My younger brother who stepped out of time before me. Since I can no longer measure myself against him, it makes him seem older in a way. Who can be older than someone absorbed by time? Someone who has transcended time? 

    the lagoon water 

   brother drowned in 

  also gone 

  “We were graduates,” I’d joke, “of the University of Sylvia and Jack.” 

  The Hirschfield’s were a strangely paired Jewish couple in the West Bronx. She was kind, outgoing, deeply religious. She worked as a bookkeeper. He was a hotel maintenance man, who related to all of us as strangers. More like a boarder than a father, he’d come home from work, greet no one, go directly to his room. 

  Paternal abandonment forged a bond between Aryeh and I. We’d fantasize about rafting like a couple of Huck Finn’s to some fatherless refuge somewhere. Our bond, however, yielded to the stresses of clashing personalities, family dynamics. 

   Aryeh was blessed with mom’s outgoing nature, with her gift of drawing people to him. I was, sad to say, his polar opposite. A dark-spirited loner like Dad, I put people off. (If the old man noticed, he kept it to himself.) 

    The death of family patriarch, Moses Joseph, a Hasid whose extreme orthodoxy rubbed off on Aryeh, pushed our relationship to the edge. I’d be on my way to the park on the Sabbath with bat and ball, when he’d run up behind me, shouting, “God will punish you!” A little Jewish Taliban, who, happily, did not grow up to be a big Jewish Taliban. In fact, he became, in later years, a distinctly open-minded Jewish Renewal rabbi in Oregon (in his study were pictures of Groucho Marx and Ramana Maharshi), a member of Rabbis for Peace.   

    In our teens, there was a cultural shift. We became art house movie-goers, thrilled by Ingmar Bergman and Vittorio De Sica. We especially loved Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, forever enacting the chess game between death and the crusader, intoning death’s few chiseled lines in English with Swedish accents that made both of us howl.   

   I miss the laughter of brothers that rose up, it seemed, from the floorboards of our shared bedroom. It closed over the fissures in our relationship, as did our serious talks about Kafka. The suffering of a son permanently estranged from his father. Our story. 

    It might have been wiser to talk about the alienation of brothers. For when the laughter ended, when our Kafka conversations ceased, my envy of his popularity (reborn after his long season of fanaticism) returned, along with his justified anger over his big brother’s absence of affirmation. 

    Old age is when we all go for our PhDs in reflection. What a brother is, first of all, is an eruption in time. My first memory is of the day program I went to with my cousin Ruthie, at whose house I was staying when my mother was off giving birth to Aryeh. 

   At her day care, a dark passageway was constructed against a wall curtained at both ends. We were made to walk through it. Though not normally afraid of the dark, the journey filled me with a primal fear.  

    Only years later did I realize that that liminal journey in space contained my dread that time was now altered, shadowed by a tiny stranger’s birth. I’d no longer monopolize time. I was condemned to share it. 

    Like many brothers, we shared it poorly. Like many brothers, we eventually shared it at a distance. In his late teens, he discovered drugs and relocated to San Francisco. I discovered writing and remained in New York for a while, before heading off to South America to find something exotic to write about. We both drifted, but not toward each other. 

    I awake nights thinking of him. Where, in the unfathomable emptiness that we take to be death, has his spirit found a home? Or is it wandering still? Or am I the one who is still wandering, inwardly and outwardly, from my home to the river, from one haiku to another, toward some elusive center? 

    It is second nature for an octogenarian to fixate on his losses, having had so many of them. With Aryeh, it was what was lost before his death that haunts me. We would meet on occasion over the years. He’d come in for periodic visits that became frequent when our mother was failing. Or I’d make occasional visits out to the West Coast, where he was working through the various stages of his rabbinical career. Visits that were often intended as pilgrimages of reconciliation. 

    When we remembered to take deep breaths, there was sharing. Mainly, a mutual interest in the broken state of the world that somehow did not include our relationship. We’d discuss the race question. We couldn’t escape the awareness, even as children, that those hollowed out corpses in striped suits could have been us. Emmett Till, the black 14-year-old Chicago boy lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman, was a victim we could easily identify with. A more complicated identity, especially for Aryeh, were the Palestinians. A rabbi, he was at times prone to giving Israel the benefits of doubts I did not have. But his ability to try to see the occupation through Palestinian eyes when he traveled to the West Bank I held in high regard, as it meant extending himself far more than I had to as a secular progressive Jew. 

    I keep searching for him in all the old places where his voice can be found, where thoughts were momentarily shared, but never a life shared. 

    Once, when he was stoned, he said, “I feel like the donkey chasing the carrot. Sometimes I get close. But the carrot is always beyond my reach.” 

