The Gero-Punk Project

Tomorrow is Isobel’s 18^th birthday!

When my obstetrician revealed the expected due date – Valentine’s Day — for when my child might be born, she was careful to preface the news by informing me that women rarely give birth on their due dates, so she didn’t want me to have any unrealistic expectations.  In turn, I informed her that I rarely if ever miss deadlines and she could be sure that I’d give birth some time within the 24 hour period of February 14^th, 1996.

The week we expected our child to arrive, in addition to our exquisite anticipation, we were also experiencing ever increasing concern about the circumstances under which he or she would be born (We did not know we were welcoming an Isobel into our lives prior to her birth). There had been a major winter storm that had dumped huge amounts of rain and snow and in the storm’s aftermath, there was flooding of record-breaking magnitude. One of the many consequences of the flooding, besides the Willamette River spilling over fortified banks and dykes into the streets of downtown Portland, was that the route from the rural area where Isobel’s father and I lived at that time to the hospital where my obstetrician was on staff was submerged under many feet of water.  In addition to our “nesting” behaviors – I spent days baking lasagna and cookies, making chili and soup to stick in the freezer so that I’d not have to concern myself with food in the days after bringing our baby home; Isobel’s father spent any time he wasn’t working taking naps and incessantly chattering about wanting to go salmon fishing so that we’d have a stock pile of wild caught fish – we watched the weather forecasts and charted alternate routes from our home to the hospital.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to use any alternate routes. Our journey was largely uneventful, if you don’t count the fact that I was transported to the hospital along dark country roads in the final hour of February 13^th by a semi-crazed soon-to-be-father who was experiencing sympathetic labor pains.

Isobel Monique Coen, our daughter, our Valentine, emerged into this world at 4:59 a.m. on February 14th, 1996.

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Tomorrow is Isobel’s 18^th birthday.

Yikes! How did this happen? 18? 18! This is kind of a big deal!

Yesterday, one of my students asked me how I was going to deal with having “empty nest syndrome” once Isobel leaves home for college.  He said that he’s never experienced this malady because he’s not a parent, but he’d heard from those who are parents about the suffering involved with the “empty nest syndrome.”  I responded by saying that in order to suffer from the “empty nest syndrome,” I have to first actually believe that it exists as something experientially real (whatever “real” means in this context) and not just a socially constructed expectation.  I said that I will definitely miss Isobel when she leaves for college in August (I already know how to miss her when she’s just away for the weekend.), that there’s no doubt that my life will be different when the two of us are no longer living together, but otherwise I’ll have to wait until I’m actually in the middle of the transition before I’ll have any insights about my particular experience.

My last words to him as we walked away in opposite directions from one another were in the form of a reminder of the socially constructed nature of the meanings we give to particular ages and stages and transitions. His last words to me were that he was used to seeing me in black clothing and noticed that I was actually wearing colorful clothing; I said that I had been know to wear colors on occasion and that on this occasion I was wearing colors (red, in particular) in honor of Isobel’s upcoming birthday.

If you know me, you know it is a safe bet that in the gerontology course I teach this afternoon I’ll mention at least once that the significances with which we endow particular ages – 18, 21, 65 –  or life course stages (Raise your hand if you are in “mid-life.”) are artifacts of specific times/places and spaces. And I’ll emphasize that though these significances and meanings seem to have solidity and substance and essentiality, they have come on the scene of human experience rather recently historically; they haven’t always existed, and they won’t always exist.   Even more to the point, they didn’t just “come on to the scene” out of nowhere; human beings actually created these age-based structures and systems.

That’s the theory, any way. But what about the experience?

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The way I see it, I have a choice to make. I can create suffering by engaging in anticipatory grief about the near-future event of Isobel’s 18^th birthday, followed by her leaving home – leaving me! – to begin her adventure as a young woman in the world. And I can further intensify this suffering about the future by also allowing my mind to dwell on the past, by riding a closed loop of nostalgia for the preciousness of a younger Isobel (and a younger self).

Or, I can cultivate through my daily gero-punk practice the causes and conditions for being as present as possible to the present, to our shared, unfolding journey into this next new phase of our intertwined lives.

Today, on Isobel’s birthday eve, my practice involves contemplation and meditation and walking and writing this little essay and wrapping Isobel’s totally awesome and unprecedented birthday present and teaching and having a late family dinner at a restaurant we’ve always wanted to go to.  

Tomorrow, on Isobel’s 18^th birthday, a significant part of my practice will involve cultivating gratitude that I get to spend some time in the morning and some time in the evening celebrating with her, before and after she spends the majority of her birthday hours with her gang of lovely friends.

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In honor of my Valentine and to incarnate the next phase of our journey together and apart with love, hope and courage, I thought I’d share the beautiful bit of verse that I choose 18 years ago for Isobel’s birth announcement:

 “… A single cell quivers at a windy embrace; it swells and splits, it bubbles into a raspberry. 

Soon something wholly new rides the wind…”

–From Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

An essay by guest Gero-Punk

Erica Wells

I am feeling grateful for the laptop, which enables me to write to you from the comfort of my new flannel sheets. I have a cold glass of chardonnay on my bedside table, and the glow through the windows from the snow covered outdoors eliminates the need for me to switch on the lights. Even if it is 5pm. I’m still wearing the cozy fleece hat I put on to watch my kids sled down our street for the 3^rd day in a row, a personal record for these native Portlanders of mine. Yet in spite of my comforts I am also feeling restless and unmoored. A four-day break from our routine thanks to a nice big snowstorm has been both pleasant and a source of discontent. The discontent being mainly mine, as I feel I haven’t been able to get anything done over the past few days. Which leads me to wonder, what is it that I am not getting done, and how important is it after all? Let me also mention that I have, in fact, done quite a bit over the past few days, particularly in terms of the domestic work required to keep a household of snow-worshippers happy, dry, warm and fed. That fact doesn’t seem to satisfy a certain voice in my head, a voice who is persistent about reminding me of all that remains un-done around the house.

