beneath the surface at the real concerns and crises baby boomers face at this phase in our lives; sites in addition to Midlife Crisis Queen, which also covers many of these topics. I'd like to touch on two of these today.

Career considerations

As I watch 40-somethings seemingly get passed over in the hiring and promotion process -- or desperately search for roles that offer them more satisfaction -- I not only ache for them, but I worry about my own future (and, no, I'm not too hold to have one). So I was delighted to find this slightly dated -- but still relevant -- post at WomenBloom, "Revise Your Networking Plan To Fit Your Midlife Reality and Goals."

Here Marny Lifshen notes that, "hitting one's 40s and 50s is when we can begin feeling restless personally and professionally. Career and life may be in need of some re-invigorating." She continues with a number of networking tips specifically targeted to meet the needs of boomers.

Another site, The Chronicle of Higher Education, covers the reality of midlife job dissatisfaction in their online article, "A Midlife Crisis Hits College Campuses."

Care-giving

Another side of midlife involves watching parents age. I've learned that whether I'm sitting on the sidelines or involving myself in the details, witnessing the older generation decline is not easy. In her post "I'll Love You Forever," Ellen Besso describes a scene in which she is pushing her mother's wheelchair. She passes a young mom guiding her young child's stroller ... and Besso observes that "in the circle of time parents look after children and sometimes children look after parents."

Carol O'Dell also discusses care-giving on her blog, Mothering Mother and More, where she delves into the myriad complexities involved with this role reversal. A recent post considers how we, adult children, speak with our aging parents. O'Dell observes, "It’s easy to ... get so caught up in the bossiness of caregiving that you start barking out orders and not treating your loved one with the patience and thoughtfulness they deserve ... and let’s face it, your mom or dad ... isn’t crazy about being told what to do all the time, especially by their children."

Luckily for me, both women have plenty of tips to help me through this difficult time. Real advice with zero references to hunky Pierce Brosnan, or any other celeb for that matter. But the issues of care-giving and career are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the concerns of baby boomers.

Other topics of interest to boomers include:

• Hormonal changes
• Health concerns (including those over the future of health care)
• Midlife's impact on marriage and family (including divorce)
• New perspectives on life and shifting priorities in response to those changes
• The loss of parents, a partner or resulting from an "empty nest"
• Midlife dating
• Retirement and financial considerations

In the coming days, I'll be returning to cover these topics, but for now I'd like to conclude my midlife ramblings with an observation. Like the Midlife Crisis Queen, my boomer concerns are not about how to throw a summer party. That, I can figure out without much help ... thanks, all the same. I have no issues with the gray in my hair or the crow's feet appearing on my face. Consider them well-earned. My concerns are real. They are about relationships and their evolution. About maintaining health and financial security now and in the future. About personal relevance and purpose.

You see, my life is changing. My perspectives are changing. And my obligations are following suit. I hope the media can keep pace with me.

Are you a baby boomer?  What are your midlife concerns?

Causes of catastrophy

My mind is on the devastation I see around the world and, now, in my own community. And thus a multitude of thoughts roll through my brain ...

Why do we suffer hardships, catastrophes? Are there reasons for the massive earthquake in China? The Myanmar cyclone?  The flooding in the midwestern United States?

When I was growing up, I was taught there was a reason. We didn't call it karma. We were told it was the result of sin, godlessness.

At the time, I was not convinced. How could someone's personal beliefs (or lack thereof) cause famine?  If my own family believed in the wrong god for centuries, would a decade come where my crops would burn up year after year?  How could a people's moral decline spawn hurricane force winds? Or was their true “sin” their lack of foresight in choosing where to live or how to build?

When it came to sin, I could not make the connection. Still can't, even though I'm older and ... well, I'm older.

