Legacy

I’ve been pondering how we navigate our present by the stories we tell ourselves of our past. I attended a beloved teacher’s memorial last week. People spoke powerfully about the lasting influence his 50 years of teaching had on so many students and coworkers. It’s caused me to reflect on how our stories are our personal myths. Our legacies are of the myths others tell about us. 

A health worker friend recently told me of a teacher who’d told her, “Keep doing your good work but take the stories you tell yourself lightly because much of what you’ve been taught maybe wrong.” I was struck by the phrase, “take the stories you tell yourself lightly,” and not just about myself but the stories I tell myself about others. 

One story I tell myself concerns my score on the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) rating. ACEs is a tool that measures how the long term consequences of childhood trauma influence overall health and longevity. One of the simple things I’ve been able to recall over the years is people with a rating similar to mine may face a 20 year decrease in their life expectancy compared to those with an ACEs score of zero. It contributes to chronic health conditions such as alcoholism, addiction, depression, heart disease, diabetes, and cancer, as well as, inability to maintain stability in work and finances which can contribute to premature death. This is serious shit.

It’s not a leap to think of this as an entrance to imprisonment, commitment to mental institutions and rehabilitation facilities, or homelessness in tandem with the long term affects of our society’s insistence on perpetuating poverty, racism, sexism, and the other isms. While society dithers about addressing the negative impacts on children’s life experiences which are too numerous to list, these problems take a toll on all of us in one way or another and keep the wheels of generational trauma rolling, passing it down again, and again, and again. 

In order to not live that future, I have to be very intentional. I must acknowledge the impact of my history on how I live my life and the choices I make. More and more, I’m aware of the domino effect of multiple health conditions that put me at further risk such as an untreated youthful shoulder injury which leads to failed surgeries 40 years later, which causes me to be unable to use a cane when I need it, which puts me at risk for a serious fall that can lead to more health complications. Each untreated or poorly treated condition contributes to other conditions which increases my risk of further injury. Even with my best intentions, I am susceptible to this cycle. Aging for anyone increases these kinds of comorbidities.

Despite my ACEs score, I am one of the lucky ones. Although I’ve suffered from several chronic physical and mental health conditions directly related to my ACEs score, I’ve been able to have meaningful relationships, an impactful career, a daughter who contributes to society, and experienced no more than short term care in mental hospitals as an adult. My family members’ high ACEs scores continue to reek havoc in their lives. If I hadn’t been able to engage in weekly mental health therapy for my entire adult life and have a supportive, committed partner, I wouldn’t be able to reflect on and be writing this today. It’s not like it’s been a walk in the park. These challenges are tough whether we face them or not.

I have great sadness about the harm raging all around us in my community, my country, and our world. Trauma influences us at all levels and in all positions unless we demonstrate an ongoing commitment to understanding the origins of our rage. Rage is a potent contributor to our violence. Even with our awareness, our ability to consistently make different choices is compromised.

As I sit here writing this, I’ve spied a Great Blue Heron quietly standing in the shallow reeds not 100 yards from me on the lake edge. I’m afraid to move for fear of startling it. Perhaps if I very slowly grab the binoculars within arms reach, I can get a better look. In any case as I despair for humankind, I can rejoice for the magic of earth-kind. 

Success!  Beautiful and obscured by reeds, I wouldn’t have seen it had I not been sitting, facing the bounty of the lake. Five feet from the heron is a discarded plastic bottle symbolic of the world’s contradictions. The two coexist as the heron patiently hunts food. It takes two slow steps in the shallow water with its very long thin legs. I marvel at the beauty of nature while temporarily disregarding the spoils of humanity. Without spooking the heron, I watch. Soon I will begin my day with a semblance of peace and leave the heron to its business knowing that we both have our roles to play. I haven’t succumbed to my trauma nor the heron to the plastic bottle. That is a triumph of both our resilience in facing what life presents. We don’t create the conflicts but we do choose our responses. It’s a legacy I can get behind.

L’Chaim. 

Joceile

2/17/24

[Picture: Great Blue Heron on the dock with reeds in the foreground on a different day.]

The Pool Bunch

I joined the YMCA today. It’s a first. It’s free because of my retiree medical coverage. My body has been telling me I need movement but not just any kind of movement. With arthritic joints screaming at me daily and nightly, my body was clear that movement in water was the only way to go.

