A New Decade

Flowers from my sis

I turned 60 this past Monday.  I've heard a million cliches about aging like:   "It's only a number.  Numbers don't define me.  60 is the new 40,"  etc. etc.  I'm sure you've heard them too.

         I can remember when I turned 50 it felt really BIG.  Reaching 50 resembled reaching the top of a mountain knowing the next step would be descending.  In that sense, I spent the 50s in that mode of thinking.  Both my mother and stepmother died at 42.  My father died at 56 so when I reached 50 I felt the hour glass was almost empty.  I was racing against time...out of sands... the best was over. Between 40 and 50 I became like most middle-aged women- invisible.  What does that mean?  It means no one looks at you, doors once opened for you, gently shut in your face.  The guy sitting next to you on a plane doesn't notice you need help with your bag in the overhead bin.  There is no need to primp for hours because no one notices anyway.  It's an interesting phenomenon after several decades of celebrating womanhood, knowing men were glancing or flirting, feeling pretty at least some days.   This feeling of invisibility was compounded because my husband and sons and brothers never acknowledged my birthday: they simply forgot.  I was crushed.
                        I am pleasantly surprised as I enter this latest decade. I had some expectations of doing something incredibly special but they were unrealistic.  I know now, if that is what I'm expecting, I'll need to make it happen.   Turning 60 was just another day.  Most importantly, I was able to enjoy each moment of that day with my son and husband as we drove, toured, ate, drank, and rested.  Just that was enough.

Matt and Myles at the Vista House, OR

Last night I went to the theater and saved two dollars because now...I'm 60.  It's exciting  to know I've outlived the family odds.  I don't care that I'm invisible; in fact, I like it.  Let me live in the moment, shop without makeup, wear what I want, open my own doors, help others with their bags, and be exactly whatever I want to be.  I am blessed with health, friends, family, and love.  That is all I need at 60 or in any other decade.  I got the best gift this year, a gift I'm sure my parents would have loved, I have the gift of life and I plan to cherish it as long as I live.

Flowers from Michael, Sky, Riley and Sunny

Perfectly Imperfect

So far, my summer has been like no other.  I've been surrounded by people and had endless visitors staying at the "Mumford Spa and Resort" nestled in the hills of Tillamook county.  Most significantly unique  is being unemployed and keeping my granddaughter for a couple of months. Having time to spend collecting worms, dressing paperdolls, creating Birthday Bear cakes with colorful playdough, cutting, pasting, and coloring is taking me back to my own childhood.  I don't remember having this sort of time with my own boys.  It seems we were always in the middle of a military move, or I was in school, or the boys were shifting from activity to activity.  I don't remember taking time to BE with them.

Recently, I had lunch with the son of a close friend.  He will be married Saturday and has spent summer in the throws of planning a wedding.  The look of stress on this young man's face is visibly evident.  He  is focused on perfection.  I couldn't help but feel disappointed; this should be one of the happiest times in his young life, and yet, his days are steeped with worry and attention to detail.

This strive for perfection reminded me of the summer my family rafted the Snake River.  The day was a bit windy and rainy as we arrived before sunrise.  The guide, a young man clearly rooted in nature and living in the moment, made a comment I'll never forget.  "Enjoy the rain today as it will make this experience memorable.  It is not the perfect days we remember, but those less perfect that stand out."  He was right.  I remember being wet, sliding as I climbed up the bank to an outside breakfast, the smell of bacon drawing me upward to the outdoor kitchen.  I recall the eagles and their nest...in full view without the bright sun in our eyes. We never received the expensive pictures we purchased; and yet, I remember the trip vividly. It is etched in my mind forever.

When I remarried, my son AW was five.  One of the greatest memories of the day was his perfectly imperfect presence.  The photographs took much longer with his wiggly- self eagerly awaiting the cake to follow.  "AW, lower your chin," the photographer pleaded.  He did ...with mouth wide open.  My brother captured it all on video.  The imperfection of the photography session is a highlight of our wedding day. We still chuckle  now as I show his five year old the wedding video and her father's antics.  Had it been perfect, I would not have remembered the photo session at all.

So to all you wedding planners, brides and grooms--striving for imperfection: relax, and enjoy your day of whatevers.  The imperfection of life, and how you accept it,  is what will carry you through the good times and bad to a happily ever after in the making. 

Groomology:  Maybe this would have helped my friend.  Let's face it, how many grooms study up on things!

Patish

Patish:  noun for special "mom" language.  The word was coined by Michael, Myles, and AW as they were growing up around our home.  It's a loving way of saying...only mom would use this word or term. For example:  "boober noomer"...a loving way of saying, "I love every little silly thing about you."

Unlikely

Yesterday,  while volunteering at Grub Club, I met Nate.  Nate is "going to be in seventh grade" next year, yields a killer grin, and is still shorter than me, which I suspect will change by the end of the summer. My volunteer position has changed from driver/delivery detail to "sandwich maker" so I showed up early yesterday at 8:40 am to knock out a bzillion PBJs.  Evidently Wednesday is YMCA field trip day, so volunteers arrive at 7:30 to prepare lunches for the Y kids.  Nate's grandmother had been spreading peanut butter since the church opened, and Nate was along for the ride as he would be working in her yard later-- his Wednesday summer job.  When I arrived, there were only 25 sandwiches left to prepare so Nate and I were assigned to "stuff" duty.

First we sat down  to stuff  two cookies each into small zip lock bags.  As you can imagine my pre-teen friend Nate wasn't full of conversation at that un-Godly hour of the morning, so I took upon myself to get the conversation going.  He tolerated me, politely.  After 132 bags of Oreos were stuffed, we moved on to strawberries.  Now it is after nine and Nate's personality is emerging. 

"This one has a soft spot," he says holding the perfect-looking strawberry up in the light.  We had already established quality control.  If one Oreo was cracked, we made sure the other was perfect.  No kid deserves two broken cookies.  So it would go with the strawberries, managing size, quality, and number to honor each recipient's USDA right to fresh Oregon strawberries.  Nate and I developed a rhythm and system to our work, mostly chatting about quality, and of course me finding ways to tease him so I could catch more glimpses of that killer grin.

Having finished our strawberries, we were put back on Oreo duty.  I would easily unzip a sleeve of cookies and begin to stuff where Nate struggled to open each sleeve.  Finally, he asked, "How do you open those so easily?"  I showed him my unzipping technique and Voila he opened the next one almost perfectly.  In the spirit of a teen-age boy, opening Oreo sleeves became a competition to see who could do the longest, most perfect unzip of the sealed plastic enfolding the cookies.

By the end of two hours, Nate and I were volunteer buddies.  It is unlikely that we would ever chat or choose to do something together in any other situation; but, volunteering gave us the opportunity to cross paths.  I am amazed at the contentment I felt watching Nate successfully unzip cookies, grin, and inspect strawberries.  Time seemed to stand still as I cherished the teachable moment and remembered how harried I was when my boys were approaching seventh grade.  It was zen like...very in the moment...very volunteerish.  Georga says that is the great thing about volunteering, "It's not a job Pat; you can say no, you can do it when you like...or not."  This concept is so far from my usual task this time of year of jigsawing workshops, balancing schedules, and planning ahead to November.  I pray to become more "volunteerish" and more in the moment, eventually transforming from the task-master I had become to someone who is fully living the moment remaining open for more unlikely encounters.