Dig This Scene

While checking out at my local supermarket the other day I was asked by the 20-something cashier if I wanted a senior citizen discount.  I replied that I did not yet qualify for that discount but that I would like a discount for the smug way in which he asked me that question.  This pointed out two things to me.  The first is that I’m clearly identifiable as a senior citizen, despite my efforts to keep the gray hairs on my bears closely shaven in hopes they will not be as noticeable.   Secondly, and more importantly, that I’m not that keen (keen being one of the words that I’m sure tips off folks that I was born prior to the hip-hop movement) to be seen as old.

This is a distinction that I think many of us who are growing older run into.  Left by myself, I really don’t feel that bad about getting older.  The losing of hair, the wrinkling of skin, the aches and pains, I can handle that.  However, being seen and therefore judged by others on how well I’m doing the graying thing is a different story.  The opening lines of this story always begin with “These kids, they just don’t get it.”  

I realize that most of this drama unfolds only in my head.   It is somewhat of a relief to remember that most people are too busy with the details of their own lives to give even a passing thought to another person, even if they are old.  So it’s possible that young Mr. Smug was not reacting to my senior citizenship; perhaps he just learned that he had to work overtime, was being put on lavatory duty, or any other number of possibilities that had nothing to do with me and my grumpy old guy routine.

I may have to face the fact that not wanting to be seen as getting older is a classic form of psychological projection.  A tip of the hat to Freud here as he postulated  that thoughts, motivations, desires, and feelings we cannot accept as our own are dealt with by placing them on the  outside world and attributing  them someone else.  Or as the great sage Pogo said:

As someone who considers himself to be a somewhat reflective person it’s hard to admit that I might still be reflexive at times and reacting to my own internal struggle with getting older. Additionally, as a cancer survivor who has made it to the five year mark, I like to think that I now see every new candle on the cake as a triumph not a tragedy.  And yet, there’s still a something about being seen as old that prods the aging actor in me to want to make a scene; to act indignant.  (Ironically, this was the same show I put on back in the day when a 20-something cashier would ask to see my ID before buying alcohol.)

It seems that the circle of life completes itself when the youngster, trying to come off as older, meets up with the senior, trying to cling to youth and both react not to the other but to what they imagine the other is thinking.  It’s all so much work.  Next time, I’m just going to take the senior discount.  While we’re at it, let’s raise the discount with each passing year until at age, say 85, we actually get stuff for free.  Can you dig that scene?

Crossing off a "Bucket List"

"Getting what you thought you wanted has never brought you lasting happiness. Instead, use the time, attention and energy to realize the fullness that is ever present and all around you." - Wu Hsin

After presenting a training on putting the laughter back into aging, I was approached by a woman who, with a simple comment, planted a great seed. With a slight touch of urgency, she said, “We need to get rid of the bucket list; we really messed up with that.” I immediately sensed a blog in the making as both the irony and absurdity of a bucket list struck me at once. I'm not sure that what follows is exactly what she had in mind, but that's the great thing about planting random seeds, you never know what they're going to grow.

The origin of the phrase "the bucket list "comes from our modern day version of myth-making, Hollywood movies. Full disclosure, I watched, and somewhat enjoyed, the movie. In the movie, two aging men, both diagnosed with cancer, decide to do all of the things they have always wanted to do before kicking the bucket. Roger Ebert’s take on it was: "The Bucket List is a movie about two old codgers who are nothing like people, both suffering from cancer that is nothing like cancer, and setting off on adventures that are nothing like possible."

Despite this less than glowing review, the movie struck a chord with many folks who, with or without a terminal illness, decided they too needed to create their lists of things to do before they die.

Before heading into the meat of this topic, it seems appropriate to pause and reflect on just where the "kick the bucket" phrase came from. It may come as a shock to some that this phrase originates from the, not so comedic, scenario of someone who is about to hang himself kicking the bucket he’s been standing on out from underneath his feet. I will take a timeout here while you push that image out of your mind and instead gaze upon this picture of the smiling Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.

