I talk much less now that I'm in my mid-80s. To cover up I tell friends and family I've taken a vow of silence. Susie, your post was substantial and provoked a very thoughtful conversation. One line I found helpful was: "I may have to recalibrate my way of being in the world so that the infinite has more room to stretch." Recalibrating may be the secret. I only hope I can remember that.
I was a big talker when I was younger. Very glib. It's such a relief to engage the world in different ways...by observing, by feeling, not necessarily by speaking. It also makes room for other people, as well as for the infinite. Maybe that's the same thing.
“Don’t think about a purple rabbit.” That’s how a short story describing a cocktail party game I read many years ago began, the tickler being that asking people not to think about something pretty much assures the thing will take up abode in their heads. So I’ve tried not to think about my own mortality, but whether I’m trying not to, or not trying not to (try that!) there it is, a constant backdrop, an ever-present, humming accompaniment to my life now.
As to Susie’s post: in recent days I’d forgotten the name of a sweet friend from many years ago who lived in my DC apartment building. She was a Scot, and loved to make tea for me, loose tea in a real china teapot, with matching cups, and real cream. It bothers me that I can’t recall her name. And now that I reflect on it, I see that the name-forgetting is like a pall thrown over my experience of her friendship.
Just yesterday, I banged my toe on something, taking note at the time that I’d need to avoid a repetition, as black-and-blue isn’t a good toe color. Do you know that this morning, I can’t remember how I did it? How will I know what to avoid? It’s maddening.
So if the encroachment of our own end-times -- whether we’re aware that we’re thinking about that particular purple rabbit or not -- fills our brains with the fog of forgetting, maybe we can find comfort in knowing that the fog merely clouds our view of something that remains deep within us.
Oh: her name was Margot. But I still can’t remember how I banged my toe.
It interests me that you've tried (consciously?) not to think about your own mortality. My bias is to think that most people find sneaky ways of avoiding thinking about it. I'm quite the opposite and am curious about the philosophical relationship between forgetting and awareness of mortality. They say that we don't remember a traumatic accident (especially a head injury)...as if part of the healing is the forgetting.
I’m also curious about that relationship, and, prompted by your post, I’m wondering, too, if forgetting might not be a symptom of our mortality-- certainly of aging. And thinking about forgetting and mortality showed me that, when I “forget” about my own mortality -- whether by trying to or by not trying to --an oblique kind of awareness of it always there – as is a shadow awareness of other things I’ve forgotten, like friends’ names. Is this a philosophical relationship? I don’t know.
I meant philosophical in the sense of stepping back from the experience and pondering it in relation to other aspects of being human which it seems that you are doing. Thank you for that.
Powerful and thoughtful. I imagine that "seeing without naming" is especially challenging for a writer. How do we write without words and naming? Do we let words go along with a sea of lettings go that this stage of life demands? Two years ago, in a spectacularly klutzy moment, I broke my ankle in three places. As I sat around recovering, I played with the word "break" and I did a lot of interesting dreaming. In the end, I concluded that I needed a break in my thinking about aging- much of it my mother's and society's bad attitude- that it is a downhill slide into the grave. I've begun to shift my attitude and your thoughts give me further ways to consider the journey ahead. Thank you!
Thanks for writing, Patti. I'm thinking about differentiating between those moments and experiences that are enhanced by language and those that benefit from giving words a rest.
Yes an important distinction. Those moments and experiences will probably keep shifting too. One time words will serve; another time silence. That’s the tricking thing about this journey through our last chapter. The terrain keeps shifting! Thank you again for this thoughtful piece.
When I sat with hospice patients, their families sometimes despaired that they had become "withdrawn." I always thought that was a necessary retreat before setting out on a journey to who knows where. Silence is still a poor relation in our world.
Every unexpected burst of authenticity is costly. But you pay for what you get, yes? Some days, I don't feel brave at all. Still it's such an important conversation. Thank you for joining it.
