The Gero-Punk Project

What you would say to a sixty year old who is always complaining about growing old and life going by too fast?

This is the question my friend Tod Sloan (or as I call him, “tsloan”) put to the graduate students in the Life Span Development seminar he is teaching this term.  The course is required for future counselors and family therapists. When I asked him to tell me a bit more about what they are up to in the course he wrote, “We have tried to look at how development always happens in contexts that challenge us to understand and act in different ways, rather than seeing growth as simply natural.”

Tsloan is Professor of Counseling Psychology at Lewis and Clark College, in Portland, Oregon. His scholarship focuses on the psychological impact of life in capitalist consumerist societies, as in his book Damaged life (1996), and on the role of dialogue in helping us to explore alternatives. He’s also done some really fantastic writing and teaching around Critical Psychology (I use a couple of chapters from a C.P. text he edited in one of the courses I co-teach this term).

Tsloan and I share a commitment to critical social theory and praxis in our respective fields (you’ll get more of a sense of what this means if you read on) and have been engaging in an unfolding, on-going conversation since we met in 2006.  The idea to have a more focused dialog about Critical Gerontology spontaneously emerged a few days ago when we were chatting on Facebook about his students’ responses to his question about the hypothetical sixty year old.  Would you be surprised to hear that I was quite intrigued and offered to pop by his class sometime to talk about Critical Gerontology, development in later life, the Gero-punk Project, etc.?  As time is of the essence (The last session of his course is tomorrow night. Not enough time to put together a grand performance.) we decided to start with a written dialog between the two of us – mostly me responding to his questions—and then see what happens next (Longer co-written piece in which I turn the tables on him? Music video? YouTube presentation that goes viral? Stay tuned!).

Here’s our dialog (well, it is mostly me chattering away!):

Tsloan: You are an advocate for critical gerontology.  What does that mean and how would society be arranged differently if the principles of critical gerontology were widely applied?

Jenny: For the past fifteen years at least my intellectual commitments have been informed by the Critical Gerontology framework, an alternative approach for Gerontological education, theory, research, and practice that Stephen Katz refers to as “…a pragmatic and nomadic thought-space across which ideas flow and become exchanged…a magnetic field where thought collects, converges, and transverses disciplines and traditions” (2003, p. 16). The Critical Gerontology “thought-space,” as I’ve dwelled in it, has evoked several strong principles to guide my ongoing inquiry and practice, most particularly: 1) the importance of integrating the biographical and the historical, the personal and the political; 2) the centrality of collaborative theorizing, not only with other scholars but with my students, and especially with elders, the very subjects of – and potential partners in – my inquiry as a Gerontologist; 3) the commitment to intentionally grappling with – rather than attempting to simplify or reduce – the complexities of what it means to be a human being;  and 4) the imperative that the ultimate outcome of all of my striving must be deeper understanding of human development and aging in the service of personal, social and cultural transformation.  What I consider to be especially powerful about enacting Critical Gerontology is that it provides me with a meta-framework, a comprehensive sensibility, for asking and pursuing answers to questions about the most complex features of our travels through the life course as human beings because it foregrounds the recognition that who I am and the work I do in the world are inexorably intertwined. And, most crucially, it provides a lucid counter-argument to the narrow and over-determining normative discourses and practices that still dominate a great deal of the research and theory regarding adult development and aging.

As such, Critical Gerontology is transgressive and disruptive of the dominant Gerontological paradigm, which is wedded to the positivist and biomedical paradigms.

As a natural extension of being moved deeply by unique scholarly contributions from Ray (2003), Gilleard and Higgs (2000; 2005), Biggs (1999; 2005), Hendricks (2003), and Katz (1996; 2000), all of which have become central to much of the curriculum design and teaching I do, I have found myself turning the lens of Critical Gerontology back upon myself especially as I’ve faced  major life crises and have reached what may be the mid-point of my travels through my life course (I’ll only know if this time of my life is the mid-point retrospectively, of course, and maybe I won’t even know, depending on the time and circumstances of my exit from the earth and return to the stars.).  I have been supported in my movement toward deeper reflection and purposeful action especially by Simon Biggs, who asserts quite boldly in his discussion of research training for a critical sensibility toward aging experiences that, “We need, then, techniques by which to know ourselves and the contexts in which we work” (2005, p. S125). He continues by advocating that “…identifying multiple sources of empathic understanding such as similar life events and attending to biography, oral history, and testimonia may be used to enhance a will to understand.  The problems of…amnesia of depth, indicative of seduction by simple states of mind, plus their undertow, the avoidance of personal anxieties associated with age, point to a need for enhanced self-reflection of this type (2005, S126).

