Perspective (4)

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Fourth Installment

Roxy’s eyes registered Deborah’s blue suit and green bathing cap striding through the shallow water toward the pier. She saw the living, moving body, but her brain did not process the reality that Deborah was alive. Crippling sadness and overwhelming loss still gripped her. The rain had plastered her short hair to her head; soaked clothing clung to her shivering body. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes were black and empty. She watched blankly and numbly as Deborah climbed onto the dock and came towards her, making soothing sounds. She could not recognize the words.

*******************

Lifting her goggles and wiping the water from her face, Deborah saw right away that Roxy was in shock. Alex was nowhere to be seen. She walked slowly toward her shivering partner and put her dripping arms around her, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’m fine. Don’t worry; everything will be all right.”  Roxy was like a statue in her arms; rigid and cold. She needed to be warmed as quickly as possible. With an arm around Roxy’s shoulder, Deborah led her across the lawn and into the cabin. Jiffy bounced along behind them, trying to get Deborah’s attention, then, just inside the door, shook himself happily, sending spray flying everywhere. Alex was standing in a puddle holding his phone, and Jason was still playing with his iPad.

“I need to get Roxy dry and warm first, and then we can talk,” Deborah said hesitantly.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Did you call your mom to let her know I am okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to worry you so much, Alex. “

“Why didn’t you come right in when the storm started?”

“By that time, I was far enough away that I couldn’t see the shore through the rain.”

“Well, you just wait until Mom gets here. She is going to be furious with you.”

“I know. I’d better get Roxy dry.”

Deborah led the still-shivering Roxy into the bedroom and began removing her clothing while Jiffy hopped on and off the bed. She toweled her off, found warm, dry sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, and tugged them over Roxy’s limbs, then led her to the bed and covered her with a warm blanket. “You’ll feel better soon, once you warm up,” she soothed.

“I thought you were dead,” Roxy spoke for the first time in a dull monotone. “I thought that was it. Dead.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Deborah apologized, touching her face and kissing her on the lips. A tear rolled down Roxy’s cheek.

Outside, Deborah could hear a vehicle approaching. Through the window, she saw a flashing light, visible against the still-dark sky. Jason woke from his iPad trance as a search-and-rescue truck pulled into the driveway.

Deborah, still in her wet bathing suit, hair askew, and Jiffy at her heels, went out to the porch to see who was on the rescue team. Jason, with his love of fire and rescue trucks, was already there, mesmerized by the flashing lights. Her brother-in-law, Tony, climbed down from the driver’s seat and smiled at her, then ruffled his grandson’s hair.

Again, Deborah started with apologies. “I’m sorry to trouble you and the fire department,” she said. “No worries,” Tony responded, with a slight chuckle as a stranger emerged from the other side of the truck. Deborah explained the drama that had unfolded only half an hour before. “As you can see, I am perfectly all right and not in need of rescuing.”

“That’s a happy ending,” Tony quipped. “We were on another call and couldn’t get here right away, but that one had a happy ending, too. Well, we’d better get this truck back. See you later.”  Deborah waved as they turned off the flashing light and pulled out of the driveway. Jason stood beside her on the porch, also waving goodbye to his grandfather.

Inside again, she found some dry clothes, dressed, and took the wet things – hers and Roxy’s – out to the line to hang. Having done all that she could to ease the effects of her selfish miscalculation, she noticed her depletion. Not just physical but mental. She felt lonely and depressed. Roxy was incapable of offering her any comfort. Alex was silent and angry, again absorbed in his phone, while Jason stared at the iPad. Meredith would return soon. With dread, she anticipated the sound of her sister’s car. She crawled under the spread on the bed next to Roxy, with Jiffy snuggling between them, and, closing her eyes, gave in to her sadness.

No one had expressed relief at her survival. No one had given her any credit for her level-headedness and strength in the ordeal. No one had “taken care” of her in any way once she was onshore, except for that small smile from her brother-in-law. They all seemed absorbed in their own take on what had happened and how it had affected them. She felt profoundly tired and alone. Automatically, she began breathing deeply and slowly. Eventually, she felt sleepy.

