Stop for Moose! I read as the car’s headlights caught the sign in the dark. It was about 1 am.
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Stafford For Blues
Time wants to show you a different country. It’s the one
that your life conceals, the one waiting outside
when curtains are drawn, the one grandmother hinted at
in her crotchet design, the one almost found
over at the edge of the music, after the sermon.
It’s the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then, violated
in various ways (and sometimes it’s turn about).
You get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
and pray, and maybe good things come-maybe
the hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain. It is called happiness.
It’s a balance, the taking and passing it along,
the composting of where you’ve been and how people
and weather treated you. It’s a country where
you already are, bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, “Here, take it, it’s yours”.
- The Gift, William Stafford
Stafford is a gift that goes on giving. When I’m tired, or I’m blue, or sitting down trying to catch a breath after a long day, or just comforted by the silence of 5 am, browsing Stafford at random, accentuates the mood. I feel my warm breath in the cold room, hear the soft rustling of pages, I taste the hint of bitterness in my morning coffee, swirl it’s aroma round in my nose, and I see outside, the promise of dawn.
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And Then There Are Days…
My stomach disagrees with the quality/quantity of something I ate the night before and I feel crummy. My joints feel stiff. My upper back complains about my carrying Maya so much and my neck laments about having spent the night at an odd angle. I look outside to a gray, cloudy and cold world, like some late fall or winter morning. But we’re in the middle of summer. Where is that California sunshine ?
Crabby, sleepless, sore, lonely, I start getting ready for work. I put Maya down and sit down on the potty. The only book around is William Stafford’s collection of poems, “The Way It Is”. I open a page at random and read:
It’s a balance, the taking and passing along,
the composting of where you’ve been and how
people and weather treated you. It’s a country where
you already are, bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, “Here, take it, its yours”
I turn another page and read:
When a goat likes a book, the whole book is gone,
and the meaning has to go find an author again.
But when we read, it’s just print – deciphering,
like frost on a window: we learn the meaning
but lose what the frost is, and all that world
pressed so desperately behind.
My face begins to relax. Some of the tenseness goes out of my body. I begin to breathe slowly again, deeply. I turn another page.
Air crowds into my cell so considerately
that the jailer forgets this kind of gift
and thinks I’m alone. Such unnoticed largesse
smuggled by day floods over me,
or here come grass, turns in the road,
a branch or stone significantly strewn
where it wouldn’t need to be.
I hear the soulful call of the mourning dove outside the window, the high notes of asolitary crow somewhere, the twitter of some birds that had no name. And I turn another page:
No leader is free; no follower is free -
the rest of us can often be free.
Most of the world are living by
creeds too odd, chancy and habit-forming
to be worth arguing about by reason.
And the re-enchantment with the world begins again.
Forty One and Counting
I went for a long run on Tuesday, here in Kailua, Hawaii. There is a little mountain near here and I decided to run up that if it was possible. It involved scrambling up a really steep slope and then preventing myself from slipping down badly an even steeper slope, with running in between along a knife-like ridge overlooking the little hamlet of Lanikai with the backdrop of the spectacular, jagged Ko’olau mountains on one side and the turquoise, aquamarine Pacific on the other. The trail was narrow and overgrown with bushes in places. The scenery was breath-taking.
Someone told me that it was essential to carry water to complete the ridge and a challenge was laid down. When I was at my peak, I could run a half-marathon with just a swig of water, midway through the distance. But I haven’t run more than 10 miles in the last nine months and not more than five the past month. I had no water, but something inside me said that I wanted to do this entire loop.
I met only two people during my run. I asked one of them how to go all along the ridge but drop back into Lanikai instead of the neighboring, but far away town of Bellows Air Force Base. Hang left all the time was the advice. And watch your footing. When I run, I plan the run upfront such as “I’ll complete a 10K today with 3 miles at my threshold running pace” or “I’ll do a half marathon today”. And I rarely waver from that plan. I don’t go charging up mountains, follow a completely unknown trail, not knowing how long it’ll take and not worry about my pace. When I returned to the cottage an hour and forty minutes later, I was tired but exhilarated.
This week, I celebrate my forty-first birthday. I’m as much a creature of habit and lassitude as anyone else. As I age, I want those to become less of a problem they can otherwise be. As we age, we become more conservative, they say. We stiffen both in our bones and in our souls. I want to stay limber. Running that ridge was an attempt to do that.
Forty years seems a marker just like thirty was. Many people tell me that whatever that they have not managed to accomplish by the time they’re forty, they don’t think they will accomplish after, that they will remain who they are once they pass forty. Two colleagues at work the other day shuddered as they talked of going past forty (which they will next year). People say that friends made in college or earlier are the best friends they ever had, that they have not managed to make close friends later in life. A study reported earlier this year using data from 2 million people from over 80 countries found that people are generally miserable in their middle age, that happiness over a lifetime is a U-shaped curve.
Part of the problem may just be the ideas we carry about what aging means. Many people dye their hair as they get older (I’ve been asked several times about why I don’t dye my hair). A friend got himself a convertible, to handle his mid-life crisis, he said. My parents carried on about how they had one foot in the grave, that they were old, starting from their late forties. A colleague at work told me wistfully how he had bicycled up and down the Canadian Rockies in his twenties and that he couldn’t dream of doing it now (he was in his late thirties). Studies seem to indicate that our ideas of age can influence how we react to aging.
Consider a study conducted in 1996 by three researchers from New York University that had volunteers (male and female graduates at NYU) rearrange groups of words that were scrambled to form the correct sentence (for example, “they her brother see usually”). The volunteers were told that they were undertaking a test of verbal acuity and flexibility. Unknown to the volunteers, one group was given words that stereotype the elderly such as ancient, old, lonely, Florida, forgetful, retired etc. while the other group was given words that were neutral i.e. they did not contain words that stereotyped the elderly. After they completed the words, one of the researchers thanked them and bid them goodbye. Unknown to them, the real test began now. Another researcher sat outside in the corridor and using a hidden stopwatch, measured the time each volunteer took to walk the length of the corridor to reach the elevator to exit the building. The researchers found that volunteers who were primed with words that stereotyped elderly took much longer to walk the corridor than the ones who were not. They were unconsciously acting as if they were older than they really were. They volunteers didn’t know that they had been primed with words that contained stereotypes of the elderly (the original researcher caught up with the participant at the end of the corridor and explained the real experiment and checked if the participant had detected that the words were stereotypes of elderly people).
Another study conducted in 1970 organized a five day retreat for people over 70 in which the people were made to think as if they were 20 years younger. For example, they were surrounded with magazines that were from the time they were in their fifties, listened to radio and TV shows from when they were in their fifties, encouraged to speak in the present tense about topics that were current when they were in their fifties. After five days, the results showed that the men had significantly improved their visual and memory acuities and even their joints were more flexible. The study reports that on average, photographs showed them younger than the photographs taken before the retreat. Making people think and live for five days as if they were twenty years younger made them physically and mentally younger.
I came across a saying many years back: “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were ?”
I’ve had a wonderful, blessed life so far. Been absurdly fortunate. Have Shanthala and Maya by my side and memories of Kitty to prove that. Less than a century ago, I’d most likely be dead already (average life expectancy in India was forty around independence time) . I was raised me with a lot of love. I could go on and on. A recent study found that rare, major happy events won’t make us feel as happy as lots of little ones. My life has been filled with both.
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say. - Ask Me, William Stafford