I yearn for depth of understanding even about experiences which fall over the edges of my capacity to make sense of them. I try to bravely behold and embrace the messiness of being human. I think better with others, especially about the complex project of deep human development across the life course, and so I commit myself to collaborative inquiry and action. One of my current mottos is: Life is short– Act now!

Tsloan: Aren’t there any sorts of specific re-arrangements of institutions or practices that would make it possible for the lives of older people to be more meaningfully connected to others, perhaps beyond their immediate families?  For example, ways that different generations could interact more and perhaps solve collective problems, including how to deal with growing numbers of elders, and their impact on the economy and politics?

Jenny: In my experience thus far in trying to do cross/inter-generational inquiry and activism what matters most is two things: establishing and sustaining genuine relationships across differences (and by “differences,” I mean cohort/age differences but all the other ways we humans are different as well) and finding yearnings, issues or projects that transcend cohort/age differences around which we can connect and militate.

So, it is complicated and tricky, yes? Because different cohort/age positionalities and experiences are important and need to be acknowledged and brought to bear and (punch line) we need to remember our fundamental humanness and create solidarity around a shared commitment to flourishing for all creatures regardless of time/space/place. And (punch line) the dirty secret that no one really wants to touch, sometimes not even Gerontologists want to touch this, is ageism: externally imposed and internally assimilated discourses and beliefs around age, aging, and life-course stages. Until we are willing to address institutionalized and intrapsychic ageism (and how it intertwines with sexism, heterosexism, racism, classism, etc.) our best intentions and bravest actions will only take us so far.

But every day in small ways I resist and I see how others resist ageism and reach across the distances that exist between us. A current example is the Women’s Issues in Aging course I teach this term.  I am holding this 11-week seminar at Mary’s Woods, the continuing care retirement center contiguous to the campus where I work. I have an open door policy for the course–any one can attend at any time. There are 9 matriculating undergraduate and graduate Marylhurst University students enrolled, plus another MU graduate student who has had the course already and is sitting in so as to work further on her thesis project, plus my mommy, plus two Mary’s Woods residents who just decided to show up and hang out with us. I don’t know if they will come back for the next session, and I don’t know if new folks will show up, but whatever happens is an adventure and I’ll embrace it and find a way to incorporate it into our cross-generational learning community.

Starting with the daily practices – my relationships, my teaching and writing — over which I have some purview and agency, rather than trying to blow up and topple ideological structures and social institutions, is my antidote to feeling hopeless and helpless.

Tsloan: Could you illustrate these principles more concretely by telling me what you would say to a 60 yr old who is always complaining about growing old and life going by too fast?

Jenny: Well, I would ask this hypothetical sixty year old person a bunch of questions rather than telling him or her a bunch of stuff that came out of my own professional and personal experience. Fundamentally, I’d want to understand better how he or she thinks about age and aging and later life – in general and specifically regarding their own travels through the life course. I’d want to develop a more focused understanding of what is underneath their complaints about growing old and life going by too fast. Is he or she feeling regrets about things that have already happened, about lost chances,  unfulfilled dreams, or things they perceive to be mistakes? Is he or she living in a perpetual state of longing and loneliness?  I’d want to know more about the contours of his or her emotional and spiritual life—commitments, beliefs, resources, aspirations. I’d want to know who their close-in creatures are —humans and other-than-humans – and how he or she spends his or her time and energy: self-care, other-care, political activism, creative work?  I would aspire to listen closely to what he or she had to say so that I could understand to the fullest extent I could – to the fullest extent to which we can ever get inside another creature’s experience – how he or she constructs their reality and experiences as a human being. I’d pay attention to his or her energy when they spoke about their life – When they seem most bright and shining, what are they talking  about?

Then I’d figure out what to say or not to say next.

Tsloan: So, let’s say the person tells you that s/he is fairly disconnected from others, is not feeling motivated to be helpful or of service, lives with deep regrets about ‘mistakes’, can’t find much joy in previous interests, and in general seems to be in unconscious protest against the fact of mortality?  Isn’t there some radical way to reframe this (typical) narrative of decline, disengagement, and meaninglessness?