But before she drifted off, she heard a car approaching the cabin. It would be Meredith with the family’s supper fixings, and Trisha, Jason’s mother. She lifted her heavy body from the bed, sighed deeply, and, straightening her shoulders, opened the bedroom door.

to be continued tomorrow

Perspective (3)

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Third Installment

Meredith speed-dialed her husband, Tony, a senior firefighter in the local volunteer fire department. He picked up immediately, “What’s up?” 

“You need to get to the lake right away. Deborah went swimming in the storm, and they can’t find her.”

 “Okay, who’s there with her? Where are you?”

 “Alex and Roxy are there, but they can’t swim well enough to look for her. I’m at home.” 

“I’m on another rescue call right now, but I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Tony responded.

“Damn it!” thought Meredith, but Tony hung up before she could argue.

She dialed Alex back, “They are on their way.”  She put down her phone, gave in to her fear, and began to cry.

*******************

Roxy stood like a statue at the end of the dock, frozen, drenched, her mind filled with darkness. Her only thought was, “I’ll never see her again; she’s dead.” Each time these words cycled through her brain, a gushing torrent of sorrow denser than the sheets of rain around her washed through her. Though she remained upright, she was completely unaware of her body.

*********************

Alex paced back and forth on the porch, cell phone in hand, mumbling to himself, “Hurry up, hurry up.”  Minutes were like hours. Jason took out his earbuds and played the cartoon on his iPad’s speaker. Silly, childish tunes filled the cabin.

**********************

Deborah stroked steadily, stopping every minute or so to look around. Sometimes she felt closer to the flag, and at others, she could see she had veered to the left or right. She needed to touch shore on the small stone beach beneath the flag. On either side of that beach, she knew, were trees and large rocks at the shoreline—no place to climb out of the water. She checked her direction and swam forward again. Stopping to look around broke her rhythm and slowed her progress. But gradually, stroke by stroke, she neared the dock with the flag at its tip.

Twenty feet from shore, she gingerly lowered her foot to test the depth, and it sank into the muck on the bottom of the lake. A few more strokes and she touched coarse sand. She pulled her tired body up from the water and waded slowly toward shore, larger rocks on the lake’s bottom bruising her unsteady feet.

Through the rain, she saw, with a sinking heart, a man who was standing in the doorway of the cottage withdraw inside and close the door. A flicker of confusion flared in her mind. She refocused on breathing deeply, slowing her pulse, and relaxing her tense muscles. The downpour had let up enough that she could dimly see her sister’s cabin on the opposite shore. Imagining that Alex and Roxy might be able to see her, especially her bright green bathing cap, she turned and waved both arms in hopes they would see she was okay.

As she rested in the lighter downpour, Deborah considered her options. Why had the man gone inside instead of coming to the shore to help her? Did he not see her? Should she knock on his door? She felt physically exposed in her dripping suit and shy about knocking on a stranger’s door. If the man opened it, would he help, only to later broadcast the incident throughout her sister’s small community?

Her sense of independence and self-reliance asserted itself. This was up to her. She had never been able to rely on anyone else, anyway. When she tried, they’d let her down. So, if she couldn’t seek help from the man, should she try to walk barefoot, on the muddy woods road, out to the highway to flag someone down? Did she have enough energy to swim back across the lake once the storm let up? The answer to the last question was clear. Already, after just a few minutes of rest, she felt alert, renewed, and confident.

For a short while, Deborah stood, resting in the shallow water. From time to time, she waved at the opposite shore but could see no movement there. The thunder and lightning had ended, but the rain had only diminished slightly. She knew the longer she was gone, the more worried they would be. Soon she felt ready to start back. She waded out to the edge of the mucky bottom and lifted her legs, surging forward with strong arms. “Take it slow,” she said to herself, “you can do this.”

Minutes passed, and she frequently stopped to get her bearings, but each time she checked and reoriented, she was nearer home shore. About halfway across, she could see Roxy standing stock still on the pier. A few seconds later, Alex appeared beside her. Deborah shouted and waved. No response from Roxy, but Alex’s angry voice boomed across the waves. “You get in here, right now!”  A flicker of dread rose in her chest. She had been right; they were mad at her. Alex shouted again. Deborah called out that she was coming as fast as she could and strained to pick up her pace. What would she face when she reached shore? She almost wanted to stay in the water, but that was not an option. Soon, she put her feet down on the pebbly bottom of her sister’s beach and dragged her utterly exhausted body out of Concord Lake. The rain had finally stopped.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective (2)

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Second Installment

Roxy’s shout penetrated Alex’s absorption with his iPhone. Next, he heard a loud clap of thunder and immediately glanced at his son, who had his earphones in and was listening to a cartoon on his iPad. Jason was terrified of thunderstorms, but could not hear the rain or the noise above the voices and music in the cartoon scene in front of him. He was okay. Roxy’s cry had sounded hysterical, though. Alex slammed his phone down on the coffee table, jumped up, and pulled the baby gate from the door. Jiffy slipped through, dashing toward Roxy and the lakefront.