My friend Jan's mother was recently injured in a tornado in Parkersburg, Iowa. She lost her home but, amazingly, kept her life. Still it's not easy for me to see the photos of this 80-year-old grandmother with a bandaged head and two shiners. This is neither a godless woman nor an immoral one. And as the tornado weaved through some neighborhoods while sparing others, it seemingly did not seek out pockets of depravity ... it moved indiscriminately.

What I do believe in is natural consequences. It's how our physical world works. I've seen for myself that if we abuse or neglect what we are given, there will be repercussions, ones that are largely predictable. If I don't change the oil in my car regularly, it won't last five years or 30,000 miles, whichever comes first. If I smoke (and I used to), I weaken my body and invite disease. If our societies blindly spew pollutants into the air, there is bound to an environmental backlash. And today we're beginning to realize that those results may lie in the effects of global warming.

“So, then, global warming is our punishment?” you might ask. But then we'd be back to playing the blame game and I've never seen winners ever emerge from that kind of word play. Can we look at this differently? When calamity besets us, can we view this as an opportunity to do what humans do best? We adapt. Even better, we help each other adapt. And, as a result, we become better people; we build stronger societies. We survive and, in some ways, we evolve. 

How do YOU view catastrophy or natural disaster? Do we bring these events on ourselves? Are they bound to occur? Feel free to disagree with me! All comments that are submitted in the spirit of open sharing (ie., no attacks or verbal abuse) will be published.

Road-tested wisdom

I've listened to “the experts” for far too long. You know, the ones with the credentials, but no callouses to back 'em up. Hmmm ... on second thought, perhaps I just haven't listened to the wisdom of the common man (or woman) enough. Those with the observations that that make me say, “I know this, too ... somehow”

Now, after benefiting from the real life experience of several bloggers this week, I just might give my pop psychology books a rest and visit the blogosphere more often!

Here's a sampling of road-tested truths I've recently re-learned from my peers.

1.  I must face my fears to find fulfillment. The Fearless Blog pulls no punches in bringing this reality to my attention with these words:

“I don't know if life is supposed to be hard. I don't know that life should be easy. I know sometimes we must go with the flow but other times we have to push or pull if we are ever going to improve our lives, achieve our dreams or simply find peace. I constantly remind myself to face my fears, challenge myself and find a way to do the things I think sometimes I cannot do. ... I must do GREAT THINGS and be FEARLESS, for it is in those achievements that I feel fulfilled.”

2.  I must look to the small things in life for happiness. On a philosophical level I already know this to me true, but Evenstar Art has provided me with a beautiful, simple reminder:

“Again and again ...it is the simple pleasures in my life that keep my head and heart above water. The soft and gentle song of the Baltimore Oriole at 7am. A whirlwind of maple seeds spiraling into my lap...  Big events in life are not what are sustaining. They don't come often enough.”

3. Worlds of wonder are all about me. Finding Life's Enchantments revealed this truth so well recently with literally the tiniest of observations:

“The lessons I learned from nature is that there are so many worlds within this world. Unseen worlds. I discovered that the weeds in my garden are protection for many insects and creepy crawlies. Each day that I work tending to my plants, I come upon these little spiders. They lie in the grass and weeds protecting their little round white egg full of their little ones. I accidentally separated the mother from her egg ... To my surprise when I nudged the little egg over to her, she took it immediately and went about her day.”

Maybe I find so much meaning in these shared snippets of life because none of the authors claims to be an expert. To my knowledge, they have nothing to prove and nothing to gain through the retelling. And yet they give of their lives, observations and stories all the same ... leading to my last road-tested truth, a personal observation of my own:

4. People are programmed to share.

Thanks to all the amazing bloggers -- including some I have yet to feature -- who have shared their insights with me this past week! You enrich my life!

A will to see (bears)

Awakened by ribbons of bright morning light, I groggily stumble to the kitchen where my husband sits obscured by the newspaper. Hearing me enter the room, Frank glances up over its pages. A wide grin quickly spreads across his face. “Seems there are reports of bears in northeastern Iowa,” he says, chin quivering with suppressed laughter.

