When the subject of aging comes up, as it often does these days in my circle of life, I sometimes announce with great confidence, "I intend to keep enlarging my life, instead of living a smaller, more narrow existence."
Is that wishful thinking?
Obviously, aging comes with many losses: of loved ones, of possessions as we downsize and simplify our surroundings, of capabilities, both physical and mental, of energy perhaps, of our position and influence in the world. Don't all those things contribute to a smaller, more limited life?
Well, yes, but my heart keeps telling me something else. I don't mean enlarging my life through anything that can be counted or evaluated. Rather, my life has the potential to be bigger because of the spaciousness in it. I am no longer driven by any one else's expectations of who I should be or how I should respond or what I should do. The "shoulds" have been melting away, and that leaves so much room for more compassion, for more light, for more silence and solitude, for more presence and awareness.
Recently, I read Oliver Sacks' final book, a collection of essays written not long before he died, Gratitude. Writing about his father, he says,
He felt, as I begin to feel, not a shrinking, but an
enlargement of mental life and perspective. One has
had a long experience of life, not only one's own life,
but others' too. One has seen triumphs and tragedies,
booms and busts, revolutions and wars, great
achievements and deep ambiguities…One is more
conscious of transience and perhaps, of beauty…one
can take a long view and have a a vivid, lived sense
of history not possible at an earlier age. (p. 10)
Sacks also says these older years are a time to "bind the thoughts and feelings of a lifetime together." I love that, and that feels BIG to me.
I confess I don't entirely know what my belief in an ongoing expansion of my existence means, but I am open to the surprise of discovery.
An Invitation
How is your life expanding? I would love to know.
Walking a straight line on a sandy beach is not easy. The sand shifts and gives way as I walk, swallowing, capturing my feet. Even so I relish the coolness of the sand, the softness, and even how it clings to my skin and hides between my toes. I am awed by how the sand shifts and gives way as I create my own path, but when I look back, the sand has nearly filled in the indentations of my footprints. Had I really been there?
Sand seems to welcome movement. In Zanzibar many years ago I celebrated my 50th birthday by practicing T'ai Chi on a beach, my dancing feet creating a crevice. Years later I led a circle of women on a Captiva beach in that same T'ai Chi meditation at sunset. We formed spiral patterns, our feet becoming one with the sand.
Soon, however, water and wind erased all signs of our presence on the beach. No, sand is not a firm foundation, and yet the way it shifts and gives way forces me to pay attention, just as the ashes I received in the form of a cross on my forehead at last week's Ash Wednesday service reminds me to pay attention to the sacredness of life. When I returned home, I washed the smudge of ash off my forehead, and the next day no one knew I participated in the ritual marking the beginning of the church season of Lent, just as the beach no longer carries a sign of my presence.
But I know I was there. Both on the beach and in the darkness of the sanctuary.
I walked a labyrinth recently. I felt each measured step, pausing at each curve, reviewing the many twists and turns of the last couple years in my life. I moved forward easily and lightly not worrying about when I would reach the center--a new sensation for me. Often when I reach the center of a labyrinth I am hungry for revelation, for insight and direction, but this time it was enough just to be there. I had not doubted my ability to get there, but nonetheless, it was good to actually arrive.
And then it was time to walk back out, to retrace the steps I had made, but there were no visible steps. The path was clear with no sign I had made the journey. Had I really walked that pathway? Had I really been there?
I am reminded of something Luci Shaw says in her book Adventure of Ascent, Field Notes from a Lifelong Journey:
http://www.lucishaw.com
Why do I struggle to find meaning in everything I
see, and everything that happens? I'm wishing I could
learn to simply attend to what is there, and then to
open myself to being seen and enlightened by God.
Might this become the place of balance and
peacefulness? p. 77
She goes on to quote Annie Dillard.
We are here to notice everything so each thing gets
noticed and Creation need not play to an empty house.
If I could lighten my desire to find meaning, to have a presence and to leave my mark, I suspect I would experience more peace and be more able to pay attention and to notice the shifting sands.
An Invitation
At what times in your life have you wondered about the meaning of your life and if and how you have left a mark? What have you done to find peace as the shifting sands fill in your footprints? What spiritual practices enhance your ability to notice and pay attention? I would love to know.
A Gift
In case you missed it, this essay by Oliver Sacks recently published in the New York Times is well worth reading. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/02/19/opinion/oliver-sacks-on-learning-he-has-terminal-cancer.html?_r=0