From the porch, Alex could see Roxy standing on the dock, drenched, staring at the lake. But where was Deborah? A current of fear shot through him. He started to run and reached the dock in a few strides. It was clear from Roxy’s terror and from the storm surrounding them that Deborah was in danger of drowning. He couldn’t see anything beyond a couple of feet. The rain was a dense curtain, the waves churned, the thunder was deafening, and the lightning sizzled. Jiffy ran frantically along the edge of the water, then forward and backward on the dock, barking hysterically.

Alex turned to Roxy and shouted, “Call 911!” He heard the flatness in her voice as she responded that her mobile did not have international service. “Use my phone!” he screamed. “I don’t know how,” she stammered as if in a trance. “Well then, at least get that damn dog back in the cabin!” Roxy noticed Jiffy for the first time. He was pawing at her wet pant legs, trying to get her attention. While he scanned the roiling water in front of him, out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Roxy take hold of the dog’s collar and drag him back to the cabin, closing the glass door on him. He could hear the Jiffy whining pitifully, as Roxy, with blank eyes, joined him on the dock again.

“I’m alone,” Alex thought, “there is no other responsible person here. Roxy is in shock and useless. It’s my job to save Deborah, take care of Jason, Roxy, and Jiffy, too.”  He was terrified and confused. What should he do first? His mother would never forgive him if her sister drowned and he had not tried to save her. What if Jason suddenly heard the thunder and, seeing that his father wasn’t next to him, freaked out? Trisha had left him in charge of their son. She would be furious if anything happened to Jason. Two demands battled within him. Save Deborah, protect his son. Alex could swim, but he wasn’t a trained rescuer. Besides, he could see nothing through the rain. Finding Deborah in this downpour was impossible, and what if he drowned trying? Despite the confusion of his thoughts, he shook off his sandals and strode into the water. Tearing off his T-shirt, he dove in and flailed away from shore.

Thirty seconds in, Alex knew it was hopeless and turned back, dragging himself, soaked, across the lawn and into the cabin. As he opened the door, Jiffy darted through and returned to Roxy’s side on the dock, whimpering and staring out into the storm. Alex retrieved his mobile and automatically dialed his mother’s number instead of 911. She picked up on the first ring. “Call Search and Rescue. Deborah went swimming and is missing,” he gasped. Meredith was silent, but Alex knew she was not falling apart. Her competent, hyper-organized mind would be rehearsing the most practical steps before she flew into action. She would stay calm, call his father, who was a member of the local volunteer fire department, and help would come quickly. But would it be too late? He had done what he could.

The line clicked as Meredith hung up. Alex looked over at Jason, who, addicted to his iPad since he was three, sat placidly in front of it, not even noticing that anything was wrong or that his father was pacing back and forth, dripping water everywhere.

*************************

Deborah stopped swimming and, treading water, peered around her. She couldn’t see a shoreline in any direction. Instead, she saw rain slapping the water on all sides. A lightning spear shot toward the lake, and thunder boomed, vibrating in her ears. She wasn’t afraid. A fleeting thought that water is a superconductor of electricity passed through her mind, but she said to herself, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about that.” 

As she circled in place, looking for a glimpse of a shoreline, any shoreline, Deborah did not feel in danger. The lake was small, and she knew she had become a strong swimmer during her year of training at the community pool. When she began lessons, she had not swum for 40 years. Work and other responsibilities had intervened, and there was no nearby lake or pool. When she and Roxy retired and moved to New Hampshire, their town had a YMCA pool, so she started swimming again. Characteristically, she didn’t do so casually. She set goals, pushed herself, and gained back her strength and technique.