    Chasing after the dead Aryeh is a little like that. The feeling sometimes of getting close. But never close enough.  

    These words. My skinny candles. Lighted. Doused. Lighted again. 

Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based writer and poet. He has spent much of the last five years writing and assembling poems about his mother’s Alzheimer’s. In 2019, Presa Press published a volume of his poems, The Road to Canaan. His work has appeared in Parabola, Tricycle, Spirituality & Health, Sojourners, The Moth (Ireland), Tears in The Fence (UK) and other publications.     

Reflections on the Good Life

How Will You be Remembered?

Moving Closer to Your Family

The post Searching for Aryeh: An Old Man’s Journey appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Long, beautiful hair! 

Shining, gleaming, 

Streaming, flaxen, waxen. 

Give me down to there (Hair!) 

Shoulder-length or longer (Hair!) 

Here, baby, there, mama, 

Everywhere, daddy daddy, 

Hair! 

—From the musical Hair 

“There’s something mystical about hair,” muses 80-year-old, pony-tailed Michael Hagen. He cites different traditions around the world, from covering hair entirely to shaving it off. “And look at Samson and Delilah. Hair plays a big part in the way we see ourselves and others.” 

It certainly does, and for many, age-related changes in our hair may not be an easy transition. “We are all neurotic about our hair,” says, with a laugh, stylist Josephine Morales, 59, owner of Seattle’s E*Clips Hair Studio. With decades of experience dealing with both the timid and the bold, her basic advice is, “work with what you have and own it.” 

That doesn’t necessarily mean going au naturale. “Unless genetically blessed, hair can get thinner as each strand loses volume. Coloring hair changes the structure so it makes it appear fuller,” she says. “I recommend going half a shade lighter than what you usually have and gradually go from there.” 

There are those who aren’t ready to change and might never be. Sandra Driscoll, 74, started dyeing her hair in her 60s to keep the color she was born with, a medium warm brown. “I simply like how I look with the color in my hair,” she says. “Clearly, I’m not doing it to fool anyone. I think I just look better with color around my face. Yes, it is expensive to maintain but I’d rather cut back elsewhere than go gray.” 

Beyond color, how short or long to go can be another difficult decision. Morales suggests a very close cut for men with thinning hair rather than hanging on to a fringe or going for the comb-over. For women, “a shorter version of what you usually have will make it look thicker. Long hair can get stringy and flyaway.” 

Of course, there are exceptions. Meryl Nelson, 72, has almost never cut her hair, except for a brief fling as a teen when she trimmed it to “look like Patty Duke.” With sleek white hair to her waist, she goes for a conservative trim occasionally, but that’s it. While Nelson enjoys the gift of great hair, it’s also a hit with her grandchildren. “They like to brush it and braid it, put clips in it,” she says. “And for me, it’s like getting a great massage.” As for the convention of shorter hair on older women, it’s just not an issue. “I’m not against anything, it’s not about counterculture. It’s just who I am.” 

That can’t be said for Michael Hagen. His long, wavy white hair is very much a statement. “I’m not exactly your 9-to-5 guy,” he notes. As a young man, and conscientious objector against the Vietnam War, Hagen joined his generational tribe in growing long hair, a departure from his farming community roots. 

“My mother was a beautician. I remember the ladies would come to our house and get their perms. The men all had short hair and wore hats,” Hagen says. “Every summer, I’d get a buzz cut and a new pair of tennis shoes. By fall, the hair was back, and my shoes were worn out.” In high school, he went with the latest fashion—buzz cuts (aka pig shaves), flattops, and crewcuts. 

Then the ‘60s hit and his hair has been long ever since. Having grown a bit thin on top, Hagen now sports a dapper black beret. “People sometimes ask me, are you a poet? An artist? It’s just become my signature look.” 

His partner, Terry Hudgens, was once a towheaded kid. At 75, she’s now all silver and shine with an elegant bob. “I’ve never dyed it,” she says. “I’ve had this style for the last 20 or 30 years.” Change came nonetheless when Hudgens was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2019. “I decided that saving my hair was really important to me so I opted for cooling cap therapy.” Used during cancer treatments, the cap reduces hair loss by circulating cold liquid to the scalp, which in turn constricts blood vessels so that hair follicles take up less of the chemo drugs. “Those treatments saved my hair,” says Hudgens. “It was bad enough having cancer. I didn’t want to go bald as well. It was expensive but keeping my hair was more important.” An unexpected surprise—her hair is now thicker than before. 

With so many options available these days, it might be time to have a little fun with whatever is up top—pink stripe, a spikey cut, or maybe, like the song says, grow it “down to there.” Observes Meryl Nelson, owner of the long, lustrous locks: “As you get older, it’s a wonderful time to do whatever you want to do. Let it go and just see what happens.” 