Which leads me to tell you about my manifesto.

I have been thinking a lot lately about the notion of self care. It’s a term that’s relatively new to me, and one I have researched and written about extensively in the privacy of my notebooks, yet been reluctant to share anything publicly until lately. Mainly because self care is an odd term; what does it mean to care for oneself, beyond the activities we perform day in and out to keep ourselves on the planet in fairly decent shape?

It turns out self care has to do with things like listening to our instincts, following our gut feelings, taking time to nourish ourselves with good things to eat, getting fresh air into our lungs and moving our bodies in energizing ways. If this sounds like fancy talk for what you’ve heard a million and one times before, then you are already familiar with what self care looks like, but maybe you aren’t as familiar with what it feels like. Allow me to tell you: good self care feels great! Really great. It isn’t easy, and it might not even come naturally to you, but when you make the effort to look after yourself in kind and thoughtful ways, wow, does it pay off. For me, it was primarily a matter of allowing myself the same amount of consideration I have for all of my loved ones. Why not include myself in the circle? I did not realize there was plenty of room for me until I jumped in and discovered how good it felt. Nor had I discovered how when I felt better, everyone in my circle seemed to benefit, too.

What I noticed, when I started to pay closer attention to myself, was that my initial reaction to a situation was just that: a reaction. As such, it didn’t require anything other than acknowledgement. Once I got past those immediate (and often negative) thoughts I was able to move into more productive and fertile territory, resulting in much more positive outcomes. For example: I have two young kids, and often find myself in the midst of assorted messes, misplaced items and overall disorganized chaos. My first impressions of these disorderly scenarios generate a lot of anxiety: “No one picks up after themselves, I am raising slobs, where did all this stuff come from and why isn’t it where it belongs?!?” My mind begins to wail like a toddler in need of a snack. Swiftly enough, the toddler’s imminent tantrum is replaced with my self-care trained response: “A-ha! The kids need to be reminded to clean up their things. That is my job, and I shall get on it. Maybe I’ll reward them with a treat when they’re done. Let’s see if there are any marshmallows left to go with the hot chocolate!” Thus my potential domestic unrest is transitioned to the normal daily running of a household. Of course this doesn’t mean that self care practices have eliminated all frustration, sadness and anxiety from my life, but it does mean that I have a healthier perspective on what situations are in fact worthy of my frustration, sadness and anxiety.

So, as I wrap up this long snow-bound weekend, and as doubts over my perceived lack of productivity enter my brain, I will rely on a few tricks I’ve learned in practicing self care to ease my conscience and shush that doubting voice in my head. I know that regardless of what I’ve done in terms of household chores or other duties, my family has enjoyed a mini vacation at home. Friends have visited, games have been played, we’ve eaten well and often, and we’ve made the most of the unexpected winter wonderland outdoors. I may be sporting a few new bruises and my hands are chapped, but I got to go sledding with my kids right outside my front door, and that’s pretty special. I can focus on the moments at hand, and be less worried about what happens next.

As my husband’s mom often says, “Events will unfold.” Just like the weather, much of the future is out of our hands. And for what is within our ability to manage in this unpredictable thing called life, I offer you my mantra:

              life is happening now.

 past is memory.

                               future is imagination.

don’t wish for what was

         or what might be next.

 be here. be open. be kind to yourself.

            be mindful of your future-self.

be generous towards your younger self.

 love. breathe. dwell.

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Erica is a 2003 graduate of the MAIS program and member of the adjunct faculty at Marylhurst University. Since 2005, she has taught courses in human science inquiry and gerontology. Her day to day life revolves around orchestrating and facilitating the schedules of two curious and confident grade-schoolers, all while vainly attempting to establish a semblance of order to her surroundings. When the whirlwind of the school-week subsides, you can find her in the kitchen, experimenting with a cocktail shaker and savoring the company of friends and family as everyone toasts to togetherness and the simple pleasure of a good meal.

Until I see it with my own eyes I don’t believe it.

It might be a rumor sent around to mess with those of us who suffer from this particular kind of yearning. (This yearning is life-long and it is incurable.)

Even once I see it with my own eyes, I still can’t easily get past my disbelief that something so wonderful is happening on a Thursday afternoon (or a Monday morning!).

The remedy for this disbelief is: Bundle up and go outside, just to be certain it is true.

Snow offers a perfect opportunity to contemplate impermanence.

When it is snowing, it is easy to believe that this is now and forever the quality of the world: strangely glowing, no edges, filled with almost inaudible sounds, still and chill.

The intensity of a life-long and incurable yearning for snow is strongly positively correlated with an attachment to the desire to live in a snowy world forever.

Snow offers a perfect opportunity to contemplate impermanence (and attachment, but that’s a topic for another time).

Sometimes when you wake up in the morning, the snow is gone. It is as if the snow was never here. You are disconcerted and forlorn and maybe slightly heart broken. 

Sometimes you watch over the course of a day as the snow slowly changes in structure and substance. You watch the snow transform back into liquid minute by minute. You can tell by the new sounds you hear that the snow is leaving soon.

Snow offers the perfect opportunity to contemplate impermanence.

My advice, if you want it, is that when you’ve verified with your own eyes, ears, mouth, hands and feet that in fact the rumors are true, that snow is visiting your world, you must without haste bundle up and go outside.

It doesn’t matter what you hear about how long snow will be around. There’s a more crucial imperative: Play in this snow now. Bathe in this snow now. Consume this snow now.

Know this snow. Now.

Snow offers the perfect opportunity to contemplate impermanence.