I'm now fully awake and not amused. I have, you see, a desperate desire to spot a real live bear and Frank knows it. Keep in mind that I have no need to spot a bear: the bragging rights would quickly fade, it's not the type of thing that would enhance my resume, and it's not even on my “To Do” list. Moreover, I don't have the slightest idea where the desire came from. And it might be dangerous. Still ... the thought holds an unshakable appeal for me. So perhaps I'm fortunate to live in Iowa where bear spotting is not likely to happen.

In baiting me, Frank is obviously recalling earlier vacation trips to national parks. Trips where I was so determined to see a bear that I spotted dozens as we drove through miles of woodland. Those dozens turned out to be three Newfoundlands, at least five full-grown black Labrador Retrievers, several Rottweilers, two black German Shepards, a Beauceron, what I now suspect was a Black Russian Terrier and -- as I neared desperation -- an obese black Poodle. Yes, in my enthusiasm, large dogs had been misinterpreted as bears.

Bears in Iowa? Not likely. I scowl at Frank. “I'm not biting,” I reply.

“No, seriously,” he continues. “Numerous witnesses have reported black bear sightings,” he insists. A pause fills the space between us.

“But... ?” I finally prompt. “But they're only finding dog tracks!” Frank howls.

I have to laugh. Not at the witnesses, but at human nature. I find it amazing how we tend to see what we want to see. Myself included. I am fully capable of deluding myself ... at least for a moment. So today, as a public service, I would like to illustrate the difference between the American Black Bear and a number of dog breeds. When you see the obvious similarities you might forgive me. Then again, you might not!

The last laugh, however, might still be on me! Find out how tomorrow when I probe a little deeper!

   

All photographs have been provided courtesy of a GNU Free Documentation License and/or under Creative Commons licensing.

Click on images to view enlargements.

Innocent or evil?

Man is inherently evil I'm told. I keep the news from my atheist friend who's spending his retirement in service to others. I won't tell him because I understand the power of perspective. It's a lesson I learned quite young.

By the time I was six, I had decided not to leave childhood. I took this stance with the fierce determination of one who had seen the future and didn't like it ... and with the naivete associated with children and other idealists.

I had reached this pivotal point in my young life not by accident but by observation. By sneaking suspicions that materialized into full blown conclusions the day the missionary came to our home.

Before his appearance, I had already suspected that growing older meant growing unhappy. I saw adults as joyless. They were the spoilers who told me to be a little lady when I wanted to run; the ones with never-ending reasons why I shouldn't pick the flowers, touch the knick-knacks or put my hands on the glass. Before the missionary came, I had also begun to fear that my sister, some two years older, was falling prey to this brand of misery. She began citing their rules. She was becoming one of them.

You might suspect that I was demon spawn. Yet, doing bad was never my intention ... despite evidence that suggests otherwise.

On the morning that the missionary arrived, however, none of this was on my mind. Our home was brimming with excitement and I was caught up in it. Not only was a visitor coming, but one unlike anyone I'd ever known; one who had lived in Africa! My siblings and I were already gathered in the family room as he entered through the side door with my father.

This was to be an important meeting. With Father in his first year of seminary, it would help my parents decide whether or not to enter the mission field. I'd already been instructed not to badger our guest with too many queries, but upon seeing a small bundle tucked under the missionary's arm, my curiosity got the better of me and soon questions were pouring forth.

“What is that? Is that from Africa? Are the people there naked all the time or just sometimes like in National Geographic? Do you speak African?”

Undaunted by the onslaught of questions, our guest -- a kindly, pale man -- soon took center stage. With all eyes fixed upon him, he revealed the contents of his bag -- a carved wooden object -- and asked if we knew what it was. I was quick to respond. “A doll,” I said. I loved dolls, but a cold fear had already struck my heart that this man, before he left Africa, had stolen some poor little girl's plaything.