Connie McDougall is a former news reporter and current freelance writer of nonfiction and personal essays. A lifelong student and proud English major, she has pursued lessons in flying, scuba diving, tai chi, Spanish, meditation, hiking, and Zumba.  

Hair’s the Thing

Forging A Hip New Showcase for Artists Over 50

The post Crowning Glory: Making Peace with Our Hair (Or Lack Thereof) appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

When the roles and achievements that once defined us—career, parenthood, physical vitality—transform, fade or disappear, we often feel disoriented and bereft. Without defining identities, our sense of self is eroded and we flounder. But loss of self can also be an opportunity to discover a deeper, more fluid mode of being. 

I have experienced a number of crises of identity as I have aged. I was 50 when my 20-year career with PBS came to an end. I did not handle this transition well. To my surprise, my sense of self-worth was intimately tied to my professional status. The loss of a career identity, and the year-long search for another job, eroded my confidence and thrust me into a deep depression. I eventually landed another job with AARP and regained my confidence. But I realized that my sense of self needed some adjustments.   

My sense of identity continues to be tested as I age.   

I’m acutely aware that physical changes have forced me to abandon or dramatically curtail a number of cherished identities. Over the years, I’ve prided myself in my use of my body, as an athlete, a dancer, a performer, a slapstick comedian, a musician. But, two Achilles surgeries, arthritis pain, bouts of trigger finger, and degeneration in my lower spine have forced me to abandon or seriously curtail those activities.  

I’ve handled those late-life transitions more effectively than I did during my period of unemployment. I learned that those activities did not “define” me and their loss did not diminish my value as a human being. The cliche that when one door closes, another opens, proved true. I’ve been able to replace younger pursuits with new areas of passion. I’ve started painting, for example, and producing podcasts.  

So, one effective strategy for coping with disruptions to my sense of self has been to cultivate new identities. I’ve replaced obsolete identities with new ones, better suited to my current reality. I’m no longer an athlete, I am now a painter. I’m no longer a stage performer, I’ve become a podcast performer. 

There is another strategy that I have been exploring, one that takes a radically different approach to the challenge. Rather than focus on reinventing myself, I’ve begun to question whether a strong self is necessary at all. Will a strong sense of self actually help me to flourish as I age or will it be a hindrance? I’m beginning to believe that old age will be easier and more enjoyable if I abandon any attachment to self at all and simply learn to be.  

As many of you will recognize, my thinking has been highly influenced by contemplative philosophies, particularly Buddhism and Zen, that promote the idea of no-self. I can’t possibly do justice to the philosophy of no-self in this short essay, but I can highlight a couple of points that make a great deal of sense to me. When the Buddhists make mysterious claims that the self is an illusion, I think they are suggesting that our concepts of self are illusory.  

Concepts are fabrications of our mind that attempt to describe and reify one aspect of who we were at some time in the past. Fixed ideas of self cannot possibly capture the complexity and fluidity of our full being. Our true self (if “true” is the right word) only emerges in the moment.  

When we appreciate this insight, we pay less attention to thoughts that tend to distort reality and pay deeper attention to what is really happening, which is often quite miraculous and wonderful. Yes, my back hurts and the world has gone crazy, but I am alive, the sun is warm on my face, my grandchildren greet me with hugs.  

I also find it helpful to describe the Buddhist philosophy as “no-EGO” rather than “no-self.” The encouragement to let go of the self suggest that we will be happier and better people if we escape our own egocentric self-interests. When we hold too tightly to fixed identities, our view of the world becomes myopic, woefully incomplete and, therefore, distorted.   

The exploration of no-self can lead to a radical reorientation of mental priorities. By clearing away mental clutter it offers better access to direct experience. When I stop relying on restrictive concepts of self, I can begin to interact more honestly with who I am right now, for better or worse.  

When I can free myself from ideas about how old age should be, I give myself the opportunity to let old age reveal itself as it actually is. The concept of no-self encourages a humility that connects me more deeply to the fundamental currents of life. I recognize more clearly the dynamic truth that my life is part of an endless process of transformation that cycles through birth, growth, decay, death, decomposition, and then renewal.   

This insight isn’t about my achieving some exalted spiritual state—it’s about stripping away illusions and mental constructs to reveal a deeper truth. To name a rose is to know only the concept of a rose. But, to really know a rose we need to discard labels and assumptions and simply open ourselves to the unique experience of a single blossom. And, in that blossom the wonder of life is revealed.  

English philosopher Douglas Harding has expressed the idea this way: 

“As something, I am merely that thing. As no-thing, I am all things.”  

