(If you received this blog by email, you might want to visit the actual site. The pictures work much better there.
Just click on the title “Advice for the heart.”)
Beau Soir
When the rivers are rosy
in the setting sun,
And a warm shiver runs over the wheat fields,
Advice to be happy seems to rise up from things
And climb toward the troubled heart.
And a warm shiver runs over the wheat fields,
Advice to be happy seems to rise up from things
And climb toward the troubled heart.
Advice to taste the charm
of being in the world
While one is young and the evening is beautiful,
For we are going away, as this stream goes away:
The stream to the sea, we to the grave.
While one is young and the evening is beautiful,
For we are going away, as this stream goes away:
The stream to the sea, we to the grave.
–
Paul Bourget
Last weekend, we
attended a piano/flute recital in Denver. A
beautiful piece by Debussy opened the performance, a setting of the poem above. The last two lines
particularly reminded me of a piece that this same duo played last year,
“Oblivion” by Astor Piazzolla, which also interwove images of water and the end
of life.
Lately, I haven’t
been reflecting much about aging and death—although, as those of you who follow
this blog at all know, I often do reflect about those things. It just hadn’t
been much on my mind in the midst of a million things filling my thinking
space. Not, that is, until late October, when a total non-event knocked me for
an orthopedic loop from which I’m just now recovering. That experience has
served to remind me, in no uncertain terms, that I, like the stream, am
destined to go away.
First, the story
about my unexpected disabling condition—with some pictures of the delightful moments that brought it on thrown in to
brighten it up—and then a train of thought about its meaning in the greater
scheme of things.
In late October, we drove to Albuquerque, where my partner and a colleague were presenting a paper at the
conference of the National Latino/a Psychological Association. For me, it was a
few days to explore museums in Santa Fa and Albuquerque and Native sites I hadn’t
visited for decades. Many decades. So, the day after we arrived in Albuquerque, I drove to Santa Fe
and spent my time exploring the town and museums. It was a
wonderful day of leisurely immersion in Southwest culture and art, followed by a lovely early-evening drive back to Albuquerque.
 |
| The view from Georgia O'Keeffe's studio |
 |
| ... and one of my favorite O'Keeffe paintings |
Pieces from the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts ... a surprising range of work, much of which challenged my expectations (stereotypes?) of "Native Art"
The following day, I
drove back through Santa Fe and on to Bandelier National Monument, a canyon site of
ancient Puebloan dwellings. I had been there as a kid, and much of it remained
the same. The complex in the valley floor and the cliff-side caves in the soft volcanic rock were still there, as
were the ladders inviting curious visitors (like me) to climb inside. On the
other hand, much had changed—including, for instance, the name used to refer to
this people, our understanding of their relationship to other Indian cultures
and communities, the meaning of the petroglyphs on the canyon walls, and about
a million other details. It was really fascinating to me, lover of “new history”
that I am. Whoever said “history” (or, in this case, archaeology) is a simple
and straightforward telling of the facts would definitely be challenged by repeat
visits to sites like this.
Bandelier is near Los Alamos, home of the atomic
bomb, so I spent some time hunting down a museum there, hoping for some
insightful interpretation of the wrenching human consequences and moral dilemmas
raised by the bomb that's said to have ended World War II. It turns out that Los Alamos is
not a good place to find that sort of analysis. Instead, the museum I found
celebrated our continued progress toward bigger and better weapons. Only one
wall in a remote corner was devoted to critiques of the bomb—and that stood
just feet away from the opposing (literally) wall, which detailed the arguments
in favor of the bomb without addressing any of its the horrific and lingering
consequences. I headed back to Albuquerque, stopping along the way to visit a roadside monument to the
“Mormon Brigade,” a Union brigade that passed through here during the Civil War—which reminded me that I was close to Glorieta Pass, where Col. John Chivington, the leader of the Sand Creek Massacre (a recurrent topic here) started his run for glory. Mormons, Pueblo Indians, Spanish colonizers, the Union army, Plains Indians. Fascinating
intersections of cultures all around me.