Her stamina had increased dramatically in the last year. She could easily reach some shore, any shore of this small lake, if she could see one. She felt confident in her ability to survive the storm. Her primary concern was those she had left back at the cabin. Roxy would be terrified. Alex might put himself in danger trying to rescue her. She hoped they would stay rational and do nothing foolish. Surviving this was up to her, and it was a challenge she felt she could meet, even welcome. A niggling worry crouched in the corner of her mind. They would be angry with her. They would see her determination to swim in dangerous weather as reckless and would blame her for frightening them.

“But I need to focus!” she thought. So, pushing this worry further back into her consciousness, she circled again, looking for shore. A slight slowing of the rain revealed a Canadian flag in the distance. It was blowing frantically, but the pure red and white maple leaf was a beacon. She knew from previous vacations that there was a dock beneath that flag and that a couple who lived in her sister’s village owned a cottage there. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and started stroking slowly and rhythmically toward the flag. As she did so, she felt the joy of swimming surge within her.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective

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by Moriah Freeman

Letter to my Readers

Because I started writing creatively later in life, I’ve permitted myself to experiment with poetry, essays, nonfiction, and fiction, knowing I may never master any one genre.    My late start and lack of a fine arts degree have also made it impossible for me to get published, at least so far. I’ve self-published three books and 89 blog posts over the past nearly 10 years.  Having one poem, “The World Is Coming Apart at the Seams,” included in one poetry collection, does not a published author make!

Last summer, I attended a couple of book festivals and saw self-published and co-published authors promoting their work. Very few of the potential customers who walked by my display or others actually made a purchase. I came away feeling uncomfortable contributing to the increasing cascade of words, pages, and books flooding the world, or, more accurately, sitting in boxes on storage room shelves, or in garages and attics.

Yet, I can’t stop writing, and though I have no illusions about my talent, I still want to share my words and thoughts—share, not try to force them upon readers.  So, I’ve hit upon a new, or rather, quite old idea. I will publish my fiction along with my essays and poetry on my blog in installments. This way, they are free, both for me to publish and for readers to read. If they are found and found meaningful, how delightful!  If they are not, I’ve still enjoyed the writing and the sharing.  I will put them out there and let go of the outcome.

Perspective is my first experiment in this new venture. It’s a short story about how the various people involved in one incident each see it through their own unique lenses. Let me know what you think.

Moriah

************************

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

For months, Deborah had imagined swimming at one of her favorite places – her family’s retreat on Concord Lake in Nova Scotia. When she was a child, her parents built the cabin on the lakeshore, and she and her siblings splashed, swam, canoed, and boated in its warm, shining waters. Now her parents were gone, and her sister Meredith owned the property. Deborah and her partner visited every couple of years for vacations and family gatherings.

During the journey, Deborah had daydreamed about this swim. As she stroked out from shore, she felt like she had been set free. No narrow lane confined her; no black line on the bottom of the pool insisted she swim straight; no wall demanded that she turn every thirty-two strokes. As she headed out into the open expanse of water, the murky lake’s bottom was no guide. She had imagined how it would feel to swim without a goal: no pressure from the clock; no fellow swimmers with whom to compare her strokes, her speed, or her form. Relaxed, slow arms sliced through the tepid water like a lazy knife through soft butter. No resistance. Legs gently waving like the tail of a mermaid. She felt calm, at ease in her body and the world, at home.

A minute or two after the swim began, she felt tiny pinpricks of raindrops on her shoulders. Though she had been determined to swim on this first day of vacation, the clouds she glimpsed while wading into the lake had conjured both defiant and cautious impulses in her.

“The hell with the rain, I’ve waited long enough, I am swimming regardless,” was countered by, “If it starts to rain hard, I will get out.”

***********************

Roxy, Deborah’s partner, lounged in the Adirondack chair on the cabin porch, her Kindle beside her on the chair’s yellow arm. Jiffy, their standard black poodle, perched at alert behind the bars of the baby gate just inside the cabin door. They both watched Deborah wade into the lake, Roxy wondering how Deborah could have the energy to swim after driving for two days. Older and less fit than Deborah, Roxy tired more easily and moved more slowly. They had only arrived at the cabin on Concord Lake a couple of hours before, and all Roxy wanted at this moment was some quiet to read and to nap. Jiffy was whining off and on and pawing at the gate. No surprise. Any separation from Deborah made him anxious.