The gift of this reframed perspective is the ease it brings to daily living. I can spend less energy resisting what should be and more time relaxing into an intimate relationship with what is. The simple act of smelling a rose can deepen my connection to the fullness of life’s great unfolding. And through that connection I can find greater peace with the aging process and gratitude for the chance to experience this gift of life.   

Michael C. Patterson had an early career in the theater, then worked at PBS, developing programs and systems to support the educational mission of public television. Patterson ran the Staying Sharp brain health program for AARP, then founded MINDRAMP to continue to promote physical well-being and mental flourishing for older adults. He currently explores these topics on his MINDRAMP Podcast and his Synapse newsletter. His website is www.mindramp.org.

Rise and Shine — What Gets You Going?

The post TO REALLY KNOW A ROSE (The liberation of ‘no-self’)  appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

He has late-stage Alzheimer’s. He cannot walk, feed himself, toilet himself, bathe or brush his teeth. He cannot catch a ball or clap his hands or understand directions. He has little to no understandable speech. But he communicates with a smile and facial expressions and he can follow one direction—he can kiss. 

One day a baby and mom were visiting at the residence where David lives in memory care. When I brought David over, he was mesmerized, and his smile widened. And David, who could barely speak, said “That’s a baby!” I decided then that I would find babies to visit with him. 

While searching for babies I came across an article describing the use of weighted life-like dolls for dementia patients. David now has his doll, and he perks up with her—engaging, smiling, and kissing her. Other residents, entranced by the doll as well, sometimes “kidnap” her and she has to be rescued. 

Finding real babies was difficult. I wrote, phoned, texted, and visited infant care centers, graduate student housing, and mommy-and-me support groups. I described the joy that seeing babies gave David and asked for their help in recruiting babies.  

But, when I took my search closer to home, I found my neighborhood has several events that bring families together. At a street party I met a young couple and their baby, 12 months old. I told them about David and asked if they would be willing to visit. To coordinate the timing of the visit, we took nap schedules into account, both the baby’s and David’s. 

I met a second baby on a walk with a friend. We noticed a young man taking a baby out of a car. I nudged my friend asking her if I should ask him about visiting David. As she said “why not?” I broached the idea of visiting David and, before I could get the words out, he emphatically said “Yes” explaining that he looked for opportunities to bring people joy. 

The parents of these two babies had no experience knowing anyone with Alzheimer’s. I have been so touched and warmed by their responsiveness. 

The third baby is a young toddler, the daughter of my private caregiver. 

The visits range from ½-hour to an hour, every four to six weeks. Upon seeing the babies, David lights up with smiles. Even with his significant decline David responds with joy. We end when either David or the baby is fatigued. 

Lastly, I was so focused on having babies visit David that it did not enter my mind to have David visit babies. It is now spring and the weather is warm and sunny. David’s caregiver and I wheel David to the adjacent university housing playground where, like magic, between 3 and 3:30 p.m. babies and toddlers appear, to David’s delight. He was nonstop smiles during our last outing. 

David, pre-Alzheimer’s, often engaged with babies by making funny faces. He was a gifted portrait artist, a very witty cartoonist, and a well admired jurist and author of judicial curriculum. 

I cannot stop Alzheimer’s. It is a terrible feeling to be so helpless and powerless in the face of this disease. But I can make life better for him and finding babies for David has done just that. 

Phyllis Rothman is a licensed clinical social worker, retired from private practice in Beverly Hills after decades of practice.  

Judge David M. Rothman was a respected jurist at the Los Angeles County Superior Court. He is the original author of the gold standard reference work about judicial ethics, the 791-page California Judicial Conduct Handbook. Judge Rothman spent much of his career training and teaching ethics and courtroom skills to other judges. He recently passed away at age 87. 

Nutrition and Dementia or Alzheimers

The Four C’s of Alzheimers

The post Babies and Alzheimer’s appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Throughout our lives, we conform to social norms regarding dress, often without realizing it. From childhood to adulthood, we adjust our clothing choices to align with those of our families, peers and society. This may mean discarding unwanted clothing and buying new to keep up with fashion trends. Or adjusting what we wear so that we feel we fit in. Some may recall the panic felt when showing up at a social event either over or underdressed.  

Clothing can serve as a signifier, communicating financial status, social class, and group affiliation. The style of dress detailed in 1980’s The Official Preppy Handbook by Lisa Birnbach, (whether taken seriously or not), provided a blueprint for dressing in a way that implied membership in an elite social class. Similarly, an earlier book, Dress for Success by John T. Malloy, taught individuals to dress in ways that enhanced their professional image.  

For generations now, T-shirts and caps have functioned as modern badges of identity, broadcasting political beliefs, social movements, or personal affiliations. What we wear often tells others more about us than we realize—or intend. 