Then, on our last day there, I decided to stay local and headed out to explore museums in Albuquerque. I visited one small art
museum and then began what I expected to be an hours-long stroll through a museum
of natural history. As I stood in front of a panel about the birth of the
cosmos (one of my favorite topics, as you may know from previous posts),
I realized that I couldn't stand to stand any longer. I could
feel that my knees were already swollen from too much standing and slow walking, and now they just hurt
too much. Climbing the few stairs to the main floor just added to my misery. I went back to the motel, put my feet up, and read a book for the rest of the
day, except for a brief walk along the Rio Grande. Thus began a long saga of weeks of swelling and discomfort,
followed by a visit to the orthopedist, who recommended exercises and outlined a series of potential future treatments. Over time, the exercises might have helped with the knee issue, but in the meantime, they wrecked one (also rather beat-up)
hip. Which is just now recovering, about a month after I did nothing to it other than some very gentle exercises.
Just to be clear, I’m very aware
that these aches and pains and the resultant inability to do most anything with
ease are small, very small, compared with the limitations that some folks live
with—sometimes briefly and sometimes for a very long time. But small though
they may be, they have served me well as a consciousness-raising, priority-sorting,
wake-up moment. I am totally unused to having my days restricted in this
global way. Over the years, I’ve
had injuries, even surgeries, brought on by exciting events or simply steady overuse of
body parts—especially knees—through an assortment of enthusiastic activities. But
those were injuries, and the
assumption—borne out in practice—was that they would heal, and I would resume my
activities of choice, if perhaps slightly dialed back. But this was different.
There was no event, just effortless, everyday activities combined with the slow, cumulative damage that comes with aging—this is a “condition,” not an injury. And this exacerbation was
so non-exercise-specific in nature that it affected virtually everything I did. I couldn't walk a block or stand for 5 minutes without serious pain. I began to dread activities
that would usually be ordinary— joining an out-of-town guest for a short shopping
trip, showing her to security at the airport, walking to and from the car
when I went to events, standing for a conversation with friends, helping with food
preparation, grocery shopping. Fortunately, my partner has taken on more than her share of tasks, or I'd have had a lot more trouble getting through this spell.
So, not too surprisingly, all of this was fodder for a lot of preoccupied questioning. If this can happen from a non-event, I wondered, what
does this mean for the future? Will aging now become a series of gradually
escalating “conditions”? How likely
is it that will this recur? Do I have to plan my life from here on out to avoid
consecutive days of standing? And how long will it be until I can take a real walk again? (How easily I now romanticize the simple pleasure of a brisk walk!)
It’s an odd moment,
one more element in the slow realization that aging is insistent, relentless. Like Bourget's river flowing to the sea. And its process is often surprising. I’ve always loved
being active, so this seems especially hard, even “unfair”—as if we were
guaranteed the sort of “fairness” that actually amounts to great privilege. On
the other hand, I’m really fortunate because I’ve also always had other
passions, lots of interests and activities that I’ve been able to pursue even during my pitiful misery of recent weeks.
Still, however I
frame it, this experience has highlighted many life lessons: I’m incredibly
privileged to have had a life of vigorous, joyful activity, and I wouldn’t
trade those hours of enjoyment to avoid these past few weeks of whimpering
discomfort. My “disability” status has been relatively mild and brief, and that’s
a gift that many don't have—and that I won’t have forever. So, while I’m able,
I’d better make the most of it, keeping in mind that some long day at
the museum or some inviting ladder might one day lay me up for a bit.
And the bottom line: life and all its gifts are temporary. For all of us. Denial is a handy defense
for keeping that reality at bay, but, like that stream sliding to the sea, we are inevitably going away. We really should appreciate the rosy water and the shiver in the
wheat fields while we can.
© Janis
Bohan, 2010-2014. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to
the post.
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