Roxy was relieved to be here at last, but was nonetheless slightly uncomfortable. This cabin stay was not her idea of a dream vacation. Mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds, the outdoor shower, and Deborah’s sister, nephews, and their families dropping in unannounced meant that this visit would require more patience and extroversion from her than a vacation should. Roxy liked ease and privacy.

The sky looked ominous. “Why the hell couldn’t Deborah wait for better swimming weather?”  Roxy grumbled internally. She felt obligated to watch the lake and Deborah in case anything happened – a cramp, for instance.

******************

Inside the cabin, Alex, Deborah’s 35-year-old nephew, tapped the screen on his mobile while his five-year-old son, Jason, fiddled with his iPad. Jason, Alex, and his wife, Trisha, had made the trip from Quebec to Nova Scotia for a partial family reunion—partial because some family members were not attending due to a recent misunderstanding. When they arrived a couple of days ago, the air was already charged with tension as everyone tried to make the best of things. He was tired of trying to be upbeat and sociable. Surfing the net and zoning out for a few minutes while everyone else was occupied would, he hoped, renew his patience for his role of family go-between and peacemaker. He, Trisha, and Jason were staying at his parents’ house in the village, a 15-minute drive away. His mother and Trisha had just left the cabin to prepare for the evening meal in its better-equipped kitchen.

****************************

The raindrops started slowly and gently. Jiffy whined and yelped. Roxy uttered a firm “Quiet!” and turned to make sure that the baby gate was securely fastened. All she needed was for him to get loose and go dashing into the water, looking for his mistress. When she turned back to the lake only a few seconds later, she could see Deborah’s lime green bathing cap far out from shore. Rain pelted now, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She shouted. “Alex!” and dashed down to the lakefront. In the seconds it took to cross the narrow strip of lawn and arrive drenched at the dock, the bathing cap disappeared. Torrents of rain pounded the surface of the lake, thunder roared overhead, and a vicious spear of lightning punctuated the dark sky.

To be continued tomorrow

Love in All Seasons

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“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

 It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods.  There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods.  My eyes had not deceived me.  A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean?  Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods?  These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place.  I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck.  Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband.  I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it. 

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times.  Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline.  I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello.  He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers.  His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle. 

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape.  According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America.  Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way.  The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me.  A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson.  We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Ageism-A Word for the Wise

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Old people and children are two of the most vulnerable groups in American society.  Non-whites, the poor, immigrants, LGBTQ+ persons, the disabled, and women are also exceptionally vulnerable. 

While those of us old folks who can afford to live in retirement communities recognize that we are privileged, if we are realistic, we also acknowledge our vulnerability. Though we may not have thought about it in these terms, vulnerability is the very reason we are here, willingly or not. Perhaps, as in my case, physical limitations and loss of energy made it difficult to maintain or live safely in a single-family dwelling. After the loss of a partner or the deaths of many friends of a similar age, social isolation may become a problem. Many are overwhelmed by exhaustion from caring for a spouse who is ill or dying, and they can no longer carry that burden alone. Some struggle with the subtle shift from taking care of their children to needing support and care from them, and they move to a retirement community to make their lives and the children’s more manageable and less stressful.

Some of us feel more vulnerable than others. Some of us may be in complete denial about our vulnerability. 

The elderly are often considered childlike and are treated like children.  Like children, we may have, or may believe we have, little ability to defend ourselves, and so others can easily exploit or take advantage of us.  We are often considered less intelligent than those in the prime of life due to the stereotype of decreasing cognitive abilities, and therefore, are popular targets for scams and theft. If we are retired, we are regarded as unproductive and, therefore, are considered less valuable to society. In a zero-sum culture, we are viewed as a drain on scarce resources. Of course, these negative views of old people may be mitigated somewhat if we are financially secure, famous, have a long list of accomplishments, or have very accomplished grandchildren!

 The above-listed common attitudes toward old people constitute ageism—discrimination against older people because of negative and inaccurate stereotypes. They lump all older people into a homogeneous category, ignoring the wide variety of strengths and weaknesses of seniors.

Still, whether we admit it or not, the older we get, the more defenseless we become.  We may be able to delay some forms of weakness or decline by eating well, exercising, staying mentally and socially active, or by exerting our formidable power of denial. Still, we ultimately succumb to our powerlessness as we look death in the face.

