In the Wilderness — with SheLoves

March 12, 2016 By

And it’s Saturday again, SheLoves Saturday. Please begin this piece here and then follow the link over to that lovely place to read the rest. Our theme for the month of March is: “I see you.”

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As I write these words, we are one third of the way through Lent, and I am deep in the wilderness over here on the west coast. If I look out my window, I don’t see wilderness around me, but I know I’m in it nonetheless. It feels a little bit like all hell has broken loose as I sit in my office, or at the local coffee house, or in the office of another who has asked me to come for conversation and encouragement.

I’ve been listening to lots of different people lately. I do that all the time, truth be told, and some of those people even pay me for a particular kind of listening, a listening together called spiritual direction, which I spent three years learning. I continue to learn how to do this with each of the twelve different people who visit me, in person or via Skype, for a one-hour session each month. Every one of those persons is unique, with his or her own set of questions and wonderings; each one a distinctly individual person, with their own gender, age, marital status, life experience, spiritual struggle, need for discernment and companionship.

Yet they are all alike in one central and important way: they each want to be seen.

I believe there is a deep-seated desire built into us, a desire to be known and understood. And for my money, the phrase, “I see you,” is one of the rarest and richest in the English language. To be truly seen includes being truly heard. And it implies being valued and held in high regard. To be seen in this way is to begin to understand our own, intrinsic worth, which is the most basic and important of the foundation stones upon which sturdy relationships can be built.

All of the listening I’ve been doing in recent days, however, has led me to the sad conclusion that we do not see one another very well at all. This is not new, is it? We human creatures resist the very thing we long for, and so we hide. And sometimes we do that hiding well enough to reap the whirlwind.

Too many friends are reaping that whirlwind these days.

In the last week, I’ve heard stories of betrayal, diminishment, neglect, fear, sorrow, loss and pain. Marriages in jeopardy, careers on the line, friendships torn asunder by cruel words and careless actions, gut-wrenching fear overwhelming solid judgment, children struggling with addiction, and a long list of serious health crises, too often exacerbated by stressful relationships at home and/or work.

Wilderness, indeed. Bleak, endless, monotone.

And then, I remember . . .

Finish this one over at SheLovesMagazine – just click here to find it.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, Listening, SheLoves, Spiritual Direction

Inspiration

January 19, 2016 By

Do you all know Seth Haines? He’s written one of the best books I read in 2015, “Coming Clean,” (reviewed here on this blog) He also writes an occasional Tiny Letter and was one of those who inspired me to begin writing my own version of that. In the last few of those letters, he has begun to do what he once did for a small group of email friends — provide inspiration for writing on a topic. Today’s letter inspired these thoughts and THIS  is what I need in my writing life right now. I’ve been tired, lethargic, uninspired for many months now. I’m sure that enervating fatigue is connected to the stresses of the last eighteen months or so, from foot surgery and recovery to emergency hospital stays, to a major move across town, interwoven with the continuing disappearance of my mother into the mists of dementia and the inevitable toll of a long life on the bodies and psyches of both my husband and myself. But today, his own reflection (which is stunningly gorgeous – go over to his blog and sign up for his letter right this minute!) invited me to just sit and reflect on the presence of God in the ordinary. My response to that invitation:
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The clouds are low to the ground this week, hovering over our city like a pale gray shawl, hiding the view, softening the noise, slowing my breath. Today’s clouds carry water, gentle but steady, trundling its way down the drainpipe behind the bedroom wall, glistening on the ground outside the sliding door.

I’ve just come from a long lunch with a friend, someone I trust, someone I love. And I heard such sadness, sadness I knew nothing about. And my eyes well with tears for her . . . and for me, because I did not know. And I did not ask. Until today.

The gray dampness of the day seemed appropriate somehow. And the Beauty in the midst of that gray was her lovely face, sincere, concerned, honest, receptive. We talked long past the 90 minutes of free parking and I left a more generous tip than usual. Story-sharing costs us something, you know? It is never cheap.

When I returned home, driving up the winding hill with the wipers going full tilt, I shared the saddest parts with my husband. He, too, was hit hard. He, too, feels that pull to re-commit to friendship, to share the load, to pay something for the privilege of inclusion, even if it costs nothing more than time and empathy. Those are never cheap, either, are they?