“No,” he replied. “This is an idol. This is what the African people worship. They think it's a god.”
With all the worldly wisdom of a six-year old, I was skeptical. “It doesn't look like an idol,” I said. “It looks like a doll.”

There was a sense of unease in the room as my mother arrived to usher us to the table for lunch. I know this because I was getting the look. I saw it on my sister's face. And my father wore the look so sternly his two eyebrows had scrunched into one. “Children are to be seen and not heard,” my mother reminded me.

As we began the procession into the kitchen, the missionary placed his African momento on our television set and, turning back to us, announced, “this TV, it's an idol, too.” To which my father said, “Amen.”

I don't know what Mother served for lunch. I don't know what passed for conversation. I don't know because, throughout the meal, my mind never left the wooden carving on the TV.

It wasn't long before I asked to be excused from the table. With a feigned nonchalance that should have aroused suspicion, I meandered back into the family room to re-examine the figurine. I studied the object from all angles. I admired its worn, round face and dark painted eyes before finally daring to pick it up. Seeing wooden pins at the shoulders, I carefully I rotated its stiff arms until the doll seemed to reach forward toward an embrace.

Maybe the missionary didn't have a daughter of his own. Or perhaps she didn't play with dolls like I did. I gingerly cradled this one in my arms and carried her to the sofa, wondering what her life had been like in Africa and what little girl must have loved her.

I was lost in those thoughts when my father returned with the missionary from their meal. The men froze together in silence as they spotted me on the couch with their idol tight against my chest. I wasn't innocent; this they knew for I was embracing what was forbidden. But was mine the face of evil? Certainly they must have wondered.

I still can feel the sting of the spanking I received that afternoon. But stronger yet was the angst that came with the full understanding that my own observations would always be discounted when up against the beliefs of those who make the rules.

In some ways I did grow up that very day, despite my best intentions. Although I had to keep the lesson hidden, I learned that what we see is colored by what we expect to see ... what we want to see. Perhaps even by what we fear.

Was the carving an idol? Or was it a toy? It depends. How do you see it?

The journey: past and present

My travel through the blogosphere was very rewarding this weekend. As I detoured from my own life to peek into the journeys of others, I happened upon some great content by several of my favorite bloggers. And by great, I mean writing that makes me think or strikes a chord within me.

Bernie at F-f-fiftysomething was the first to take an introspective reach back into his personal history with his post “It’s Right Here.” There he expresses the importance of taking stock of our lives:

“I don’t live in the past, but I think studying the past is important to the understanding of our present and can help us navigate our future. We get so caught up in the details of our lives that we often overlook how the present fits into the broader context of past and future. And sometimes we are so busy that we don’t realize that past, present and future converge right here in front of us.”

Also looking back is Peter at St Vincent's Hospital Darlinghurst - Male Nurses. I never expected to find such great writing from (or so many commonalities with) someone so different from myself; and yet Peter never ceases to amaze me! In an intriguing post titled, “I Wasn't Born Old,” Peter juxtaposes his memories “about my days as a boy and present-day happenings.” Among my favorite lines is this treasure:

“Treating each memory like a relic brought out to be dusted; I reveal old ground to the curious and to those who assume I was born old that I wasn’t.”

At Uncommon Adventures, Linda has done a little digging into her past as well. In the post “Appreciation,” she shares an old letter that reveals how she came to appreciate “the natural wonder of Florida” while doing some volunteer work. I wonder how many of us can identify with this sentiment when we reconcile our present day selves with our memories of who we were:

“Harvesting my old journals for nuggets of my youthful wisdom (is that an oxymoron?) I stumbled upon something that I have trouble believing came from my own pen. But it did. It's my handwriting, my experience, my appreciation. But so far removed from it I feel like sharing it like a parent shares a child's watercolor painting, posting it on the refrigerator until it is no longer recognizable.”

How often do you look back over your life to gain understanding of who you are now? What have you learned from your introspection? Have there been any surprises? Can you relate to the experiences of Bernie, Peter and Linda?