The message underlying making a list of adventures one wants to have seems to be, "What I'm doing right now kind of sucks, but I have plans for greater things." Let's be honest, most people don't fill their pails with things like, "Sit in a comfortable chair and watch TV," or "Lay down next to my dog in the knowledge that I don't have to go to work anymore." On the contrary, bucket lists are filled with gems like "climb Everest," "sky dive," "swim with dolphins" or "skydive with dolphins."

It's easy to see how inventories of what we'd rather be doing become the carrots we dangle in front of ourselves to take one more day of the sticks that prod us along through the minutia of our lives. However, this is where we mess things up; the idea that there's a better time just around the corner leaves us longing for moments other than the one we're in. In this way, aging becomes a countdown to the time when we can finally do the things we've always wanted to do, all the while hoping that these are the things that will finally bring us happiness.

This is not to say that fantasies and dreams about travels to distant lands, or engaging in new activities, are bad things. However, as menus to check off before heading for the big banquet in the sky, they may just be missing the point. Consider a possible alternative list, one that has nothing to do with dying but everything to do with living. 

1. Write a thank you letter to all of the people who have positively influenced my life.
2. Learn to sit quietly without wondering, "What next?"
3. Learn to walk without carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.
4. Cheer on others as they run a marathon.
5. Turn all of my mountains back into molehills.
6. Turn my home into an exotic place.
7. Learn to truly speak my native tongue.
8. Dive out of bed looking forward to the day.
9. Hug the people I love.
10. Swim with dolphins (Some things are just too cool to leave out.)

While adventures can add excitement to life, they do not guarantee happiness. Sure, it's great to hear stories of someone's travels to Europe and how he got sick on escargot and took a selfie with the Mona Lisa. But personally, I'm more impressed by people who get up everyday and go to their jobs, give their all, and return home to feed and love their families

How ironic would it be if it turned out that, when all is said and done, it’s the bucket that’s really important not what we fill it with? Or, that in order to find what we’re really after, we have to empty our buckets? I’m adding that last one to my list, just in case.

It's About Time

“Forever is composed of nows.” - Emily Dickinson

If the saying, “Time heals all wounds,” is true, aging should return all of us to states of near perfect mental and emotional fitness.  That this is not the case, and instead many of us feel that with every passing year come new wounds, means one of two things, someone lied to us, or, time has a strange way of healing. There is a third possibility— perhaps time does heal old wounds but it also opens new ones and the not-so-merry-go-round of life is to restore and re-injure.  

As someone who professionally joins others on their recycled journeys from suffering to salvation, and has watched his own wheel of misfortune spin round and round, I have come up with my own version of this mantra.  While I’m fairly certain it will not be showing up on coffee mugs or inspirational posters any time soon, here it is:

Time heals nothing. 

I’ll let that sink in for a moment while I take a sip from my coffee cup.

The primary problem with the, “Time as magic healer,” mentality is that is makes many people think that feeling better is something that will come in the future.  This leaves a lot of suffering souls waiting and wanting.  There is some wisdom in this if the person chooses to move on with life without feeling the need to make something happen.  This however is not a strength that many of us like to develop.  The prayer, “Give me patience and give it to me now,” speaks to our true feelings about waiting for time to do its thing. 

Add to this the dilemma faced when time passes and healing has not taken place. Why is that? Was it done incorrectly? Did someone Higher Power find one unworthy of healing? Or, maybe it’s just around the corner— one more day, week, or year away. 

So what is it that heals?  How do today’s scratches and scrapes become tomorrow’s new skin?  What I’ve noticed over the last thirty years of watching the healing process in action is that it’s one’s attitude that makes the difference.  Sometimes referred to as a “new perspective,” “seeing the big picture,” or simply “getting it,” the common factor is a shift in the way one sees whatever, or whoever, brought the pain.   