By the time we reach our later years, conformity should no longer concern us. There comes a time when the constraints of fashion and societal standards loosen, allowing for true self-expression. It is then that we can embrace nonconformity, to wear what makes us feel authentic rather than what others expect. However, given this freedom, clothing can often still be a mask of sorts—something we can use to hide behind, to shield our true selves from view. 

Our goal should be the embracing of originality, much like the fashion legend Iris Apfel who recently died at the age of 102. Known for her daring, avant-garde clothing choices, she defied the notions of how older women should dress, thus demonstrating that personal style is an act of self-expression.  

For many years, I made retreats at the Trappist monastery in Kentucky where the monks wear simple brown robes, except when their work requires more practical attire. Inspired by their example, I adopted a similar approach during my seminary years, wearing only plain gray or black shirts and trousers. This practice was surprisingly liberating as I no longer had to decide what to wear each morning. Like the monks, I found that this simplicity helped me focus more on my inner life rather than my outward appearance.       

A darker side of fashion is its inherent classism. Designer labels function as status symbols, signaling wealth and exclusivity. This practice reinforces social hierarchies and can make fashion feel exclusionary rather than expressive.  

 Also to be considered are the environmental costs of the production of clothing and the fact that most of our apparel is made overseas by women and children, often in harsh working conditions. Additionally, it is difficult to resell, recycle, or repurpose clothing and fabric, which means much of it ends up in landfills or is incinerated.  

 There is also a spiritual dimension to clothing and identity. We are called to be true to ourselves, to resist the temptation of judging our insides by others’ outsides. Fashion often makes us compare ourselves to others, valuing our clothes over our true selves. 

 Ultimately, clothing choices prompt deeper questions: Who am I? How do I want to feel in my clothes? How do I want to appear when I leave the house for day? The answers shape not just what we wear but how we live. Even as I reflect on my own choices, I recognize that clothing is both personal and profoundly social.  

When all is said and done, our goal should be to wear what makes us feel most like ourselves, free from the expectations of others. Our attire should reflect how we want to present ourselves to our community and to the world, even if it’s unusual or out of the ordinary.  

Stephen Sinclair holds a Master of Divinity from Meadville Lombard Theological School in Chicago and is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister. He’s been a pastor and chaplain in a number of churches and hospitals in the U.S., and has worked with the homeless. He lives in Seattle.  

Dress for Delight – Self-Expression Never Goes Out of Style

Taking Off Our Masks

The post Claiming Our Personal Style as an Act of Self Expression appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

The attacker was apprehended with help from a shopper. 

I spent two weeks in the hospital, one of them in the ICU with a tube down my throat, sedated and immobile. My recovery was slow. I had to use a walker for a month and had to relearn how to swallow. The worst part was the brain fog. I write novels and short stories. It was over a year before I came up with an idea for a new story. 

Weekly for two years I saw a counselor to help me through the PTSD and to deal with my loss of creativity. Over this time I slowly recovered. The fog in my brain began to lift. I could leave the house without constantly looking over my shoulder. I even resumed shopping at the co-op, but my recovery still required something more.  

The day came for my attacker’s preliminary hearing. I attended, accompanied by half a dozen friends for moral support. I finally was able to look him directly in the eye. This pitiful man I hated, feared and resented, looked away as if scared. Why had I allowed him to keep intruding in my life? 

I’d heard people speak of the need for radical forgiveness and, frankly, thought it was an impractical, New Age idea suitable for saints. By the hearing, my body and mind had healed to what would become my new normal, and I realized I could no longer shoulder the burden of the resentment, anger, and hate I carried for this man. I could hold my hate and anger in my heart, but it would only stab me. The wound, at this point, was self-inflicted. My own recovery was being held back by dragging this load. The only way forward was to unburden myself—to forgive him. Even now, that thought gives me a sense of peace. 

As I began the process of forgiving my attacker, I felt resignation rather than a sense of relief. Relief came over months as I took forgiveness to heart. When the district attorney’s office finally called to tell me they had worked out a plea bargain, I was able to readily accept it and could truly hope the man would receive treatment rather than punishment. 

I recommend forgiveness, not for spiritual reasons, not for humanitarian reasons, but for the purely practical, self-centered reason that it can aid in your own personal recovery. Forgiveness can release you from the burdens that impede your progress and allow you to walk away from them and toward healing. 

Stephen Sottong is a retired academic librarian and electrical engineer. His essays and stories have appeared in numerous local and national publications. Read more at www.stephensottong.com.  

Life Lessons in Forgiveness

Set a Goal of Happiness for Your Longer Life

Pumping Irony

The post Practical Forgiveness appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

In the Spring of 1970, I was cast as Prospero in an Antioch College production of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. It is preposterous that a 23-year-old could do justice to the role of a powerful elderly magician, but I was excited about the opportunity. Shakespeare’s poetry is magnificent and I was particularly drawn to the idea that Shakespeare, through Prospero, was bidding farewell to the magic of the theater and relinquishing his power and influence as a poet. 

