After writing Part I of Life 101-102 (See this month’s Profiles), I realized that aging (ageing) is not a very popular topic in older circles. Nobody likes to talk about chronological age, because in our society, growing old is considered a negative event. However, elders in other societies are revered. For example, the Japanese term Wabi-Sabi demonstrates how Japan views aging. Below is a quote about wabi-sabi from www.nobleharbor.com followed by a picture of my mother-in-law Lena and me when my daughter and I interviewed her over the July 4th week-end.

Pared down to its barest essence, wabi-sabi is the Japanese art of finding beauty in imperfection and profundity in nature, of accepting the natural cycle of growth, decay, and death. It’s simple, slow, and uncluttered-and it reveres authenticity above all. Wabi-sabi is flea markets, not warehouse stores; aged wood, not Pergo [laminated flooring]; rice paper, not glass. It celebrates cracks and crevices and all the other marks that time, weather, and loving use leave behind. It reminds us that we are all but transient beings on this planet-that our bodies as well as the material world around us are in the process of returning to the dust from which we came. Through wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace liver spots, rust, and frayed edges, and the march of time they represent.

I love this concept of embracing our wrinkles and spots, our bodily changes as a natural part of aging. The trick is to stay healthy while aging, so that as we age, our body keeps pace with our mind. When I first took yoga in my early thirties, our yoga teacher, who was probably close to 70 with the body and a mind half his age, told us that by the time Westerners reach 40 and their minds are getting sharper, their bodies are falling apart. That talk has stayed with me and has become part of my consciousness to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible, so I can enjoy growing older.

I have a couple of books whose titles inspire me. One is called Growing Old Disgracefully and the other is Aging is a Lifelong Affair. They might not even be in print, but the titles have stuck with me. I also admire older women’s attitudes: My mother-in-law accepts life. At 50 my sister said she was tired of playing by the rules; she was making her own rules now. I also read that the first 50 years are only a warm-up. That’s true for me, because after my divorce, I had to re-invent myself in my fifties. Both my grandmother and my aunt on my mother’s side had a “youthful attitude.” It’s not how you look, but how you think!

As my mother-in-law noted in the interview, life was tough, but you did your best. I have written this before, that we have a choice of growing old or just growing older. Perhaps my favorite poem is When I am Old, I Shall Wear Purple, reprinted below. (For more information on the poem, go to http://www.wheniamanoldwoman.com/.)
The poem is also used by the Red Hat Society, whose red hats and purple clothes are used to flaunt their ageless aging.

I also looked for red and purple flowers to match the tone of the poem and found some red flowers and purple flox right up the street from where we live. Coincidence? I think not. Just the universe responding to my wishes!!!

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

(These little purple and red beauties, with a touch of yellow, were planted in the strip of grass between the edge of the sidewalk and the curb. It was like a miniature garden along the house. Maybe the author Jenny Joseph would use this as a her place to sit on the pavement.)

I remember my little legs were churning as fast as they could to keep up with my father. He was so tall and long-legged and seemed totally unaware of my scampering beside him, like a puppy trying to keep up with her master. I didn’t even have enough breath to say, “Daddy, please slow down.”

I spent so little time with my father as a child that I welcomed any opportunity to be with him, even if it meant walking four miles to synagogue on Rosh Hoshanah. Daddy worked seven days a week, 362 days each year, taking off only three high holy days of the Jewish New Year. He didn’t even close his gas station/garage for Passover. Instead, he just joined us for the Seder in the evening. I think he invented the word “workaholic.”

I spent years trying to figure out why my father worked so hard. One reason, for sure, was that my mother never grasped the word “budget.” She always spent more than my father earned and when money was owed, she would say, “It will come,” and somehow it did, if not from my father, then from some other mysterious source.

But back to Daddy…Another reason my father spent so much time at the garage was that he could socialize with his cronies/ customers; many became his regular “crowd.” My parents didn’t have a social life, because my father worked too many hours. So this was his way of socializing. Don’t misunderstand me; my father was very congenial, but he was uncomfortable in a suit and tie or in any formal situation.

Thirdly, my father was extremely conscientious. Having brought five children into the world, he felt financially responsible for us. My older sister Phyllis married in 1953 and my father and mother gave her a big wedding at the cost of $5,000, a huge amount then. The next fall my older brother Paul started MIT for eight years. One year later, I started Douglass College (part of Rutgers University) for four years. The year I graduated and began teaching, my kid brother Harry started Harvard for eight years. (Two doctor sons, my mother could brag.) The following fall, my younger sister Rosie started Temple University for four years. Then of course, were the weddings….but that’s another story.

All this on the earnings of an auto mechanic? I still don’t know how he did it, even with our college loans and scholarships. Thankfully, by the time my youngest sister graduated from college, Daddy decided he didn’t have to work as hard, so he cut back to only six days per week and 9 or 10 hours per day.

Did my father think all his hard work worth it? Maybe. I still haven’t figured that out. I just know there is an empty space in my heart that never fills up, because I never felt I really had a daddy, just the shadow of a man I adored and wanted to please.

One of my wishes for Father’s Day (and Mother’s Day) is that every parent realizes that the time spent with family is as important as the money earned for the family. The yin/yang of Life is about work and play, not work or play. My father was a wonderful human being, full of love and compassion that was rarely seen. How much he missed by not spending more time with those who loved him, and how much those who loved him missed the full scope of his being.