I had very carefully deciphered the Y’s webpage for senior activities. It’s somewhat inscrutable.  However, there is a drop in class three afternoons a week called “Joints in Motion.”

Those who know me might be surprised to learn I am totally intimidated by gyms. Exclusive clubs make me paranoid. Historically, I’ve also been uncomfortable in pools having been too cold in them. The cold bothers me less in my older years. 

I gathered myself up. Ronnie accompanied me to the front desk as she was already a member. The receptionist signed me up while I watched the seniors enter for their pool gig. I, too, came equipped with shorts and T-shirt ready to rumble.

I am not one who hates being a senior. I don’t get that “I can’t possibly be one of them” feeling. I’m not thrilled with what my body is doing but I don’t mind being older. Seeing the smiling, slow moving seniors greet each other in various states of mobility felt like seeing old friends. These are my people. Everyone was friendly and apparently glad to see each other.

I found our slow, cautious, careful movements both endearing and hysterical. We’re a creeping, slightly bobbing and weaving, grinding parade. It is clear we will get there with or without our walkers. It is less obvious how long it will take us. We have been moving determinedly through life for a lot of years. A few set backs on the way to the pool will not deter us. I take comfort in that. We look decrepit but we are a force of nature. Just try dissuading your grandmother from a path she’s determined to follow and you know what I’m saying. 

The usual warmer pool was having a chlorine event so we were in the cooler, deeper pool. This delayed the launch at the entry steps as aging bodies prepared for cooler water. I was stunned when a woman who looked vaguely familiar asked if I was Joceile. I wondered if there was a warning sign about me somewhere. Many people look vaguely familiar to me now. I have more trouble differentiating faces. But no, it was a retiree from a state agency I worked at. Naturally, there’s no escaping the locals. 

We all got our noodles to accompany us in our exercises. I exchanged names with a few women. Lots of my standard introduction, “It’s Joceile…It’s Joe-Seal as in Joe and Lucille put together.”

“What nationality is that?” I thought the Joe and Lucille might have been a hint.

“It sounds French but it’s my grandparents, Joe and Lucille put together.” 

Sounds in gyms are terrible with or without my hearing aids. “Did you say your name was Carly or Carla?”

“Carla.”

“Car-LA?”

“Yes, Car-la.” Note to self, remember Carla with “LA” as in California, a nemonic trick.  

Women strangers with similar hairstyles look the same to me as do balding men with grey beards. It doesn’t help that I’m not wearing my glasses in the pool. I have to get to know people so I can recognize them from more data points. There was one other person I knew, a lesbian from my specific Olympia demographic. We are everywhere. It was nice to see her.

During our class, a woman walking around outside the pool slipped and fell. She stayed down. All eyes swiveled to her laying there with the unfailing interest of cars passing a traffic accident. A life guard picked his way slowly over to help her up. None of us made a move to assist. After all, any one of us would have arrived ten minutes after she was up, recovered, and in the locker room. I was more interested in my classmates attention than watching the play by play. She appeared unharmed. I saw more than one person slip and catch themselves. “Walk very carefully,” I told myself. My mantra is, “No falling!”

Once spread out and settled, we proceeded to get instructions from our fearless leader, Teresa, which we promptly talked through, modified, or ignored altogether. It’s wonderful to be able to pay attention or not as the mood and competing interests strike. There are no penalties for not following directions or proper comportment. We were exempt from expectations. Just making it safely to the pool was a huge success. The fun lasted 45 minutes. A friend of mine remarked we sounded like a bunch of kindergarteners. That’s exactly what we are and like the younger set we are having a grand time unless one of us falls down and goes boom. 

By the end, I was a bit cold. We all slowly climbed the stairs to make our creaky tortured way to the locker room. I basked in the hot shower 20 seconds at a time. It has an auto shut off feature. I got quickly attuned to reaching to turn it back on just before the 20 second mark enabling me to enjoy a semi-steady stream for several minutes.

We move slow. We dress slow. We leave slow. All of it was punctuated by smiles of encouragement to the tune of short narrations of our last injuries or surgeries. We are a lucky bunch. We’re still kicking, metaphorically speaking. Unless we’re in a pool, then we’re wholly inattentive, wriggling five year olds. I can’t wait to come back Wednesday!

Yours in Aging. 