Now my charms are all o’erthrown, 

And what strength I have’s mine own, 

In the middle of rehearsals two events shook the nation. On May 4, members of the Ohio National Guard shot into a crowd of protesting students at Kent State, killing four and wounding nine. Less than two weeks later, on May 15, police shot into a crowd of protesters at Jackson State University, killing a college student and a 17-year-old high school student. The murdered children were protesting the senseless war in Vietnam and the persistent scourge of racism in America. 

Student activists on my campus called for a general strike to protest the murders and the suppression of dissent. The entire campus voted to shut down all normal activities, including the production of The Tempest. I never got to play Prospero. 

Now, nearly six decades later, students around the country are again expressing outrage about the atrocities of violence and bigotry, including the inhumanity of the Israeli/Hamas conflict in Gaza. Yet again, some of the student protesters have been arrested by the police for daring to criticize bad behavior by those in power. 

During the Antioch strike I joined a group led by Black activists who took an interesting approach to their protests. They chose to heal wounds and bridge divisions. 

“If you honkies want to march in the streets and get your heads bashed in by the police, go ahead. We are going to Wright-Patterson air force base to talk with military families.”  

Talking, or more to the point listening, sounded like a good idea to me. 

We were prepped for our trip to the military base. We were instructed to keep our political opinions to ourselves, to ask questions, and to listen. This was to be an exploration of our common humanity. 

I spoke with a number of mothers who were raising kids alone on the base while their husbands fought in Vietnam. They were painfully conflicted about the morality of the war, terrified that their husbands might be injured or killed, and felt as though they were pawns in a horrible game of global politics. I learned a lot about the complexity of life and the ambiguities of politics that day. There are no easy answers, no obvious right or wrong positions. 

I recently came across an essay by the Italian physicist and writer Carlo Rovelli, called “My 1977 and That of My Friends.” The year 1977 was the height of student protests in Italy. Rovelli says that for some of his contemporaries, that year “has become an almost mythical time. It was a moment of intense dialogue, of dreams, enthusiasm, yearning for change, of longing to build together an alternative and better world.” 

The idealism of the “Movement of 1977” was dealt a debilitating blow when student protesters and police clashed in the city of Bologna. To everyone’s shock and grief, a student named Francisco Lorusso was shot and killed by a police officer.  Another young person killed for the crime of demanding a better world. 

The dreams of young activists around the world at that time were perhaps naive and unattainable. Rovelli recalls “envisaging a world without private property, without envy or jealousy, without hierarchy, without churches, without powerful states, without atomistic closed family units, without dogma.” 

Rovelli asks rhetorically, “Was it futile to have dreamed at all?” He does not think so, because the dreams, he says, “fertilized the ground from which our lives grew.” And the lives of people around the world have improved. The seeds of democracy and equality have taken root and spread throughout the world. They have yet to flower in many places—or have flowered and been cut back—but the root systems are there waiting for the right conditions to burst forth. 

The power of visionary dreams, Rovelli says, is that they teach us that the kind of world we have is not the only world possible. Our current reality is not the only possible reality. We can, and must, continue to imagine a world without war, without poverty, without vast inequalities of wealth, without caste divisions and oppression. And we must convert those dreams into realities. 

I have one quibble with Rovelli’s language. I don’t think we need to dream of a better “world.” It’s hard to imagine a better world than planet earth. Earth is a miraculous place. Where else can we find water, oxygen, chlorophyll, trees, fruit, and such diversity of animal life. The life of our world is amazing and wonderful in its exuberant fecundity and diversity. 

What we need to visualize is a better form of humanity, an evolved version of Homo sapiens. We need to imagine human beings who, as a species, can overcome greed, selfishness, and the impulse to exploit the wonders of nature. We need to imagine and become a species with deep compassion, respect and awe for the miracle of life, one that is humble and responsible about its place in the delicate and fragile web of life. 

Toward the end of The Tempest, Prospero decides to abandon his magical abilities so that he and his daughter can rejoin normal society. 

But this rough magic I here abjure, 

. . .   I’ll break my staff, 

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 

And deeper than did ever plummet sound 

I’ll drown my book. 

Unlike Prospero, we elders of the realm must maintain whatever magic we still possess. We should wield the power of our dreams to spin moral and ethical visions of the better people we know we and our neighbors can become. We need to keep nudging the arc of history toward greater freedom, equality, and benevolence. We need to encourage Homo sapiens to evolve into a gentler and kinder inhabitant of our amazing planet earth. 