I made myself some tea, a new flavor – Peppermint Chocolate – and settled into reading and writing for a while. But my eye was caught by some new blooms on the vine that covers our low-slung back fence, the one over which we usually have a soaring city and mountain view. The wide view is unavailable during this grayness, this shawl-covering season. But the narrow one is always there.

I took my camera out into the gentle rain and aimed it toward those gold and lavender throated cups that were pointing every which way along the rail. The drops of water somehow multiplied their loveliness and I gasped as I gingerly stepped from concrete to grass to flagstone pavers. I snapped the pictures and I remembered a truth I too often neglect or downright forget: there is Beauty everywhere. Everywhere.

Even on a gray day, even when friends are sad, even when I forget to ask.

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Where are you finding Beauty in the midst of the grayness, in the humdrum of day-to-day life?

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Blessings, community, Confession, Delight!, Encouragement, Enough

When Fear Rules

November 18, 2015 By

“IF WE ONLY HAD eyes to see and ears to hear and wits to understand, we would know that the Kingdom of God in the sense of holiness, goodness, beauty is as close as breathing and is crying out to be born both with in ourselves and with in the world; we would know that the Kingdom of God is what we all of us hunger for above all other things even when we don’t know its name or realize that it’s what we’re starving to death for. The Kingdom of God is where our best dreams come from and our truest prayers. We glimpse it at those moments when we find ourselves being better than we are and wiser than we know. We catch sight of it when at some moment of crisis a strength seems to come to us that is greater than our own strength. The Kingdom of God is where we belong. It is home, and whether we realize it or not, I think we are all of us homesick for it.”

– Frederick Buechner, originally published in The Clown in The Belfry

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“The kingdom of God is within you,” the master said. 

Within you.

Hidden in plain sight. Familiar, yet new. 

Too often, we feeble folk forget this powerful truth. We turn away from the gentle, subtle, powerful Kingdom of God that is within us and wander instead into the kingdom of fear. We listen to that voice that tells us everything is falling down, that there are enemies on all sides, that there is no room, and there is no time, for goodness, holiness, peace.

We let fear rule, feeling its insidious and invasive ugliness move into every cell of us, body and soul. And fear is a powerful thing, a fearful thing. When it’s working as God designed it to work, fear is a good and dependable early-warning system, alerting us to physical or emotional danger in our immediate environment.

But when we allow our thoughts to be held captive by worst-case scenario thinking, when that thinking leads us to make unhelpful and surly responses to others with whom we disagree (and often, there is room for honest disagreement), and when those unhelpful, even hurtful, responses are then offered in the name of Jesus . . . well, then. It’s time to take a giant step back and re-think.

The newsfeed has been radiating fear-based, reactionary words and threats since the tragic events in Beirut, Paris, Egypt and Syria this month. And far too many of those words have come from the mouths (or typing fingers) of folks who say they are Jesus-people. We need to take a really deep breath, my dear friends. Really deep.

And then, we need to talk. Not shout. And we need to pray, deeply, regularly, openly, secretly. We need to encourage our political leaders to keep the conversation civil, to remember who we are as a nation. And we need to encourage other Jesus people to do the same, to remember who we are as kingdom-people. Most of all, we need to re-touch that Kingdom within and hang with all our might.

We do live in a world that is filled with pain, poverty, prejudice, anger, racial hatred and religious bigotry. Bigotry that has bloomed into a terrifying kind of behavior. Yes, it is scary out there. Very scary. 

But.

BUT . . . we follow that strange and wonderful rabbi, the dusty one, the determined one, the surprising one. The one who rebuked vengeful behavior. The one who called us to counter-cultural thinking and living. The one who offered himself to the terrorists of his own place and time. The one who said, “Peace, I leave with you.”

Peace.

We stand at an interesting crossroads right now. Can we, as Reverend Buechner says in the quote at the top of this post, discover ourselves to be ‘better than we are and wiser than we know?’ May it be so. Oh, Lord, may it be so.

Because when fear rules, we all lose.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Confession, Encouragement, Grace

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 28 — Accepting Loss

October 28, 2015 By

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Learning to live with loss — loss of all kinds — can happen at any age. For me, it happened later in life. For my eldest daughter, it happened way too early. The man she fell in love with in high school, married after her first year in college, had three sons with . . . he died a difficult death after twenty years of marriage. She was 40.

