The Age Factor

My friend Millie is quite a bit older than I – in fact, she’s old enough to be my mother.  Somehow, though, I always think of her as a contemporary.  She’s stylish, fit, active in all aspects of life, and she keeps a schedule that makes me tired just thinking about it!

Millie is one of my musical mentors…she taught me everything I know about playing handbells, shepherded my acceptance into Classical Bells, encouraged me to do all the kinds of things I didn’t think were possible.  We’ve traveled together, lived together, shared lots of laughs over hot coffee in the morning and glasses of wine in the evening.

Although I no longer perform with Classical Bells, Millie and I are stand partners in our church bell choir, a group she herself directed for many years (played in and directed at the same time, I might add, and that’s no mean feat!)

Last Sunday we played in church for the first time this year, and I was forced to accept something I’ve been noticing for a while.

She’s not as sharp as she used to be.

Oh, she’s fine in rehearsal, but when the pressure of performance time hits, and she gets a little flustered, things go wrong.  She loses her place, or picks up the wrong bell, and then she gets more flustered and perhaps turns two pages.  And then, it’s pretty hard to recover. 

Now you’d never guess it to look at her, or listen to her speak, but my friend Millie is 72 years old.  And when you reach that age, it’s pretty inevitable that the brain synapses aren’t going to fire as rapidly as they once did, that change is going to be a bit harder to handle, that stress is going to take a bigger toll than it once did.

So, why am I telling you all these things about my best friend, whom I love so dearly?

Because the man who could be President of this country is also 72 years old.  Should he be elected, in the ensuing four years he will face unparalleled stresses on his mind and body.  People aren’t talking a lot about the age factor in this election, but they should be.  A man that age, particularly one who has already suffered some pretty significant health problems, has absolutely no business running a country, especially one in huge crisis.

When my friend is pressured, gets flustered, and loses her place, it’s not a big deal.

But if it happens to the leader of the free world, it’s a very big deal indeed.

A Clarion Call

“This country and the dream it represents are being tested in a way that we haven’t seen in nearly a century. And future generations will judge ours by how we respond to this test. Will they say that this was a time when America lost its way and its purpose? When we allowed the same divisions and fear tactics and our own petty differences to plunge this country into a dark and painful recession?

“Or will they say that this was another one of those moments when America overcame? When we battled back from adversity by recognizing that common stake that we have in each other’s success?

“This is one of those moments. I realize you’re cynical and fed up with politics. I understand that you’re disappointed and even angry with your leaders. You have every right to be. But despite all of this, I ask of you what’s been asked of the American people in times of trial and turmoil throughout our history. I ask you to believe – to believe in yourselves, in each other, and in the future we can build together.”

~From Barack Obama’s speech in Richmond, Virginia

My Little Psychopath

It’s been a while since I’ve written about her, a former music student, now special ed teacher, but with so many deep seated psychological problems that for the past two years she’s been on a revolving door into the psychiatric ward.  She calls me periodically, usually crying, to let me know that she’s “not doing well” or has “tried to hurt herself.”

One of those calls came in about a month ago – she was hospitalized after a suicide attempt, and she was calling me from her room.  Her car had been impounded, she said, sobbing, and she didn’t know how to get it out.  

I know she wanted me to help her, but those were the days leading up to my mother in law’s death, and in all honesty, I was just tapped out. 

“You need to call your mother,” I told her.  The girl does have a mother, even though their relationship is apparently god-awful.

“I’m afraid!” cried.  “She’ll only make it worse!”

“Then talk to the social worker at the hospital, and find out what to do,” I counseled. 

“Okay,” she says, the flat, resigned tone I’ve come to expect whenever I offer advice of any kind.

I called my friend Pat, who, knowing my situation at that time, agreed to go out to the hospital and see her. 

The next night, very late, the phone rang again. 

“I called my mother, like you said,” came her voice, low pitched, dark, and completely flat sounding – the scariest sounding voice I ever heard.  “She came here and brought me some money.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes,” she answered.  Then, after a long pause, the dark voice continued.  “Here’s the thing,” it went on in my ear, “the thing about my mother.  When I was little, and then when I was a teenager, and even now if I go home, she gets into bed with me and she’s naked and she touches me.”

Dear God. 

Obviously I am in way over my head.

And that’s “the thing”…this girl is supposedly getting treatment at one of the finest medical facilities in southeastern Michigan.  Why is she calling me on the phone from her hospital room?  Why is she attempting suicide right outside the building after leaving a session with her therapist?  Does that make sense?

Anyway,  that was last month. 

Last night, after a particularly grueling day at the office (which you’ll hear about eventually, I promise), she calls again.  She’s sobbing (and driving) which is so often the case.

“Things are just so hard right now,” she says, gasping into the phone.  “My classes are so bad, there are so many kids who are violent and have to be restrained, and it’s impossible to teach, and I just feel so suicidal I can’t do anything.”

“Where are you now?” I ask. 

“On my way home from therapy,” she answers tearfully.

I know that’s at least a 40 minute drive.  So I did my best to redirect her attention to something other than killing herself.  We talked about finding something to do each week that she would enjoy, we talked about her years in college, and how she felt better during that time than any other time in her life, we reminisced a little about funny things that happened during high school, and how they had seemed so bad at the time and now we were laughing about them.