Michael C. Patterson had an early career in the theater, then worked at PBS, developing programs and systems to support the educational mission of public television. Patterson ran the Staying Sharp brain health program for AARP, then founded MINDRAMP to continue to promote physical well-being and mental flourishing for older adults. He currently explores these topics on his MINDRAMP Podcast and his Synapse newsletter. His website is www.mindramp.org. 

More by Michael Patterson:

Dancing to the Music of Your Age

Equanimity is the Key to Aging Well

Immortal Me

The post The Dreams of Young Activists appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

My husband’s health took a serious turn, an ownership change materialized where I worked, and then COVID struck. All were unexpected. Although I was full of energy and not even thinking about retiring at the time, I knew I needed to confront my new reality and rethink what was next.

The first thing I did was give notice to my employer, having observed people who didn’t let go of things when going in the wrong direction. Deciding to retire opened more time to care for my husband, Clark, and reduced my stress.

I have helped more than 3,000 families transition from home to a retirement or assisted living community during my 15 years working in the industry. So, I took the next five months to share my knowledge and experience by writing and publishing my book, What Are We Going to Do About Mom & Dad—A Navigational Guide to Senior Living and Care.

Then when COVID hit, I picked up my brushes and rediscovered the joy of painting. Once, as an animal shelter volunteer, I decided to try my hand at painting pictures of the shelter animals to facilitate adoptions. Although I had never even taken a painting class and they were no Van Goghs, my paintings were a hit! Now homebound, I had time and space to experiment and develop skills. Some 200 paintings later, my family was probably saying, “How are we going to get her to stop!” Friends would say, “I’ve known you for 40 years and didn’t know you could paint.” I replied, “I didn’t either!”

One never knows what’s next. Unfortunately, Clark’s condition worsened. Two days after his joyful 80th surprise birthday party, he had minor surgery to get the battery changed on his defibrillator. All went fine but the surgeon suggested he consult his cardiologist, as he had a sizeable amount of fluid around his heart. One thing led to another, necessitating back-to-back hospital stays over the next five weeks. My husband finally said, “I want to go home!” So, we brought him home on hospice. Surrounded by his family and friends, Clark couldn’t stop smiling for the next six days. And it was the first time in 40 years the doctors said he could eat or drink anything he wanted! We honored his food fantasies even though he only had a bite of this or that. His last meal was a bite of BBQ ribs.

When you are blessed with great love in your life, the price is great grief. Knowing we all must go through it, somehow comforted me. My art gave me some solace during the first six months of grieving, which were brutal. During that time, I sold our home and moved into a condo.  The next year and a half were filled with life anew. Friends stepped up and my family did what they could. I pushed forward, traveling some, dating some, and have since returned to work. I found I had way too much energy to retire. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually working again has served me.

I have had to rediscover who I am as a woman and not just as a caregiver. It was an honor to be there for my husband in that way. And after having been married for 43 years, I felt like a freshman in high school when I started dating. I’m not ready for a big relationship right now, but learned that it is probably something I will want in the long run.

I’d stopped painting for about a year. Back to painting again I am now so grateful to have art as my friend for life. I mostly do commission work but have also pushed out into the world with art shows, a pop-up store for a week, and a fancy website. This pursuit has given me new confidence and a fresh start in my Third Act. And a way to cope with the loss of my husband over the last two years.

As I share my story about art, people say to me, “I can’t paint!” and I respond, “Are you sure?”

Jane Meyers-Bowen completed her BS in nursing at Montana State University and her master’s degree in Psychosocial Nursing at the University of Washington. Her career has had many acts—clinical nursing instructor, founder of a career guidance company, corporate trainer, and 15 years in the senior living and care industry. See more of her art at spiritedexpression.com

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A friend of mine, a young man who always seems optimistic and full of life, recently told me he was feeling “blah” and kind of “down.” When I asked what he thought was the cause of this, he said he didn’t know, that he hadn’t ever felt this way.

I asked him several questions hoping to get an understanding of what he was experiencing. It seemed he’d lost interest in the activities that normally brought him joy. After talking some more it became apparent that he was experiencing malaise, the cause of which was being overly busy and not taking time for solitude and rest.

I know how that feels! I also sometimes feel out of sorts, even hopeless and despondent. Being retired from one’s career, newly single due to the death of a partner, or feeling that, as an elder, our options are more limited, can weigh heavily on us and keep us from feeling that we do, indeed, have a place in the world. Perhaps not the place we once had, but one that can still be meaningful and purpose driven.

What I have found is that if I don’t quickly do something when I’m feeling socially isolated or begin thinking I’m no longer needed in the world, I can get pulled down into depression.