Wonderful! Perhaps it's strange, but this helps me grasp differently the following words, which are on a bronze monument honoring the Fox sisters near our home: "There is no death; there are no dead." Indeed, one does need to get beyond the words. . . .
loved "If I look without defining what I’m seeing, the view is much wilder, more spacious; Eden before the naming of the animals, a reprieve from the discriminating mind." Thank you, Susie, for this reminder that language is just a part of the vastness of our consciousness.
It's a huge lesson for me since I've always been word bound. And, of course, it's a contradiction to write about escaping the grip of language...but there it is.
So good to read this, and see the power of resolution that writing the truth brings us. Thank you so much. I totally agree: let's make room for wisdom to come into the house! it is a natural process.
When I feel that spaciousness, I'm grateful for aging. I had a day like that earlier this week where "everything was illuminated"...followed by a day that was cramped and anxious. It was useful to hold both of these experiences side by side.
Spectacular piece. It feels so less lonely to hear a peer articulate these feelings, which resonate so deeply. I love being around young people or younger people, which I frequently am, but it is so important to hear from my peers. I want to own my age, my era and know that my emotions and perceptions are not peculiar or abnormal. But rather part of the natural progression of aging like my wrinkled ,saggy skin and blue veined body. Aging is what it is. And I am...what I am.
I find the owning of one's individual aging in the flow of the historical dimension (what you refer to as "my era") endlessly fascinating. Clearly, growing old now carries with it all our experiences from the sixties, all our generational exceptionalism.
Thank you, Don. It's important for writers to recognize the value of feeling totally vulnerable when we share our thoughts. This one really got to me.
I talk much less now that I'm in my mid-80s. To cover up I tell friends and family I've taken a vow of silence. Susie, your post was substantial and provoked a very thoughtful conversation. One line I found helpful was: "I may have to recalibrate my way of being in the world so that the infinite has more room to stretch." Recalibrating may be the secret. I only hope I can remember that.
I was a big talker when I was younger. Very glib. It's such a relief to engage the world in different ways...by observing, by feeling, not necessarily by speaking. It also makes room for other people, as well as for the infinite. Maybe that's the same thing.
I'm impressed, Susie not only with your post but with the thoughtful comments of your readers and your responses.
That's very kind of you. If there's anyone else you know who might be interested, please share seventysomething with them.
I'm a painter and photographer. I used to be a reporter and then associate editor of The Eagle.
OK, then:
“Don’t think about a purple rabbit.” That’s how a short story describing a cocktail party game I read many years ago began, the tickler being that asking people not to think about something pretty much assures the thing will take up abode in their heads. So I’ve tried not to think about my own mortality, but whether I’m trying not to, or not trying not to (try that!) there it is, a constant backdrop, an ever-present, humming accompaniment to my life now.
As to Susie’s post: in recent days I’d forgotten the name of a sweet friend from many years ago who lived in my DC apartment building. She was a Scot, and loved to make tea for me, loose tea in a real china teapot, with matching cups, and real cream. It bothers me that I can’t recall her name. And now that I reflect on it, I see that the name-forgetting is like a pall thrown over my experience of her friendship.
Just yesterday, I banged my toe on something, taking note at the time that I’d need to avoid a repetition, as black-and-blue isn’t a good toe color. Do you know that this morning, I can’t remember how I did it? How will I know what to avoid? It’s maddening.
So if the encroachment of our own end-times -- whether we’re aware that we’re thinking about that particular purple rabbit or not -- fills our brains with the fog of forgetting, maybe we can find comfort in knowing that the fog merely clouds our view of something that remains deep within us.
Oh: her name was Margot. But I still can’t remember how I banged my toe.
It interests me that you've tried (consciously?) not to think about your own mortality. My bias is to think that most people find sneaky ways of avoiding thinking about it. I'm quite the opposite and am curious about the philosophical relationship between forgetting and awareness of mortality. They say that we don't remember a traumatic accident (especially a head injury)...as if part of the healing is the forgetting.
I’m also curious about that relationship, and, prompted by your post, I’m wondering, too, if forgetting might not be a symptom of our mortality-- certainly of aging. And thinking about forgetting and mortality showed me that, when I “forget” about my own mortality -- whether by trying to or by not trying to --an oblique kind of awareness of it always there – as is a shadow awareness of other things I’ve forgotten, like friends’ names. Is this a philosophical relationship? I don’t know.