Jenny: When I contemplate this question my heart gets really warm and I also feel butterflies in my stomach. I get a little shy and nervous.  I have the seemingly contradictory impulse to shake her/him silly (Life is so god damn short! And you won’t escape mortality! So snap out of it and embrace your singular precious human existence!) and also to put my arms around her/him and whisper soothing secrets into her/his left ear.

What secrets? That this journey we are on, for however long we are on it, is gorgeous and frightening as hell.  Human development across the life course is emergent, we are always unfolding in real-time, and most especially when we are in full-on adulthood and then old age. But, alas, in the last third or fourth of our travels through the life course we have few models and frameworks upon which to call for guidance. It is exciting and scary because we are learning as we go along and by the time we’ve gone along on this journey for a few decades we’ve gathered a great deal of experience, life has worked away on us and we’ve most likely collected both gifts and wounds.  And the models or frameworks that do exist for adult ageing and development may not reflect one’s very own experiences, anxieties, hopes and dreams, fears. Regrets about the past are only helpful insofar as we reflect upon our thoughts, words and actions and make changes in the direction of greater flourishing and ask others for amends if we’ve hurt them. Otherwise, to hell with regrets!

As my mommy might tell me, you have to “dig down deeply” to discover meaning on your own behalf. Not once, but over and over. And find your “kin,” your comrades far and near with whom you can engage in delicate conversations about what it feels like to be at the beginning of your seventh decade on the plant.

Sentience is such a gift! And it sucks, too. I mean—Who wants to be dogged by their certain mortality? I don’t want to leave this life, either. I really don’t. Even when I am at my most wretched I still would rather be here, be me here, than to not be here and to not be me.  If this ever changes, then I will know perhaps it is time to make a different choice.

Tsloan: You call yourself a “Gero-punk.” What do critical gero-punks do?

Jenny: I don’t know what other Gero-punks do—that’s for them to decide! I can only tell you what I aspire to do as a Gero-punk. I am committed to Gerontological anarchy. Which is actually my response to a more generalized feeling of being fed up with the status quo globally and locally, especially in U.S. society, in academe, and even in my inter-personal relationships.

Age and aging are under-interrogated, under-theorized concepts and experiences. The life-course impacts of social and economic inequality and health disparities receive too little attention. Age and aging are everywhere and no-where at the same time.  And Gerontology as a diverse field of practice and academic focus is mostly missing the boat in terms of really addressing these issues in a powerful, vibrant and timely fashion and in  such a way that folks outside of academe can access and make sense of them.

This is the time for public gerontology, for taking gerontology to the streets.  We need to keep developing cross-generational communities of interest, we need to keep creating lasting and genuine relationships that simultaneously harness and transcend cohort and age differences, we need to face human aging as a life-long, life-wide complex creaturely experience of gains and losses, muddles and revelations, stucknesses and stunning changes.

And we need to face issues of deep old age: loss, decline, frailty, and, ultimately, death. Issues which are, in fact, all about what it means to be a human being from fragile beginning to fragile ending.

One foot on the earth, one foot in the stars.

References

 Biggs, S.  (1999).  The mature imagination.  Buckingham, U.K.: Open University

Press.

——.  (2005). Beyond appearances: Perspectives on identity in later life and

some implications for method.  Journal of Gerontology, 60B (3), S118-S128.

Gilleard, C., &  Higgs, P.  (2000).  Cultures of ageing (sic): Self, citizen, and

            the body.  New York: Prentice Hall.

——. (2005).  Contexts of ageing (sic): Class, cohort and community.  Cambridge, U.K.:

Polity Press.

Gullette, M. M. (1997).  Declining to decline: Cultural combat and the

            midlife.  Charlottesville, VA.: University Press of Virginia.

——.  (2003). From life storytelling to age autobiography.  Journal of Aging Studies,

            17, 101-111.

Katz, S.  (1996).  Disciplining old age.  Charlottesville: University Press of Virgina.

Ray, R.E.  (1999).  Researching to transgress: The need for critical feminism in

gerontology.  Journal of Women and Aging, 11(2/3), 171-184.

——.  (2000).  Beyond nostalgia: Aging and life-story writing.  Charlottesville:

University Press of Virginia.