Most of us succumb to our limitations before then, though.  We appreciate the support we pay for when we move to a retirement community.  Most likely, we moved there expecting life to become easier as the services we have been promised, for the hefty fees, are delivered.  We take it for granted that we will be respected. After all, we’ve worked hard, been esteemed for our achievements, planned carefully, made difficult decisions, and gained some wisdom.  We don’t expect to give up agency in our lives. We assume that an institution ostensibly created to foster graceful aging and funded by the savings of old people will understand and accommodate the needs of the aged in all their variety, subtlety, and complexity. Or we don’t think about this at all. Retirement communities, especially those marketed as independent or active living, may be the last places we expect to find ageism.

However, retirement communities are often owned and managed by those who have not yet faced the vulnerability of aging in their own lives.  The law of averages predicts that some will be run by people motivated by greed, hunger for power, personal and professional insecurity, inexperience, grudges, ignorance, and prejudice. Those who oversee retirement communities are sometimes completely unaware of their ageist attitudes, the subtle and not-so-subtle ways in which they disrespect and take advantage of the elderly.

So, a word of caution to the old and the not-so-old.  First, old folks, don’t be naïve.  Keep your eyes and ears open, assume nothing, and continue to exercise your critical thinking. Don’t take it for granted that your increasing limitations render you powerless. Be on the lookout for ageism in the healthcare system, end-of-life support networks, home care agencies, advocacy groups, and even in the place you call home, such as your retirement community or senior housing complex.  And when you identify it, don’t hesitate to call it what it is and to support one another in resisting it.

Also, be on the lookout for ageist attitudes in and among yourselves.  Statements like “I’m having a senior moment” may seem harmless and may ease an embarrassing situation, but they contribute to the incorrect characterization of all seniors as forgetful and incompetent. Some of us use the mythic forgetfulness of old age as an excuse for our lifelong laziness and carelessness in remembering names. I could be one of those!

Finally, those of you who are not yet old.  Surprise!  You will be one day!  You, too, will be limited and vulnerable.  You will require some degree of support, however minimal. If you foster a culture of disrespect for the elderly now, you will be a victim of that culture yourself one day.  Crass as it may sound, what goes around really does come around. 

Moriah participates in Book Fairs this Summer

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I will be participating in two local book fairs in August 2025, offering for sale my three publications: The Blue Room, a novel; You Can’t Get Blood from a Turnip, a collection of poetry; and I’ve Got Your Back, non-fiction.

The first event, 2nd Friday, Brunswick, is scheduled for August 8 from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. in downtown Brunswick, located on Pleasant Street.

My friend and fellow writer, Nancy Collins, who has recently published a memoir entitled The Perfectly Imperfect Potter, will join me for this event. We’ll sell our books, visit with shoppers and other vendors, and enjoy the culture of Brunswick. Please plan to stop by as you explore the offerings by local artists, writers, musicians, and actors.

The second event is scheduled for August 23 at the Maine Book Festival, held at the Thomaston Public Library in Thomaston, Maine.

Please join me and other Maine authors, and share this with your friends!

Tea Bag Wisdom – Self Respect

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I drink Yogi Tea every morning, first thing, right after I feed the animals and take the dog out for his first sniff and tinkle of the day. Just after I ring my meditation bell, turn on three tea lights in front of my Buddha statue, and sink into my seat on the couch, facing the window overlooking our garden. I take a sip of Yogi tea, a deep breath, set my timer for twenty minutes, and come home to myself.

The other morning, as the cats were chowing down and my electric kettle was bubbling, I opened a new tea pouch and pulled out a fresh bag of ginger tea. As I unwound the paper tag attached to the bag by a thin thread, I was astounded to see this message: “The purpose of life is to know yourself, love yourself, trust yourself, and be yourself.”

I’m fond of the word ‘gobsmacked,’ which is British slang for being astonished. I was gobsmacked that the universe had sent me such a message, first thing on a July morning in the politically, socially, and personally turbulent summer of 2025. Right away, I knew it was a message that needed some unpacking, so I settled into my meditation posture—the dog tight to my left thigh, the Maine Coon cat spread across my lap. The black and white cat was, of course, doing his aloof morning meditation on chipmunks, squirrels, and birds at the screen door that opens onto the patio. I took a sip of ginger tea and began.