After about 20 minutes, I could tell she was done talking.  She hadn’t eaten since noon (this was about 9:00 p.m.) and I convinced her to go through the Wendy’s drive through.  She assured me she was allright to continue on home.

“Thank you for talking to me,” she said softly.

“It’s okay,” I answered.

“I love you,” she said – she always says that at least once.

“I love you too,” I replied.

And I do ~ she’s a sweet natured, brilliant girl, who has never felt she was worth anything.  She’s obviously in need of some unconditional love and support – the kind you’re supposed to get from your mother.

I get really angry at people who mess up their children.  I know we all have “issues” of our own, but people who damage their own children- psychologically or physically – just don’t get any excuses in my book.  There’s no exemption for that kind of behavior, no matter what your problems are.

And I’m worried that somehow this girl is getting lost in the system, that without an adult to advocate for her, she’s not getting the treatment she needs or the kind of advice to help her get her life on track. 

Ultimately, of course, I’m worried that I’ll fail her too – that one day my conversational gambits and lame attempts to play therapist simply won’t cut it, and she’ll succeed in her quest to  escape from a life she continues to find more and more untenable.

And that’s the biggest fear of all.

The Times They Are A-Changin’ (part two)

During the summer of 1968, we were on our annual summer pilgramage to my mother’s hometown in central Kentucky.  I recall being gathered around the kitchen table at my Aunt Emily’s house, eating homemade peach ice cream.  The Democratic National Convention was on the television in the background, some of the men sitting around watching Hubert Humprey become the nominee for President.  One of the littler cousins turned to my Uncle Bud and said innocently,

“Papaw, what are we? Democrats or ‘Publicans?”

“Hmph,” my uncle replied, “we are Democrats in this family, boy, and don’t you ever forget it.”

So my political leanings seem to have been bred in my southern bones, along with my love of going barefoot, my taste for pecan pie and mint in my tea.  Admittedly, I’ve never been more than a lackadaisical Democrat, have never done more than dutifully cast my ballot in Presidential and Gubernatorial elections.

But this election feels different to me.  It feels like this country is at a watershed moment, as if we’re poised on the brink of a precipice and could quite easily tip over, careening down a path of destruction.  The stakes are high in this election, and this time when I cast my vote for the Democratic party, I feel as if it carries more weight than it ever has before.

In the past eight years, we’ve seen firsthand the power of the Presidency – and certainly not in a good way.  We’ve seen only too well how one man can lead a nation to the brink of destruction globally, can erode its economy, can create an atmosphere of hopelessness and loss among its people.  How one man can exacerbate a personal vendetta war that costs thousands of young lives and billions of dollars.

I rarely mention politics on any of my blogs, because that’s not what my writing here is about.  But I believe the times must change in this country.  And I believe of the two candidates who are running for President, Barack Obama is the man who has the best chance of making that change occur. During the course of this seemingly endless campaign, he has impressed me with his logical, common sense approach to domestic and foreign issues, his vision for new opportunities for the middle class, and his serenity and cool headed manner.  He strikes me as a man who thinks things through, who pays attention to detail, and who does not jump rashly into a situation without being fully prepared.

These qualities will serve him well in a country that’s hungry for hope, guidance, and strong leadership.

Although I was raised in a family of Democrats, I married into a family of Republicans.  Rabid ones at that.  (My father in law kept an 8 x 10 glossy of Ronald Regan on his bedroom wall.)  It’s never been an issue between Jim and I, because neither one of us was all that invested in the political process.  But lately I’ve been telling him (and I’m only half joking, people) that if McCain wins this election, I’m moving to Canada (or maybe even Australia) and renouncing my citizenship.  “If the American people are stupid enough to elect another Republican,” I’ve been known to say when I get really riled up on the subject, “than I don’t even want to be an American anymore.”

Whether it was my threats, or whether he’s finally seen the error of his ways, my spouse is about ready to jump off the sinking Republican ship.  For once, when we go to the polls, we won’t cancel each other’s vote.

And for the first time in my life as a voter, I feel as if my vote counts for more than just a token show of alliance to the Democratic party.  It counts for my fervent hope that the next leader of this troubled nation has the strength, the wisdom, and the grace of God to turn things around.

Well, That Was Short

Yeah, I’m back.  Somehow simply announcing I was going on hiatus gave me all kinds of ideas to write about. 

And I felt huge pangs of sadness about letting my little writing space lie fallow.

Life in general goes on, and as for my own in particular…I’ll keep you posted. <smiles>

The Times They Are A’Changin’

 

Change is afoot in the world, isn’t it?  If only it were all this beautiful.

Autumn is my favorite season, and the older I become, the more I love it.  There’s certainly a poignancy to it, this spectacular gala nature throws for us just before the earth turns cold and dark for winter.  But somehow that only makes it more lovely, like Cinderella at the ball, racing the stroke of midnight and ekeing every last morsel of glory from the dance.