Other than grandparents (one died when I was 6, one when I was 18, one when I was 23, and one when I was 53!), no one close to me died until I was in my fifties. My best friend died just before we moved to Santa Barbara in 1996. And our dads died 13 and 10 years ago, Dick’s mom last year. My mom is still here. So the loss of loved ones through death is not something I’ve had to grapple with until mid-life.

But I’m here to tell you that there are lots of things that are lost as you move through the years, and not just to death. I have much less bounce in my step these days, not so much elasticity in my skin, either. My handwriting is nearly illegible — not that it was ever great, but you could read it, once upon a time.

Even without mentioning the excess pounds I carried for so many years, this body has had a ton of wear and tear across these decades. Aging skin does very strange things. And don’t get me started about the hair — on my head and everywhere else. Oy vey

No one told me that menopause would be so devastating emotionally. It came as a complete shock to me to grieve the end of having periods at the age of 49. Something about removing options, perhaps? Whatever the causes may be, it did a number on me. 

Now, over twenty years later, I am somewhat more phlegmatic about it all. I’ve learned to roll with it a bit better and not invest so much of my own personal sense of identity in how my body functions and what it looks like. Yes, there are definitely pieces or regret remaining. but overall, I’ve mellowed a bit . . . I hope! After all, aging is the way of nature, the way of time, the way of earth-living. And while losses need to be acknowledged and grieved, they are not the whole story.

Which is precisely why I’ve left this topic (and the biggest one of all — death) for the end of this particular series. Why? Because this series is about embracing and owning the truth that we all age. WE ALL GET OLD. There is no way around it. It is both the price and the privilege of living a long time. So while grief needs to be allowed to exist and run its course, it cannot rule the day.

Learning to live with loss is a necessity, a requirement for these last decades. But here’s a more central truth, one that I want to live every day for however many days may be granted to me: what remains is lovely. And I am grateful for it.

How do you choose to live with loss? What kinds of loss are the hardest for you? Which ones are surprising?

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Beauty, Confession, Encouragement

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 25 — Standing Tall

October 25, 2015 By

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As we age, our bodies shrink, though not always in the direction we might choose. The pounds may still nag us, but that height we’ve carried? It’s likely to change as we add on years. When I entered UCLA as a freshman in 1962, I stood 5 feet 8 inches tall. When I graduated four years later, they measured me at 5 feet 10 inches tall. I grew during college. Who knew? Not the usual pattern for most of us, but then I’m not all that usual, am I?

So when they told me about five years ago that I was again closer to 5’8″ — I was bitterly disappointed. It took me a long, long time to live into all these inches. I was the tallest cousin on my mom’s side and almost the tallest on my dad’s. I had a grandmother who was 4’11” for heaven’s sake, so I felt a bit like a freak when I was a teenager. But as the years went by, I began to enjoy being tall. Really enjoy it. I could reach things. I could stand next to almost anyone and be taller than or nearly equal to them. Eventually, I settled well into being a tall woman.

Therefore, that year in the doctor’s office was tough for me — 5’8″ felt way too short. So I began trying to stretch as much as I could every year when I had to stand on the dreaded scale and turn backwards for the yardstick on my head. Last year, after losing 3/4 of the weight I’ve been losing over these years of retirement, all of a sudden, that yardstick read 5’9 1/4″ WOW. Losing weight can add inches?? Once again I ask, who knew??

I have no idea which measurement was the more accurate. All I know is I’m keeping this one.

And I’m standing as tall as I can every single day.

Are you tall or short? Does it matter to you? I known a few short women who hate being short, even feel overlooked a lot. Yet I have a daughter who, though short, is always gracious and grateful to be who she is. That’s the way I want to live, don’t you? Standing tall in who we are, no matter how many inches we carry around.

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Blessings, Confession

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 23 — Being Honest

October 23, 2015 By

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I took my mama off campus for lunch this week, the first time in many weeks I’ve been able to do that. She has tired more easily and so have I, so we’ve settled into the routine of putting her into the smallest of her unit’s wheel chairs and slowly walking over to the charming cafe that is now a part of her retirement community. 

But the weather was glorious, and if El Nino comes to pass, it will not long be that way (thanks be to God! We SO need the rain!), so we went. 