Know yourself. No problem for me, the most introspective creature on-the-planet, as my friend Bruce would say. Self-examination is my middle name, has been since birth, for good or ill. For most of my life, self-examination has meant self-critique. I have a more than passing familiarity with all my faults, bad habits, propensities, temptations, mistakes, and the karma that results from them. However, genuine self-knowledge or self-awareness has only emerged in later life as I learned to meditate and look deeply at the roots of my motivations—my fears, attractions, and repulsions. That self-awareness, though more true, is also softer, as I’ve allowed self-compassion to touch and soothe the wounds uncovered by my x-ray inner eye. It felt good to have my ingrained habit of self-reflection validated as part of life’s purpose by the Yogi Tea Messenger. Part of myself is okay. Phew! That’s a relief!

Love yourself. My stomach twisted in a knot, and I knew this was not going to be an easy one to delve into. I make this deeply personal revelation only because I suspect there may be a few of you out there who share my experience, and I want you to know that you are not alone. Since early childhood, I have sensed that I am, at my core, a flawed person. There is something wrong with me that makes me do bad things, or, at least, fear that I will do bad things. I think this sense may have come from my mother, and I am certain my Baptist upbringing with its emphasis on original sin reinforced it. I long ago forgave my mother, but I will never forgive St. Paul and the Christian Church for instilling the hideous notion that I was born full of sin. Buddhism, which I’ve gravitated towards in recent years, teaches that we each contain both good and harmful seeds in our store consciousness and can learn to nurture the former rather than the latter.

But let’s not get too theoretical here. Loving myself is challenging! And I don’t believe I am alone with this challenge. Understanding what self-love is and how to practice it will take me the rest of my life and then some, and I’m getting a very late start. But, while breathing evenly and gently as the ten-minute meditation bell chimed, I remembered the self-compassion I congratulated myself on developing as I’ve aged. Let’s start there, add a little self-forgiveness, tenderness, thanksgiving—whatever else might water those tiny seeds of goodness the universe has planted in me. I recalled my connection to all the beauty around me and recognized that I am made of the same stuff. Soon, I thought, I may have enough confidence in my basic goodness to…

Trust myself! Again, the passage of time, also called aging, is of some help here. It teaches lessons of humility but also repeatedly validates my intuition, my gut, or bodily intelligence. As I’ve looked back over my life, I’ve seen instances where I had a premonition, an insight, or an inner sense about the reality of a situation, the right course of action, or an action to avoid. Sometimes I heeded the hint, and other times I ignored the impulse.   But time and again, what my body intuited was revealed as events unfolded. I pay more attention to my un-rational intelligence these days. The more self-aware I am, the more I accept and love myself, the more I can trust myself to make the right choices, the life-giving, kind, and just ones. And I understand these three—self-awareness, self-love, and self-trust as inextricably linked, forming the foundation on which I can…

Be myself. What a sense of relief and ease washed over me as I entered the home stretch of that morning’s meditation. I paid attention to my body, as I set my imagination free to envision what it might be like to be who I truly am, instead of who I or others expect me to be. I noticed a sense of effortlessness. Straining and striving melted away, replaced by an unhurried settledness. A pervasive feeling of well-being and wholeness refreshed my tired mind and body. Yet, on the horizon, I saw the tremendous responsibility of freedom dawning, and I experienced a charge of fear, like a tiny electric shock—joy and sadness, pain and pleasure co-arising and interdependent.

The meditation bell chimed three times, signaling the end of twenty minutes. I breathed out, letting go, and lingered for a few moments longer in the silence and stillness. Then I lifted my cup and took a long, full gulp of still-warm tea while reciting the Tea Messenger’s morning wisdom one more time: “The purpose of life is to know yourself, love yourself, trust yourself, and be yourself.”

Practicing for the Big Let Go: Love

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I have mentioned here before that I meet monthly on Zoom with a group of women who talk about our experiences of aging and our musings on death. We explore our stories, insights, discomfort, and fear about the inevitable decline of our bodies and the certain end for us all. A few weeks ago, we had a courageous discussion about dying, our own and that of those we love. Not surprisingly, most of us expressed more fear about the possibility of a painful, demeaning, drawn-out dying process than about the moment of death and what, if anything, comes after it. We ventured onto the delicate topics of Death with Dignity and Physician-Assisted Death, which is legal in some countries, including Canada, where I was born.