An Essay by Guest Gero-Punk

Amber Gosnell

Tonight after our usual bedtime ritual, my 6 year-old son came out and told me he couldn’t sleep.  He was trying all the tricks we have devised over the last 6 almost 7 years: taking deep breaths, relaxing his muscles but nothing was working.  I walked him back to bed telling him that eventually sleep would come, though perhaps having his blanket and alligator would help.  I picked up his blanket from the floor and pawed through the pile of stuffed animals looking for “Croccy.”  Croccy is a sweet, stuffed alligator we adopted from the zoo.  (At the age of 6, crocodiles and alligators are pretty much the same.)  I was on the floor looking under the bed for Croccy when Nate suddenly rolled over, pulled the covers over his head and said in a very small voice: “I keep thinking about dying-it scares me”.

In the midst of straightening up and announcing Croccy was not there, I froze in place – this would not go away with deep breaths and muscle relaxation.  My poor little man.  He’s too young to think about this! He should be in dreamland fighting Decepticons and building the world’s largest roller coaster which would take him all the way to Hawaii (his dream vacation destination)!

Realizing I was holding my breath and beginning to feel the effects of it, I slowly let it out as I got to my feet; my mind racing, frantically searching for something to say, the RIGHT thing to say.  I have always found it amusing that in the most crucial moments I will notice and focus on some of the most insignificant details.  I think that must be a common trick of the mind. Sort of like when the body goes into shock it allows you to function without having to feel the full extent of your physical injuries. I stood there, scrambling for pearls of motherly wisdom like the kind I read in books or see in movies,  something that would erase the fear but also not make him feel like I was making his very real fears seem insignificant or a thing to be laughed at. At the same time, however, I was struggling to control spasms of fear that had struck me with his words; the same spasms I experience each and every time I think about death or dying.   What on earth do I say to calm my 6 year old little boy’s fear of dying when I have not learned how to calm my 32 year old self’s same fears? Not to mention how horribly disconcerting it was to have my own fears thrown back at me in such a spectacular fashion. I have deliberately kept my fears about dying to myself so as not to warp his impressionable, and may I add, very sharp mind.

So what do I do? I wonder idly where else Croccy could be hiding.  Perhaps he knew this conversation was coming and preferred to be elsewhere.  Part of me wanted to be there with Croccy.  Where was that blasted alligator when I needed him?! The other part of me, the loving and responsible mother who refuses to be a coward, gently tucked the covers under my son’s chin, laid down beside him and wrapped him up in a bear hug.  “Sometimes”, I said, “I have thoughts like that too. What I try to do is take a deep breath and remind myself I am here now. I am alive. I am healthy.”   He thought for a second then said “No I don’t mean that. I mean when I get old…what will it be like? Will it hurt to die?”  Ugh…Another wrench to the heart.  “Oh.” I say. “You know, I don’t think it will.”  “Really?” he asks. “What do you think it will be like?”  “Well,” I say, “I think it will be like falling asleep.”  Silence as he ponders this. Then, in a near wail, “But what will happen after?!” What do I say to that?? I’m still working out my own spiritual beliefs while also puzzling out how to instill spirituality in my child without imposing a set of beliefs on him.  Good grief, I’d rather be having the sex talk with him than the one I’m currently having. “Some religions,” I tell him, “believe our souls are reborn into new bodies.  Others believe we go directly to heaven and are reunited with our family members who have already died.” 

Some time passed with me doing my best to explain and contextualize the “Soul” to him in such a way that I did not over-simplify it or overwhelm him.  Once he had it clear in his own mind though, magic began to happen.  No longer speaking in a tiny, frightened voice his voice became stronger and more confident as he began to put things together for himself, fitting his idea of the soul into the possibilities of reincarnation or heaven.  If we had not been lying down I imagine he would have been pacing back and forth as he talked, working things out.  It’s always so cool and fascinating to me when I see him learning something new, watching him process in his own way and start to make those connections that lead to a deeper understanding of whatever it is he’s learning about. Being able to watch the creation of knowledge in a person is an amazing experience.  Teachers – I get it now. 