I meant philosophical in the sense of stepping back from the experience and pondering it in relation to other aspects of being human which it seems that you are doing. Thank you for that.
Thank you, Susie.
Powerful and thoughtful. I imagine that "seeing without naming" is especially challenging for a writer. How do we write without words and naming? Do we let words go along with a sea of lettings go that this stage of life demands? Two years ago, in a spectacularly klutzy moment, I broke my ankle in three places. As I sat around recovering, I played with the word "break" and I did a lot of interesting dreaming. In the end, I concluded that I needed a break in my thinking about aging- much of it my mother's and society's bad attitude- that it is a downhill slide into the grave. I've begun to shift my attitude and your thoughts give me further ways to consider the journey ahead. Thank you!
Thanks for writing, Patti. I'm thinking about differentiating between those moments and experiences that are enhanced by language and those that benefit from giving words a rest.
Yes an important distinction. Those moments and experiences will probably keep shifting too. One time words will serve; another time silence. That’s the tricking thing about this journey through our last chapter. The terrain keeps shifting! Thank you again for this thoughtful piece.
When I sat with hospice patients, their families sometimes despaired that they had become "withdrawn." I always thought that was a necessary retreat before setting out on a journey to who knows where. Silence is still a poor relation in our world.
Susie -- what is the maximum length for a comment? Your essay inspired me to write something, but it's about 300 words!
Go for it
I don't think you are pushing the envelope too far, I think you are brave and vulnerable and authentic. And perhaps this gift helps us be braver too.
Every unexpected burst of authenticity is costly. But you pay for what you get, yes? Some days, I don't feel brave at all. Still it's such an important conversation. Thank you for joining it.
Wonderful! Perhaps it's strange, but this helps me grasp differently the following words, which are on a bronze monument honoring the Fox sisters near our home: "There is no death; there are no dead." Indeed, one does need to get beyond the words. . . .
Thanks for writing, Max. I'd love to hear more about how your thoughts have changed.
loved "If I look without defining what I’m seeing, the view is much wilder, more spacious; Eden before the naming of the animals, a reprieve from the discriminating mind." Thank you, Susie, for this reminder that language is just a part of the vastness of our consciousness.
It's a huge lesson for me since I've always been word bound. And, of course, it's a contradiction to write about escaping the grip of language...but there it is.
So good to read this, and see the power of resolution that writing the truth brings us. Thank you so much. I totally agree: let's make room for wisdom to come into the house! it is a natural process.
When I feel that spaciousness, I'm grateful for aging. I had a day like that earlier this week where "everything was illuminated"...followed by a day that was cramped and anxious. It was useful to hold both of these experiences side by side.
Spectacular piece. It feels so less lonely to hear a peer articulate these feelings, which resonate so deeply. I love being around young people or younger people, which I frequently am, but it is so important to hear from my peers. I want to own my age, my era and know that my emotions and perceptions are not peculiar or abnormal. But rather part of the natural progression of aging like my wrinkled ,saggy skin and blue veined body. Aging is what it is. And I am...what I am.
I find the owning of one's individual aging in the flow of the historical dimension (what you refer to as "my era") endlessly fascinating. Clearly, growing old now carries with it all our experiences from the sixties, all our generational exceptionalism.
Gorgeous, yet again.
Also, me too!
Thank you! Write me when you have a chance with that "me too."
“I’m interested in where we come from and where we’re going…” -
Me too!
“I worry that people will think I’m a downer, as if in the end it matters what people think…” -
Me too!
“I may have to recalibrate my way of being in the world so that the infinite has more room to stretch…”
-
Me too!
I could have chosen a dozen other passages and exclaimed Me too! Thank you for using words to point down a road that words cannot travel.
You're very kind to respond in so much detail. It helps me understand how my writing impacts people. Very helpful. Much appreciated.
A brilliant essay! Very provocative.
Thanks, Don. Sometimes there's a fine line between provocative and pushing the envelope a little too far. Glad you liked it.