I told the story of my Canadian cousin’s husband’s death. I’ll call him Leigh and her Meredith. He suffered for years from debilitating cancer, which was diagnosed just after his retirement when they had planned finally to begin their travel adventures together. Leigh, supporting and delighting in Meredith’s wanderlust and love of natural beauty, encouraged her to go exploring on her own and with their daughters. He enjoyed her travels vicariously and enthusiastically. However, as time went on, she traveled less as he needed more care and experienced frequent hospitalizations for treatment and long energy-less periods confined at home.

Though he tried his best not to be a burden for his family and patiently bore the symptoms of his disease, it troubled him that Meredith’s life centered around him and his ups and downs. He recognized her profound sadness as she watched him suffer, helpless to alleviate it, and worried about how she would cope with what they had good reason to believe would be a painful and degrading end. As the pain increased and his energy ebbed, recognizing his own and Meredith’s exhaustion and the toll his suffering was taking on her, he decided to apply for MAID, Medical Assistance in Dying. Canadian law provides this option for individuals who are terminally ill or in intolerable pain.

Together, Leigh and Meredith navigated all the legal requirements and preparations and finally arrived at the day of his death. Meredith and both of their adult children gathered around his hospital bed, said their goodbyes, and expressed their love and gratefulness for each other. Medical personnel administered the necessary medications, and quietly and peacefully, Leigh went to sleep and then ceased to breathe. Meredith experienced the meticulously planned and compassionately orchestrated end as a gift of love Leigh gave to himself, her, and their daughters. Years later, she still speaks movingly of this gift and her memories of their last intimate moments together. She says Leigh was right; a horrible end would have been much more difficult for both of them to endure and for her to recover from. Instead of her beloved in agony, her last memory of him is tender and peaceful.

I did not tell the story of my mother’s death in that morning’s discussion group. In her early eighties, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer after a long period of ignored symptoms and then months of waiting for tests and doctors’ appointments. The specialists said that her only hope of survival was a drastic surgery in which her abdominal organs would be removed from her body to make the tumor on her pancreas accessible for excision. Then, they would replace the organs, and everyone hoped everything would work properly again. It was a risky option back then for even a younger, more fit person, but it was a long shot for someone in their early eighties. By demonstrating determination and pestering her doctors, she got them to agree to perform the surgery, even though success was extremely uncertain. She wowed them on the pre-surgery stress tests, proving that she was strong enough to withstand the operation, but as the day approached, she was anxious and irritable. 

One evening, I asked her why she was willing to put herself through such trauma for perhaps just a few more years of extended life when she could not count on a full recovery or high-quality health. She responded without hesitation, as though she had already asked herself that very question and was certain of the answer. “It’s for your father,” she said. “He will be too lonely when I die. But don’t tell him.” I didn’t press her further. She and my dad did not have an overtly romantic relationship. I can’t remember her ever expressing feelings of love to anyone. On the contrary, she tossed criticism liberally in all directions. But they had been married for more than fifty years, and their lives were so intertwined that she knew her death would be his undoing. 

She had the surgery. The team opened her up and saw an abdomen riddled with cancer, so they closed her and sent her to recovery. The surgeon told us the outcome and gave a prognosis of one to three months. She lived through the night and, early the next morning, experienced massive internal bleeding, was taken back to surgery, and died of heart failure. My father’s sobbing heartbreak is seared into my memory, as is the sight of his forlorn, defeated figure standing outside her empty bedroom at home that evening.

I’m not sure if my mother ever told my father that she loved him, but she knew how much he loved her, and she was willing to endure a horrendous surgery out of compassion for him—her gift of love. He lived for five lonely years after her death, making the best of each day but missing her profoundly. It was tough to watch.

Another member of the aging-and-death discussion group shared a glimpse into a recent awakening. She’s been seeking understanding of love, what it is, how it feels, how it manifests, for quite some time. Recently, she and her husband were walking during an outing. He is older than she and is slowing down slightly. She found herself dropping back to match his slower pace and wondering at the tender willingness she felt as she did so. Could this be love, she asked herself—some facet of love? 

As I draw nearer to my own inevitable death—The Big Let Go—I ask myself what will be most important to me, and I know instantaneously and completely that it will be love. Everything else will fall away, and the only important activity will be loving—giving and receiving it. Knowing this, shall I start to practice now? Let go of all but love, in every moment and situation, and lean into loving—fall into it, and trust it utterly.