After several starts, stops, backtracking, and starting again he had the puzzle solved.  “OK.  So your soul is reborn into a new body…it’s like your soul is taking control of this new body.”  “Yeeesss,” I said hesitantly “only you won’t know that’s what you’re doing.” He laughs. “Well, yeah of course.” Pause.  “So if we are the same soul in a new body will the six year old self in my next life like basketball too?”  I barely suppress a laugh as I say “Well maybe not basketball specifically, but perhaps sports in general.”  “Yeah,” he says with a definitive nod, “I will always like sports.”  Another pause. “So we’re reborn into a new body but keep our personalities, but we don’t remember any of our past lives…but it’s not the end right?  Well I hope those religions are right because I want to keep being reborn.  Ohhhhh Mommy, I feel SO much better now. I can totally sleep now.”  Well I’m glad one of us will at least. We go through the goodnight ritual again and as I open the door to leave his room he says “I hope you’re my mommy in my next life too.”  Determined to make it out of this conversation without crying I begin to babble “Oh Naters I hope I’m your Mommy in your next life too. And I hope you’re my son.”  Pause.  “Umm, if you are my Mommy how would I NOT be your son?” Ah, humility.  Nothing chases away tears like being schooled by your child (at least for me). 

On solid-ish footing once again I sat down feeling compelled to write about this experience.  One sentence in and he comes out of his room once again. “Remember you said I could sleep in yours & Daddy’s bed until you went to bed?”  I remember but that was when he was scared and wanting the safety and comfort of a familiar elsewhere.  “Nope,” I say. He says, “Can I still? Oh. And can you find Croccy for me?” I answer, “Yes, and hopefully.”  Turning on the light this time I begin yet another search for the wayward Croccy.  Finally, I decide to give under the bed one last check and wouldn’t you know it? That bloody reptile was an inch away from where I had been searching for it previously!  

I wonder how differently, if at all, the conversation would have gone had I found Croccy earlier?  Did he hide on purpose? Are we in a real life Toy Story where our stuffed animals know what is needed better than we do? If Croccy had been found first would I have forced myself to face the topic I try daily to forget? With Croccy I could have soothed my son’s fears while distracting him with his beloved stuffed animal. 

I would like to think I would have chosen the non-cowardly way regardless, but apparently Croccy was leaving nothing to chance.

 

My friend and I were talking about love and loss, writing blocks and flows, the psycho-therapeutic process (specifically what frustrates us about it), emotions and embodiment and various other things. This was our collaborative preamble in advance of getting to the topic that was the purpose of our meeting yesterday afternoon.  At some point during our pre-ambling a book appeared from her bag, Glass, irony & god, by classicist and poet Anne Carson. My friend asked me if I had read it. I hadn’t. She recommended I check out the first piece, “The Glass Essay,” a strange long-form poem which she felt I would resonate to because of its bold approach to human complexity. It turns out that the poem/essay is about relationships, relationships between daughters and mothers, between lovers, between the past and the present, between time and place and space, between the reader and what is read.

The poem is epic, but not so long that it couldn’t be read in one sitting,  which is usually my approach to reading poetry, short stories and essays – I like to immerse myself in them, read from beginning to end without interruption except perhaps to make a cup of tea, as you can continue to read while you do that. (Though you should see the nasty burn I acquired on my right wrist from reaching my arm across the stream coming out of the boiling kettle in order to grab my favorite green mug. You know you aren’t as situated in present awareness as you need to be when you don’t know that you’ve burned yourself until someone – let’s say your daughter — asks you – let’s say on the drive to school — what happened to your wrist and you realize suddenly that you have a big angry blister, and once you actually acknowledge the blister’s existence you realize that it hurts, and not just a little. Then, like a forensic scientist, you have to search your memory for evidence of the incident leading to the injury. Oh! The steam coming out of the tea kettle! You remember you were reaching for your favorite mug while reading an essay. Mystery solved.).

So, I just finished the “The Glass Essay.” It took me a total of seven hours, give or take, from start to finish. In between starting and finishing reading Carson’s essay I read something else, meditated, showered, ate a small meal, washed dishes, vacuumed and swept the floors, folded clothes, did some online teaching, ran to the market, took a nap, ate another small meal, worked on updating my mommy’s resume, and engaged in various conversations via texting, email, Facebook, and  phone.