This is not the same as positive thinking, which has recently garnered some ironic negative press. (A great book on the subject is The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking.)  This is about a deeper movement away from habitual resistance, and toward the acceptance that pain and pleasure are the warp and woof of life. (For those non-knitting folks out there, this represents the threads that run lengthwise and across a woven fabric, and one of my personal favorite metaphors.)

The reason time gets all the credit is that for most of us this shift does not happen right away.  For some it never happens as body and mind recoil against the hurt and remain in a permanent state of resistance, giving way to the resignation that “Life sucks and then you die.”  Happily, for most people, the passing of days, weeks, months, or years brings about a softer view of what happened and surrounds it with space. Think of stepping away from having one’s nose pressed to the TV screen, where everyone dancing with the stars looks like tiny dots, to see the full glory of some aging actor trying to keep up with some young, nubile, professional busting moves instead of hips. 

Giving credit to the abstract concept of time unnecessarily robs us of an even deeper truth.  Even healing, as we understand it, happens only on the surface of our lives.  At the core of our being is the undamaged whole that is our true nature; the well from which all healing power is drawn.  Imagine if we were able to identify with that source.  What miracles of restoration would be available to us?  

The poet Rumi wrote, “Come out of the circle of time and into the circle of love.”  The modern reflexive response to such a simple and profound request is, “When am I going to find time for that?”  This gives way to the lament, “If only I had more time.” The question arises, “More time for what?” The answer, of course, is to add more time.  The aging mind takes this as a promise of better (you guessed it) times, and feels soothed for the moment.  Then it wakes you up in a cold sweat, in the middle of the night, with the panicked thought, “I’m running out of time.”  

Let's take Rumi’s advice and stop chasing, saving and taking time and step out of it.  “How do I do that?” you ask.  That will have to wait for next time.

The Lost Art of Memory: Part 2

"Die to the past every day, you don’t need it.” - Eckhart Tolle

We live in an interesting age of brain science. As neuroscientists probe deeper into the workings of the mind, it seems the more we learn, the less we know. This is true for our current understanding of memory and how the brain stores and uses information. From the analogy of a filing cabinet, to a neural supercomputer, old ways of thinking about memory focused on the process of simply storing and retrieving. The current theory of memory describes a much more complex process involving a group of systems in the brain acting in concert to create a cohesive thought. That this “concert” often sounds like a symphony missing vital instruments, is further proof of memory as an art form. (One of my favorite tunes is trying to recall if I unplugged the iron before leaving the house.)

Science, however, has yet to explain how it is that certain things stick with us, while others seem beyond mental reach. It also falls short when describing the impact of memory on the individual. Are we our memories? Who are we in the absence of working memory? Are past, present and future separate or one large happening? And, most importantly, why can’t I find my damn keys when I need them?

For me, the art of memory is much far more fascinating than the science of the brain. As a psychotherapist, I often sit with folks whose memories are either burdens, a litany of regrets, sorrows and losses, or comforting balms, soothing remembrances, healing the miseries of their present lives. Some feel trapped, others never want to leave; imprisoned by rusted chains or shackles of gold.

The functional components of memory aside; what is it about the past the keeps so many of us in its grip? What do we sacrifice when we swim in a sea of nostalgia against in incoming tide of the present moment? Is it possible to ride waves that have already crashed on the shore? What would happen if we allowed ourselves to simply drift in the Now? And, what’s up with all of these sea metaphors?

The art of memory is the ability to recall what we need to deal with a situation, crisis, challenge etc. and not get trapped in the net of the past. It’s remembering that the quality of our present day is the living past in us; no need to revisit lines from a story written by a younger hand. It’s the awareness that, as Alan Watts once said, “The wake doesn’t drive the boat.” Which is to say, the past tells us what we’ve done and where we’ve been and then fades away. It’s the present moment that defines who we are.

