I imagine that I’ve pushed the limits of your patience with my apocalyptic warnings about the state of our nation and my “honest” talk about the trials of getting old. For a change, I’d like to talk about my good fortune at having arrived at an advanced age feeling good.
It’s 6 AM and the sun has already risen. I hear the fountain outside our bedroom window, spraying water from the little pond right outside, and — I know this even though I can’t see it from my bed — spreading the coating of light green algae to the pond’s far edges. A few robins are chirping. A squirrel is chirping, too, as he speeds up the oak tree’s trunk. I feel so damned good this morning. =
Already, the day reminds me of an ee cummings poem that I loved as a young man, a poem, coincidentally, that my sister-in-law, Marcia, recites to herself each morning, wanting a reminder of what the day might be. I’d like to quote it in full.
“i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)”
There are too many days when I’m not as attuned to those “leaping greenly spirits” as I’d like to be, but even before and after I explode with exasperation at what I read in the newspapers, I am still aware of the great privilege I have in being alive at 76, with my ears and eyes still working, my body ready to go, and my spirit alert to possibilities.
I might focus my gratitude on the love that persists in my marriage and family, but today I want to focus on simpler things: the routines and regularities of life in retirement that bring pleasure to even the worst of days and allow me to pay attention to nature’s bounty.
Each day, as I awaken, Franny is next to me. I can see the sky, cloudy or sunny, it doesn’t matter. I ease out of bed, walk about 20 feet to the bathroom and go through my ablutions. I like the rhythm and the sound of the electric tooth brush and the taste of the water washing down the two pills that I take. Dressing, especially in summer, is easy: underwear, t-shirt, and shorts. Everything feels clean. I’m ready.
Next I make coffee for Franny and me, and we sit in our easy chairs with the newspaper. The news isn’t so great but there we are, together, as the light shines through the roof windows and the window door and gentles our moods. Almost every morning, we look at each other, nod, and feel our good luck.
After the newspaper, we separate. Franny either stays in the living room or goes to the second floor to do some work, or what, she says, passes for work these days. I go to my study to write in my journal, first in that free, undirected, ambling way that I’ve practiced for almost 50 years. If I’m not calm to begin, the writing calms me. If I’m calm, it deepens the feeling.
Next I write something “serious.” I work on an essay for my blog or chapter for the memoir that I’m writing. Sometimes this goes easily and well. Sometimes it’s a slog. Then I push and either break through or give up, hoping — maybe assuming — it will be better tomorrow. I can get aggravated when I feel the writing has gone badly but I am comforted by the fact that I am there. I have been sitting in my desk chair, in front of my computer, thinking and typing away. Every day. It’s the everydayness that soothes the aggravation.
When I’ve had enough of the writing, I read a few articles from The New Yorker or the New York Review of Books, which make me feel just a little smarter, just a little bit more in touch with the New York intellectuals I’ve long identified with. It’s like touching base with my community.
Now I’m getting a little restless, though. I feel it in my body. When I get up from the desk, my knees and back are stiff. I’m thirsty. I need to move. So I do. Franny and I may take off on a walk. These days, I may hit a tennis ball against a backboard for about 25 minutes, and then walk for about 40, knowing that I need to put in at least an hour of exercise to reassure myself of my health — and to feel good. I have always needed exercise to get those endorphins going in order to calm my body and soul.
Upon returning home, there’s a shower, and very few things feel as good as that hot—or cold—spray running down my body, taking away the sweat and the effort, until I am fully relaxed. Even the drying follows a ritual. First my hair, rubbing and rubbing with a towel, probably until the brain is active again, then my back and chest, then the legs and the feet. The towel always returned to the hook for drying. The return to my very light clothing. I’m ready for the next act.
In the late afternoon, I read, generally nonfiction — a biography or a history book — leaving fiction for the evening, when I no longer require myself to keep learning. The reading might make me sleepy and, now in my dotage, have begun for the first time in my life to take naps. They are sweet.
Franny and I come together for dinner. Then we might have friends to visit. We might read, talk on the phone, or watch TV — we love mystery series, news, and documentaries. I love sports. If there’s a big basketball, baseball, football, or tennis game on, we split up, then come back to each other for conversation and sleep.
Not every day is like this. Sometimes, I do some work—coaching young executives, for example. A little strategic planning consult with a nonprofit. A meeting for a board of directors. On Mondays, I spend time with Franny and Lucy, our 17 month old granddaughter. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we spend a few afternoon hours with our 5 and 8 year old grandsons. At times we travel and then there is no routine. Franny has her own activities, of course. And frequently we meet friends, separately or together, for walks, coffee, or drinks—or to dream up future projects. There’s always something new.
But it is ritual and routine, by surrounding and supporting all the other activities, that relaxes me enough to appreciate what is new and different. It’s the surrender to the routine, not having to be in charge all the time, that keeps me calm. It’s the routine, holding me like a good mother, steadily but not too tightly, that invites me to notice the leaping greenly spirit of life.