Sometimes life can just wear us down. We may easily become overwhelmed. The thought of having to leave our house or apartment and run errands, attend meetings, or get to medical appointments is just too much. Performing the simplest of tasks becomes difficult. We no longer want to go out into the world. It’s just easier to stay at home and hope something will change.

I once heard a young woman talking about how she had trouble getting dressed in the morning and often spent the day on her couch rather than getting out and doing what she needed to do. She said, “I know this might sound simplistic, but what I have to do to get up off the couch and dressed is to say out loud, ‘up and out!’” She went on to explain how it’s like a mantra she repeats over and over in order to hoist herself up, walk to the bedroom, find some clothes, go to the bathroom, put on makeup, get dressed, find her purse, and walk out the door.

“Up and out!” “Up and out!” “Up and out!”
I can relate to that. To this day I can find myself on a metaphorical couch, unable to do what I know I need to do in order to get on with my life.

I also had a friend, now gone, who, after a stroke, was aphasic and didn’t have full use of one side of his body. Despite this he got up every morning, showered, shaved, and dressed as if for work. He knew that if he didn’t, he would slowly give up on life.

In the Book of John there’s a story where Jesus encounters a lame man who’s been lying for many years beneath the portico surrounding a pool of water that was believed to have healing powers. The man told Jesus he had no one to help him get up and make it into the water.

In response Jesus says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” He did and was healed. Jesus seems to have touched something in the man that rekindled his ability to motivate himself to take action. The fire within him was reignited, which then gave him the impetus to overcome what ailed him and to then begin to live again.

When the young woman said aloud “up and out” she called on a source within herself to overcome her lethargy. My friend used his willpower and determination to keep himself going. The man by the pool asked for help to be restored to wholeness and he was.

No matter our situation, we, too, can summon the resources within ourselves needed to become motivated and energized. If it seems too overwhelming, we can ask for help from loved ones, caregivers, or a higher power.

And remember: “Up and out, up and out, up and out!”

Stephen Sinclair holds a Master of Divinity from Meadville Lombard Theological School in Chicago, and is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister. He’s been a pastor and chaplain in a number of churches and hospitals in the U.S., and has worked with the homeless. He lives on Capitol Hill in Seattle.

Read More by Stephen Sinclair:

Que Sera, Sera

That Box of Chocolates We Call Life

Mind the Spirit—What Do You Believe?

The post Mind the Spirit—Getting Up and Out When You’re Feeling Down appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

By STEPHEN SINCLAIR

When I was nine or 10 years old my mother was ill and my father was having a hard time keeping our dairy farm going. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was alone in the barn doing chores.

As always, I had the barn radio turned to a station that broadcast music so I could have company while I worked. I didn’t really listen to the songs but rather used the sound to keep my fear and anxiety at bay. I remember I had just finished sweeping the walkway when I heard these lyrics being sung by a female singer: “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be will be. The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera.”

I don’t know why those words resonated so deeply with my pre-adolescent self, but I felt something change within me. It was as though she was singing directly to me, telling me not to let all the uncertainty about the future weigh me down. I didn’t have to be the one to try to fix what was happening with my family.

As I think about this sentiment now, I’m trying to figure out if the song is telling us there’s nothing we can do to change the future. Are our fates unalterable? Must we resign ourselves to being at the effect of forces over which we have little or no control?

In the Christian scriptures, in the book of Matthew, there are teachings referred to as the Sermon on the Mount. In it, the teacher goes on at length about the futility of trying to figure out what lies ahead: “… do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear…do not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”

The lesson isn’t to be lackadaisical about living and planning for tomorrow. The teaching is about what, in this religious context, is referred to as striving for the Kingdom of God. To put it in more universal terms, it means being so centered that one is not buffeted about by what is happening around one or in the world. In this calm state we will be directed to take those actions that will most benefit us, while also contributing to the greater good.

Similarly, in Yoga philosophy and Buddhism there is the concept of dharma. It is believed that there’s a preordained or correct way for each person to live their life. We all have a purpose or mission that is predetermined and it is imperative for us to live within this path. In the Bhagavad Gita it is taught that it is better to live one’s own dharma poorly than to do another’s well.

By living in the right way, we will find that we are on the path leading to self-realization and enlightenment.

Trust yourself. Listen to the voice within. And remember, “Que sera, sera.”

Stephen Sinclair holds a Master of Divinity from Meadville Lombard Theological School in Chicago and is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister. He’s been a pastor and chaplain in a number of churches and hospitals in the U.S. and has worked with people experiencing homelessness. He lives on Capitol Hill in Seattle.

Read More by Stephen Sinclair:

Mind the Spirit— Bless Them, Change Me

When Life Happens

Mind the Spirit—What Do You Believe?

The post Que Sera, Sera appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.