~ Joceile

12/12/23

[Random picture of older women in pool with noodles.]

Be Still

Be still

Of the raging heart

And flitting mind. 

Nothing else

Need come between 

Me and the quiet dark. 

Take ease and comfort 

Rest my mind

Listen to my soul 

My heart beats there. 

I am safe 

I am strong 

A quiet mind is always 

A good thing. 

Be still 

And let the heavy

Blanket of sleep 

Overcome me. 

Daybreak will be here

Soon enough 

For my busy mind 

To rise again. 

Have no doubt 

I am still alive

Happily,

I remain so. 

Be still now 

No need to fan the flames 

Be still, my love 

Be still. 

~ Joceile

12.12.23

The Path to the Water’s Edge

During the late dark night, my mind asks,

“Do you want sleep?”

A quiet pause,

“What do you really want?”

I want love. 

I want it to be so pervasive that no one escapes it.

I want it to bounce from canyons and mountain tops

Through cities and towns large and small.

I want it to invade the cracks in the sidewalk 

And seep under tarps of those living outside. 

I want it to fill the hearts of men,

Their grace in it spill onto women and children. 

I want love to favor no religion and select no god.

I want love to be the first feeling at day break 

And the last thought at night. 

I want love to imbue every act.

Until then, I am awake 

Sending love to the frightened, hungry, and fearful. 

Only when human hearts are rich with love

Will I sleep. 

Until then, my heart aches.

And my thoughts disturbed.

For without love,

We are savages of the worst kind.

I cannot sleep with this on my soul.

Love has guided me through madness. 

I cannot surrender now.

My mind says,

“Allow rest for there is much to do.”

I succumb tonight,

For my heart is strong

But my mind is wise.

L’Chaim. 

~ Joceile

11.11.23

[Photo courtesy Ronnie Hacken]

The Legend of the Dog Fart

Back when wolves first realized human food scraps were of interest some thirty thousand years ago (or another ungodly long ago number), an evolution began of humans and ultimately dogs sharing food. Humans were divided into those who hunt the food with dogs along side and those who prepared the food with dogs along side. Anything related to food was of great interest to dogs. This has not changed over millennia. It is the great reward system for all living beings. No food, no companionship.

Dogs became partners in hunting, eating, and protecting. Dogs sat quietly near the hunter awaiting prey. Dogs sat next to those preparing food hoping for a dropped morsel. Dogs were ever vigilant awaiting leftovers while humans ate. Dogs sat next to babies protecting them knowing they would one day grow up and feed them. Dogs growled and barked out warnings to intruders just in case they might steal food.

As a partner in this food gathering, protecting, and consumption, dogs have made a nearly silent reassuring announcement of their presence. One can sit with a dog any time day or night smelling the air. The dog will smell thousands of pieces of information. The human with their puny nose can reliably smell only one thing wafting to them from the dog. This smell is reassuring, an announcement of the eating partnership. It is a testament to their living, breathing selves. Human partners the world over can take sustenance in this reassuring drift of scent. I am speaking, of course, of the dog fart which has been a staple of human dog relationships since the dawn of time.

My dog is old now. Her physical efforts are limited. However sitting quietly reading at night with her by my chair, I get reassurance and comfort by the wafting of her dog fart. Only one thing smells like it to my nose. It is a statement of her continued breathing and steady presence. I dread the day when Sheba’s fart touches my nose no more. All humans should celebrate the great and wonderful dog fart. Without it, we would be lost.

Reporting from Life’s front.

Joceile

8.17.23

[Sheba, 2017]

The Scarlett Temperature Index

85+ degrees: “Don’t talk to me! I’m never coming out from under this bed again.”

80-85: “Fine, I can sleep next to the bed or in the corner.”

75-80: “Your lap rates a nightly inspection but that’s it.”

70-75: “You know, the bed is not half bad to sleep on all day. “

65-70: “Your lap is cozy. Has it always been here?”

60-65: “Laying on you warm people at night just works.”

55-60: “Where the hell have you been? I’m freezing my ass off here.”

50-55: “I love you, Joceile. I could sleep on you all day. Ahhhh.”

50 and below: “Your lap is only thing between us and oblivion. No, you don’t have to pee. Hold it!”

*Based on Global Warming Trends and available Scarlett data for the period 2008-2023

 

[Picture of light colored long haired cat laying on intricate multicolored quilt.]