Just over two years ago, I began writing here at a time of change in my life’s cycle.  About to turn 50, I found myself searching for a way to express and challenge myself.  In this chronicle about “life in general and my own in particular,”  I’ve explored my thoughts about the typical things which occur in the life of an American woman  – relationships with adult children and aging parents, carving out time for one’s interests and passions, finding the balance between fulfilling the expectations of others and creating a meaningful life as an individual.  In sharing those thoughts on this forum, I’ve been fortunate enough to meet a veritable world of talented, inspiring women, each one on a journey of her own, each one looking to learn and share, each one reaching out a hand in solidarity.

Lately, watching mother nature perform her annual metamorphosis, I’ve been wondering whether it’s time for some bigger changes in my life as well.  I feel slightly adrift in my writing life, as if I’ve lost my focus, my outlook on life in general turning fuzzy and disjointed.  I come to this page quite often, but sit staring at the blank screen not knowing what it is I need to say.

All this by way of saying I’m putting the Byline on hiatus for a bit.  Maybe a couple of weeks, maybe a couple of months.  Maybe the act of publicly stepping back will free the thoughts that seem to have frozen into an early winter.

I’m leaving you with this gorgeous maple, decked out in fullest autumn finery to remind you (and myself) that change can be spectacular.

I’m hoping for that in all our worlds.

Out of the Darkness

There was no darkness today at Kensington Metropark.  It was a perfect early autumn day, a slight chill in the air mitigated nicely by the noon day sun.  We gathered at the East Boat Launch, about 250 of us, munched on donuts and coffee, listened to a live band play, and heard opening remarks from “Spike,” a local disc jockey (one known for his rather wild and off color morning show) who talked about his family’s experience with suicide.

Out of the Darkness is a fund raising event sponsored by the American Society for Suicide Prevention.  There’s a double meaning to this title – certainly “out of the darkness” refers to the mental reality of people who choose to take their own life, for there is obviously a bleak darkness to their lives which they feel cannot be adequately overcome. 

But an even larger aspect of this event (and this organization) is to relieve the stigma and secrecy associated with suicide, to bring this devastating occurrence “out of the darkness” so people in danger may feel freer to discuss their problems, perhaps preventing them from taking that final step into total darkness.  Not only were we raising money to fund suicide prevention programs in high schools and colleges, our walking put a physical presence on this tragedy, put family names and faces to what many people fear to acknowledge.

I was walking with a group of friends and family in honor of Jeff Druchniak, a young man I met in my days of accompanying high school students.  A brilliant man, a much loved son and older brother, his loss has cut deeply into the hearts of his parents, his brother, his large extended family, and his teachers and friends. 

So we came together on this perfect fall Sunday, the day after his younger brother Brian’s wedding, and shared our memories of Jeff as we walked.  There was some sadness, certainly, and lots of regret, for that is something no one who survives a loved one’s suicide can escape.  But there was more laughter than I thought, and lots of discussion about yesterday’s college games (which Jeff would have entered into lustily).  I think it helped us to be together, and to walk with others of all ages who had lived through the same horrific loss.

I’m glad I was able to be part of this event today…and I thank all those who supported it financially, and with their kind words.  I feel as if we all took some steps out of our own darkness today, and started walking toward a more hopeful future.

Write On Wednesday – Feelin’ Groovy

Once upon a time, I was a very good moodler.  Yes, I remember those days with great fondness…dropping my boy at school, driving over to the local mall and doing four or five laps around, stopping at Einstein’s for a bagel and coffee, dropping into the Barnes and Noble and perusing the new releases or talking with Karen, the manager about what was hot in the book world.   Two or three days each week, I might spend a few hours at the high school, playing for choir, eating lunch with my friend Pat and the year’s “select students” who were allowed to join us in her office.  After Brian started driving, and then moved away, I had even more time for moodling, and I took great advantage of it.  I created a “room of my own,” with a specially selected chair that was “just right” (Goldilocks style) and  whiled away a good portion of each day curled up in it, reading or listening to music – maybe even napping.

That’s the way I remember my mooding days anyway, although it’s quite possible that the passage of time has tinted my memory a bit rose colored.  Somehow, I really believe I moved more slowly through life than I do now, for now it seems I’m forever rushing and hurrying, and consquently I’m perpetually tired and worn out.

What does this have to do with writing?

Way back in 1938, Brenda Ueland wrote If You Want to Write,  where she coined the term “moodling” and advised every writer it was important to allow time for your mind to wander, your imagination to drift, so that ideas could gestate in your brain.  People are to quick to “will” themselves to do things – to push through life accomplishing a long list of things on some imposed agenda.

I wonder what she would say if she could see us now? 

 Occasionally these days, I’m able to spend a morning “moodling” – walking the dogs at the park, then tooling over to First Cup where I grab a coffee and sit on their new patio with my book.  It isn’t that I’m consciously thinking about writing during that time, but I’m often surprised to have ideas pop into my head on the way home,  or even just neat phrases or descriptions that I try to remember, so I can jot them down somewhere.

I definitely feel that I move through life too fast these days.  My greatest desire (other than world peace and a stable economy) is to find more moodling time.

Then I think I’d be feelin’ groovy.

Read more about moodling here.