And it was lovely, and sad, and good, and hard. One thing I’ve committed to doing, even though many dementia experts discourage it, is telling my mom the truth. Unlike Dick’s mom, my mother knows that things are not right inside her head, and occasionally — if we’ve sat together quietly long enough, she will ask me about it

And I always tell her the truth.

“How come I don’t remember that you are my daughter? How come I don’t remember being married? How come? Why can’t I think?”

So I tell her.

“Well, Mom, it’s nothing you’ve done, it’s just something that happens sometimes when brains get old. Yours doesn’t work like it once did, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still you. And I’m here. I can be your memory for you, okay?”

And she is always relieved. Yes, I still get the same, question-of-the-day-whatever-it-might-happen-to-be from her, but she is calmer, steadier, more restful when we’ve talked about this situation as honestly as we can, given her limitations now and my own inarticulate attempts to explain the unexplainable.

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She is so very dear. And so very lovely. And I love her so very much. Yesterday, she asked, “Was I a good mother to you?” And I was moved to tears to tell her how very good a mother she was, to me and to my brothers. 

“Brothers? I have a son?”

“Yes, Mom, you have one son still living.”

“Oh, I’d love to see him.”

I remind her that he calls her on the phone, that he lives very far away and that he’s dealing with some health issues of his own. And she is peaceful.

In ten minutes (or less) she will have forgotten all about it.

Yesterday’s through line question centered around being sure she had my phone number. I told that she does, and when we got her back to her room, I showed her where it is. Of course, she can no longer read it, can no longer use the phone herself. But telling her the truth somehow eases her dis-ease. And if I can do that, then I am happy to be her truth-teller.

It dawned on me the other day that I am currently the only person in her life who sees my mother.  Who sees her for ALL of who she is, who she is now, and who she once was. I’m it. And that makes me feel more lonely than I could have imagined.

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Alzheimer's Disease, Blessings, Confession, Dementia, family, Hard Things

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 14 — Valuing the Old

October 14, 2015 By

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Of course today’s topic is one close to my heart. I am graced to have my 94-year-old mama still living. I myself am now 70. I am personally familiar with old things. And old people.

But you know what? We are not a society that particularly values old anything, maybe most especially people. That is painting with far too broad a brush, I own that. But there are times when it surely feels that way. I’m not sure it’s entirely intentional. We get busy, our lives are full, there is more energy to be found in the company of younger folk. I get it, I’m guilty of it, I know it.

But.

The sixteen people who live in my mother’s Alzheimer’s unit were once thriving, contributing members of society, living lives rich in friendship and family. Now, many of them seldom see any young face other than that of their closest caregiver — the one who is paid to be there.

I myself am deeply, DEEPLY grateful for those paid friends. My mother’s life is incredibly richer and safer because of the place where she lives. And for a long list of reasons — most of them to do with my own emotional and physical limits — I see my mom only about every five or six days. For years, I called her nightly on the telephone. Now, that is too confusing for her, so I stopped doing that this summer. It was both a relief and an opening for yet another kind of grief, deep within me.

I love my mother very much. I miss my mother very much.

Yet she is still here.

And the pieces of her that remain have been lovely to see for the last two years or so. Just in the past two weeks, however, I have seen a deepening level of confusion and ‘lostness,’ which come yoked with an exponentially deeper sense of panic that permeates almost all of our ‘conversation’ of late. Three days ago, she was frightened to use the bathroom before we left for lunch, sure that someone was going to get her wet (she now hates the shower.) And she insisted that she had never been to the Cafe before, though we have been there at least once each week for the last six months.

“Are you sure it was me you took here?”

“Yes, Mom. I know you. It was you. You are Ruth Gold, right?”

“Yes, I am. But there must be another Ruth Gold because I’ve never been here before,” she said in a frightened, trembling voice.

I patted her arm, told her I was going inside to order our lunch and left her, sitting at the counter, peering at the view with a troubled look on her face.

Seven or eight minutes later, I returned with her diet coke in hand and told her the cheeseburger would be coming soon. She turned and looked at me, much calmer, and said with conviction, “I think that other woman must have left.”