Rather than coloring the past with biases, prejudices and preferences, let’s throw the whole Crayola box at what’s happening right here, right now. Whether it is with the skill of a Van Gogh, or the careful guide of paint by numbers, we are the artists who find themselves in the very painting we are working on. We are the medium and the message, the agony and the ecstasy and . . . that’s all of the art related symbolism I can recall at this time.

The Lost Art Of Memory: Part 1

“The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook.” - William James

It’s difficult to talk about aging and memory without the specter of Alzheimer’s and other dementias looming in the background. The people whose lives are touched by these heartbreaking illnesses deserve nothing less than our compassion and respect.

The memory issues that I have in mind can be best explained by the following vignette that I find myself involved in with alarming regularity:

Husband: What are you looking for?
Wife: My phone.
Husband: Again? (Immediately regretting both the tone and inflection of this response.)
Wife: Yes, and maybe you can try to help me find it. (In no way regretting the tone, inflection and body posturing.)
Husband: Well, let me get mine and I’ll call yours. (Awkward pause and frantic realization that whereabouts of said phone is currently unknown.)
Wife: Please don’t tell me you forgot my number.
Husband: (False tone of incredulity) No . . . (Sheepishly) I’m not sure where I left my phone.
Wife: Well, you have the find my phone app on your iPad, use that.
Husband: Already on it.
Wife: And . . .
Husband: Umm . . . yeah . . .it’s password protected.
Wife: Ok, and?
Husband: I don’t remember the password.

That’s the memory I’m talking about – slips of the brain gears that are, at best, frustrating and, at worse, panic inducing. On the bright side, these times are not so much problems with memory as they are perfecting the art of forgetting. (In the psychotherapy field we call this a “reframe,” and it’s a tried-and- true method of staving off the heebie-jeebies by turning a negative into a positive.)

This brings up an interesting dilemma. Neuroscientists gave us Grayers the ultimate pick-me-up recently when they pronounced that the aging brain can still grow and make changes. Neuroplasticity, as it’s known, is the brain’s ability to remain malleable throughout the life cycle. This means that the loss of cognitive functioning is not as inevitable as once thought. However, despite the best news in aging since the invention of the Clapper, many of us still feel that, rather than neuroplastic, we’re dealing with Silly Putty up there. So which is it? Is memory purely a function of our brain cells which we need to “use or lose?” Or, is there an even more complex relationship going on that results in memory being as much an art form as a science?

As evidence of the latter, I offer another quick story that came about while I was working in a senior behavioral health program and administering free cognitive tests that were meant to catch early signs of dementia. As a quick aside, I have also taken these assessments, and there are few things in life more anxiety producing than trying to remember what the date is, and who is currently the president, while someone is calculating the decline of your brain cells. It’s enough to make your mind go blank.

One day, a gentleman in his mid-fifties came to my office to take one of these assessments. During the gathering of standard background information he informed me that his wife had suggested that he come because, “She says that whenever she sends me to the store with a list of things to buy, I invariably forget at least half of the list.” He seemed genuinely concerned about this, despite reporting that as far as he could remember (pun intended) he was not having any other problems with his mind.

He subsequently completed the assessment in record time, and I humbly shared that he did far better on it than I would have. I added that, not only were there no indications that he had dementia, he could very well be the new poster child for Neuroplasticity. (I believe he was somewhat disappointed when I told him there was no such thing as a poster child for this brain function.)

While his relief was evident, so was his bewilderment. He asked, “Then what is it?” With as much decorum as I could muster, I responded, “What you do have is a raging case of hubandringitis.” He looked stunned, so I explained. “You see, it’s an inflammation that arises in your ears at the sound of your wife’s voice.” The perplexed look still on his face, I cut to the chase. (Sometimes, we professionals bear the burden of delivering bad news.) “Start listening to you wife; you can’t remember what you never heard.”

To be continued…