It took me seven hours to read Carson’s poem because I could only stay immersed for so long without beginning to cry or rant about love and loss.  I could only sustain my attention on her carefully wrought words for so long without feeling like my heart was going to burn a hole through my chest.  At first I felt bad that I couldn’t abide with the poem for very long, but I figured that Carson would rather I read her poem how ever long it took me rather than not read it at all (that’s how I imagine I’d feel, if I were her, and if she were me), so I read it in the manner I was able to, and despite the arduous emotional journey it took me on, I’m glad I read it, I’m glad my friend suggested to me that I read it. I found it to be incredibly inspiring and I feel less isolated in my love and loss than I was before I read it. I look forward to reading Carson’s poem again in one fell swoop now that I know what’s in store for me (but only to some extent, because even when I re-read a text with which I have an intimate relationship I still discover new things about it and myself.).

I wish I could write such a thing, a poem called an essay that is at once deeply personal and philosophical, which takes on big perennial ideas and the immediate messiness of human experience.  I wish I could thank Carson for helping me suss some stuff.  Oh! And as I write this it occurs to me that my friend may have had at least one ulterior motive in suggesting I read the poem! So, instead I’ll thank her—Thank you, friend. 

Before my time with my friend yesterday afternoon I spent the morning with my mommy.  She’s had to leave a job about which she cares a great deal (and fought to keep when the agency she previously worked for closed abruptly) because her older client, who is increasingly unable to control his behaviors due to a degenerative disease, couldn’t keep his hands off her body. And because bathing, cleaning up after, and caring for him, and being at his wife’s beck-and-call, was completely exhausting for her.

My mommy is an elder taking care of even older elders and as much as she loves being a caregiver, bringing happiness and comfort to others, the costs are exceeding the benefits. But my mommy has no choice but to work part-time for pay in order to be able to make her rent and have a semblance of comfort in her “later years.”  So we spent the morning together strategizing and problem solving and catching up with each other.

Our first task was to take a field trip to the downtown Portland Social Security office.  My mommy didn’t realize until I mentioned it to her that she qualifies for spousal benefits given that she was married to my father for twenty-five years, with the proviso that 50% of his benefit is more than the benefit she receives based on her own employment history. We discovered that in fact her current monthly benefit exceeds 50% of my father’s monthly benefit. Given how small my mommy’s monthly benefit is, the news that my father receives so little that 50% of it would be less than what my mother receives in full was a bit sobering, but it makes sense, given his employment history. Bottom-line: No additional resources to be found courtesy of federal entitlement programs. (Sometimes it pays to have a gerontologist in the family. Sometimes it does not.)

To discover this news my mommy had to supply certain information to the Social Security personnel – my father’s name, social security number, birth date, and place of birth. She didn’t have his social security number.  As she gave his birth date, I realized about a beat before she turned to me to tell me that today, March 16^th, is his sixty-eighth birthday. My father and I are what in common parlance is referred to as “estranged.” We haven’t seen each other in over twenty years (I am not sure of the exact number, but it hasn’t been since I was in my early twenties, before my mother divorced my father). We haven’t spoken for three years, and he’s never met my daughter Isobel. 

After our trip to the Social Security office, my mommy and I brainstormed for awhile about other kinds of work she might like to do. My favorite of her ideas was “Running fast with little kids.” We did some searches on the Web—Portland Parks and Recreation, a couple of job search sites.  We also created a Facebook posting and put it on each of our profiles, asking our friend to keep their eyes and ears open for opportunities for my mommy. We’ve already received some fantastic ideas! 

After we attended to our tasks my mommy wanted to walk home from my house to her apartment, so Happy and I ambled with her as far as the edge of the park. While we walked we fantasized about how cool it would be if  we were a non-profit and everyone we knew could contribute $20 per month (or at whatever level worked for their budget) to support my mommy in working as my personal assistant. The only problem is that we aren’t a real non-profit, so there wouldn’t be a tax benefit to our generous donors. Nonetheless, this little fantasy has particular resonance given that my mentor, who has expertise in consulting about fundraising with non-profit organizations, has referred to me affectionately and in jest as “a small non-profit.” You know, I’m only five foot two inches tall…

Today is my father’s birthday. And I’m working on my mommy’s resume to help her in her job search. And I’m thinking about love and loss.

I’ll end with some of Anne Carson’s “subtle and surprising” words:

What is prior?

What is love?

My questions were not original.

Nor did I answer them.

Mornings when I meditated

I was presented with a nude glimpse of my lone soul,

not the complex mysteries of love and hate.