Clearly, she had been thinking about our earlier conversation, something she is generally unable to do. Something about it hit her deep inside, requiring her to ponder and try and figure out how she could be so lost. Her conclusion was unbearably sad to hear.

Yet something deep within me resonated strongly with that so-sad sentence, that oh-so -carefully prepared sentence. Because she was right, you see. That other woman has indeed left, never to return this side of heaven.

And oh, I miss her so.

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Alzheimer's Disease, Beauty, Blessings, Confession, death, Dementia, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Grace, Gratitude, grief

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 12 — Walking for All I’m Worth

October 12, 2015 By

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A few months before I retired at the end of 2010, I began to intentionally take walks almost every day. I’d done it for a lotta years before I moved to Santa Barbara and began my pastoral work, but somehow, the habit died away. We lived on a street without sidewalks, it was quite hilly . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.

I quit. I was distracted. I was lazy.

Then I landed in the hospital with blood clots in both lobes of both lungs and I began to think about trying to get more exercise. So I walked. Very slowly at first, walking laps around the large parking area of our driveway or around the campus at church, sometimes even around the pews in the sanctuary. 

Then I went to Laity Lodge in the fall of 2012 — my second time to that marvelous place — and one of our speakers was an expert on neurobiology. We happened to be in the same van heading to the airport for our flights home and I asked him what the latest developments were for the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease. He said this: “Sadly, there isn’t much that we know right now. It’s a much more complex process than we initially thought and the meds we’ve developed only target tiny pieces of that process. But there is one thing we do know that can help prevent or delay onset of this disease and that is this: thirty minutes of aerobic exercise at least five days each week.”

Bingo.

So I began to step it up even more, getting to about a mile and a half or two miles each evening. Slowly, I began to get stronger and I also began to drops a few pounds here and there.

Bonus!

Then, I injured my foot while on vacation. And during PT for that injury, I sustained a far worse one — the story of which you undoubtedly have heard enough about to last a lifetime. I could no longer walk and the pounds began to slowly return.

Then, after trying various combinations of strange footgear and consulting with three different doctors, I had corrective surgery. And going into that surgery, I put myself on a fairly stringent diet and lost a number of pounds just before and for several months after that surgery and recuperation. 

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Within about two months, I began to take very, very careful walks once again — laps around my driveway and occasional circles at the beach nearest to that home. Since our move, I have mapped out a route in our new neighborhood and found another beach that allows me to walk on the sand at low tide. The pictures in this post were taken with my iPhone while on each of these routes.

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You know what? I LOVE WALKING. I often have my longest prayer times when I’m walking. I don’t talk much, but I listen and I lift names and faces to our loving God, trusting that God knows their needs far better than I. Since our trip to Kauai last July, I am waking up much earlier than ever before in my life (which means about 6:15 or so — I am SO a night owl and not a morning person!) and I’m usually out of the house between 7 and 7:30.

In many ways, those walks are a highlight of the day for me. 
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And they are also good for me — in every way I can think of. Since that initial hospitalization for pulmonary emboli in May of 2010, I have lost about 80 pounds — very, very slowly. And, hopefully, permanently. I’ve dealt with weight/food issues my entire adult life, so I make no guarantees. Somehow, this feels very different from earlier weight loss episodes and I am praying that I am very different. 

So far, so good.

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What do you do to stay healthy? 

Just Wondering
Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Beauty, Confession, Encouragement, Walking

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 11 — Singing for All I’m Worth

October 11, 2015 By

I am writing this on a Tuesday morning. And Tuesdays are now very special days. Here’s why: August marked the beginning of semester number two for me to sing with the local Concert Choir at our community college. I began last January, soon after that BIG birthday event, and except for those unfortunate hospital stays during the spring, I’ve been in that rehearsal room every Tuesday of the school year.

I’ve loved to sing for as long as I can remember. Joined the kids’ choir at our downtown LA church at the tender age of five and kept right on singing in choirs until I moved to Santa Barbara at the age of 52. Nearly 40 years of being in choirs!

And then I stopped. Why? Because our church did not have a weekly choir to join, that’s why. We did sing seasonally the first few years I was here, but even that dropped away about seven or eight years ago.

