Blow me, Wind, far and high.
Catch my wings and carry me
still higher into light,
beyond the misty rainbows.

This one question is significant in my life, probably more intensely now, but always important.  There is so much our elders truly need from us, and, as I come closer to joining the ranks of elders even while I care for my very elderlyl aunt, I understand more each day what truly matters in relationship.  The challenge is to answer with one gift.  The best I can reply is to give loving, attentive, listening presence. 

Yet I cannot leave the answer alone there.  I find there can be value in expanding my answer to define it as clearly as I am able.  Too often I believe we tend to use "love" or "loving" in the sense of the warm fuzzies that feel good to all of us.  To love, to be loving is so much more, and often it has very little to do with how one feels in the act of being loving, sharing love. 

To love in the context of my intent is best described by the Greek word agape.  Other words for love include filos, eros, etc.  All are very different in context and use. Agape is that choice to place the welfare of others ahead of one's personal desires and interests, to act in a manner that benefits the other to his/her highest good.  Agape involves the deepest respect for the other person to the point that there is no judgment, no expectation, no demand.  It becomes simple acceptance with genuine caring for the other person's good.  There is also the added consideration of respect involved.  Without respect for anothe person there cannot be agape. 

I look at all those words and I am not satisfied.  There is so much more - at least a million or more.  Those will have to do for now.

Our elders have lived longer, seen more, suffered more, given more simply by virtue of the fact they have had more time to do it all.  Our elders, just as those who are younger, deserve to be respected for being.  Each person has something to say, something to share.  Each person deserves the same loving acceptance.  Consequently, I think I will limit what I think every person with whom we have contact should have from us to those who are in their late time of life in the present, physical sense.

How often have some of us been guilty of being hurried and inattentive when one of our elders tells the same story we hear last week, last month, last year?  How often do any of us simply drop a card in the mail, write a short letter, pick up the telephone?  Most elders are not internet-savvy (except my 89-year-old mother who doesn't have access to the internet at the moment, though.)  Our elders understand and treasure the spoken and written words we share with them, even when we have to write much larger and more carefully so older eyes can read.  Or we must speak more slowly, clearly and loudly so older ears can hear.

I listen to my aunt and watch her as she is slowly transitioning away from life.  I listen to my mother when I call her every week.  I see and hear something that is almost inevitable and painful.  Mother is quite articulate and very much connected mentally.  She worked until she was 80 and now misses the daily stimulation of being with other people, doing useful things.  Now she lives alone in a small apartment in Tulsa and has little contact with others.  I call her once a week.  My "other brother" (my deceased sister's husband) takes her to the grocery store, to doctors appointments, out to lunch or dinner and generally does everything he can for her.  I have three brothers still present in life, one in Germany, one in Texas and one living about 40 miles or so from Mother.  The two who are more distant call or send one thing or another now and then.  Our elders need to know they are still important, still valuable, still needed.

Our elders need to be loved through our touch, hugs, holding their hands.  Our elders need us to listen without rushing them.  Our elders can best be gifted by our love in action.

As I have read friends' blogs (Aley and Michele) about their experiences in the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama last week, I thought of what I was doing on that same day.  How I would have loved to have been in that place with them, to see and to hear and to know the presence of a person who lives his unity with the Sacred.  I had to satisfy (hardly) myself with listening to an interview he gave on NPR yesterday evening, and I was thankful for that.

My day on Saturday was another of my usual trips, a two-hour drive south to visit with my aunt.  It was a difficult visit in some ways, not entirely unexpected, though.  I have shared about my aunt Ruth in earlier postings.  The last few months have brought more challenge, more pain, decreasing ability to communicate effectively, increasing complications and declining health. 

Something that might make the contrast of how she has changed and come so far away from the Aunt Ruth I've known all my life:  In my mother's family one always makes one's bed upon arising and never lie back down on it until going to bed at night.  One exception allowed, if one is so ill as not to be able to remain vertical.  Even that might have been debatable with some of those women at times.  When I arrived at the rehab hospital at 1:30 pm, my aunt was lying on her bed.  She had eaten only half a banana so far that day.  To say I was a bit surprised is to put it mildly.

Today I participated via phone in a conference with her caregivers, since the drive from my office to the rehab hospital would mean having to take almost an entire day from work, not a good idea at this time.  I'll need those times when I must take off soon enough.  For the first time I got a sense that at least a couple of the staff really do seem to care.  Sometimes I have wondered.  While I value their desire to help her function more effectively, to do things for herself we tend to take for granted, to have something of a life in the late part of her life, I think Aunt Ruth is cooperating with them more as a "go along to get along" means of managing.  With me she is honest and allows her pain and her weariness of living to show.

Next time I go, and every time thereafter I believe I'll be taking my native American flutes to play for her. 

EXERCISE.  Time for discipline.

Are there any words sufficient to express what life is?  It is.  Love is.  Joy is.  For me, life is the vibrant expression that I am created through the joy of unconditional love to be who I am, to grow into who I can be. 

 

We wait

and wonder in the waiting.

Is this the time, the place?

Are these the ones who also wait

and wonder if I am the one

for this time and in this place?

We wait

and watch the sun rise each morning,

tracking across the sky till night

and wonder in the waiting.

Will this day be the one

when I hear the clarion call

across the mountains,

the call asking me to come out

and be the one?

We wait

through the dark and quiet night,

waiting for the trackless path

no longer to be hidden from our eyes.

We wait.

Perhaps our best, most precious gift

is the silent, patient waiting

when the darkness seems never

to end or even to become less dark.

Perhaps the time and place we wait

is where we are meant to be,

sharing time and place with those

who also wait.

Books and music, music and books.  Writing, making music - making music, writing.  I haven't changed much in all these years.  :-)

Several years ago, in the very early spring, my friend Geoff and I took a walk in the high desert near the Clark Mountains of southern California. Geoff is a paleoarcheoligist, among other things, and had studied the area many times as part of various scientific projects. One of the first and most beautiful surprises we discovered was something he said was a rare find, even there, a bush in full, glorious deep purple-blue bloom. It was indigo. It was and is amazing. As we walked what would appear to most folks as barren desert land, talking and sharing our souls, I discovered something about the desert I have not forgotten. The desert is incredibly beautiful, filled with promise and subtle beauty. What seems stark and lifeless is teeming with often minute and hidden life, often awaiting only a small amount of light or moisture to reveal its promise. What stayed with me powerfully was the sight, seen only when walking and closely present, of a carpet of miniature fairy flowers, pale pink with burgundy edging and center. It was magic.

Winter is the hope-bringer to the desert. Without the occasional rains of winter, there are no magical flowers and amazing sights. There is animal life that can lie dormant for years until there is enough winter rain to bring it to life, disappearing once the heat of summer comes to lie dormant once more until enough winter rain comes again. Yet, even in the driest, harshest desert there is a miracle of small beauty in unexpected places.

It has been a cold, quiet winter so far. Here where the foothills become the High Sierras in northern California, winter is beginning to edge back and loosen its grip. This time of silence and introspection slowly will give way to new life, new hope, new beauty. The iris will start to grow up from the fallow ground, the buds on the fruit trees will begin to swell, promising a bountiful harvest of plums in a few months.

I have been quiet and fallow the last few months. It has been winter in my spirit, still and stark. This has not troubled or concerned me. Over the years I have discovered the hidden beauty of still times when life goes deep with nothing appearing to be growing and blooming. One need not bloom all the time. There are times we must be in the darkness where it is quiet, where our spirits may rest and renew until the winter rains warm into spring showers and encourage new flowering, new sharing. That time is coming. This time is good.

For all of us women