Then a talented and kind woman in our congregation formed a small ensemble that sang in worship one Sunday and I was simply overwhelmed with how much I missed that kind of music. Initially, I was not a part of that group — and that, I will admit, was more painful than I ever would have guessed. In truth, it was stunning how much it hurt not to be included in their number. And in earnest conversation with my pastors and my husband, I began to realize that choral singing was a piece of my own story, my own identity, that I had buried for way too long. And I was strongly encouraged to find somewhere to sing.

So I did a little online research and found this college/community choir. And I HAVE LOVED IT. One of the hardest things about that second hospitalization was that it forced me to miss our spring concert. I am bound and determined that I will be there for the Christmas one! We’re doing Durufle’s beautiful Requiem Mass and tonight, we’re supposed to get the music for Ralph Vaughn Williams’ Five Mystical Songs — settings for poems by George Herbert, who is a favorite of mine. Not exactly typical Christmas music, but it will be fun to work through. Challenging stuff — and I’m delighted that it is. My voice is not quite as steady as it once was, but I’m still a dang good reader.

It’s interesting how the pain of exclusion served as a huge wake-up call for me, forcing me off of my duff and helping me to do a little exploration of the possibilities. This choir is roughly 50% college students — and 50% old folks from the community. Pretty much exactly what I needed right now.

And then there was this lovely bonus: I was invited to sing with that church ensemble right after their first attempt last winter — and I’m loving every minute of that, too.

What do you love to do? Has it gotten lost, maybe buried under too many other things you love (or don’t love)? How can you help all the pieces of yourself to re-emerge?

Just Wondering
Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, birthdays, Confession, Delight!, Music

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 10 — Watching My Step

October 10, 2015 By

 

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Do you see that rough looking spot in the pavement in this picture? There is about an inch-and-a-half difference between the asphalt and the concrete in this particular roadway. It’s the one that circles our local cemetery here in Santa Barbara, a place I used to love to walk.

But in February of this year, my left foot — which was surgically altered ten months prior to this event — got caught on that inch-and-a-half difference and I went down, face first, into the asphalt. After I hit the ground, that poor roadway looked like this:

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Because I was on blood-thinning medication, I had to spend the next 24 hours in a hospital room, being monitored for a possible brain bleed. The hospital room came after driving myself to the ER and having stitches put into FIVE locations around my face, including inside my mouth. Thankfully, the brain bleed never materialized. 

Within about five days, this is what I looked like:

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I know, I KNOW!! Almost as bad as the roadway, and downright scary, right?

Less than three months later, I misstepped coming out of the back seat of my car after I’d gone to retrieve something while visiting my daughter. I landed on my bum, hard, and then on the back of my head. I refused to go to the ER that time, but four days later, I felt the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life as I turned over to get out of bed in the morning. Something tore – I could feel it. I found out later it is called the abdominal rectus sheath muscle, and that sudden, searing tear is a rare side effect of the particular blood thinner I was taking, most probably complicated by the fall at my daughter’s. That little event led to TWO nights in the hospital, with lengthy intravenous treatment to reverse the effects of the blood thinners and stop the internal bleeding. I had a humungous lump in my gut, just below my lower left rib, that slowly dissipated over the next couple of months, causing some very funky bruising all along my left side.

To say these two events were distressing is a massive understatement. The very best thing that came out of them is that I am no longer taking blood thinners — HOORAY. And the second best thing is that I am now very, very careful where I put my feet.

From my bed in the ER during that second event, I called my foot doctor and asked him to please order some specifically targeted physical therapy to help me with my balance. The surgery with its L O N G recovery (no weight-bearing for eight weeks) had left me feeling off-balance much of the time. My post-surgery therapy had worked on strengthening my newly re-created foot, but this second, targeted round of PT has made a wonderful difference in my sense of balance and I am grateful. (I still do two of the exercises every single day.)

These scary episodes have underscored for me the truth that this body, she is gettin’ up there. She simply is not what she used to be. So I find myself looking down a lot these days, being extra-careful where I walk. In fact, I am much more cautious in general. I have never been a daredevil physically, but these days, I’m an out-and-out scaredy-cat.

And that care, that caution has become something of a metaphor for me in other areas of my life as well, most particularly with words — both spoken and written. Watching my step can be applied in lots of way, it seems to me.  

What about you? Where are you becoming more cautious and watching your step as you get older?

Just Wondering
Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Confession, Encouragement, Hard Things, personal journey
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