If I could just listen… October 1, 2021
Like a growing number of elders these days, I have chosen to live in a retirement community. We are an active community. The members all have vocationally or avocationally dedicated their lives and resources to social justice and the environment as a condition of admittance, and once here, that commitment continues. In addition, everyone works to the limits of their energy, time and resources to keep the community solvent, and even to provide for those households who cannot cover the expenses of living here. On the face of it, this is truly laudable. We have an oversized voice at the town Council, advocating for low-cost housing, the homeless, and elder services. We are often referred to as “the conscience of Claremont,” although the income and racial differences between the high North end and the low South end of town reveal that there is more work to do.
But something happened to me the other day that has given me pause. I decided to take a walk around the campus last Sunday morning. Several blocks away from home, I tripped on an uneven sidewalk, scraping my chin, nose and eyeglasses, badly tearing my hand, and leaving me with a three-day concussion headache. With no one in sight, I limped back to the clinic on campus, where the weekend nurse mopped the blood off my clothing and bandaged my hand and arm. I trudged home, leaking self-pity on the way. During the following days, I maintained my schedule of meeting with clients and students. However, my anger mounted with each passing day as neighbors waited for me to open doors for them, and emailed requests and reminders to drive them to doctors’ appointments and other tasks. When my writers group shared my righteous rage, I got enough distance to be able to laugh at myself, always salvific for me. As time has gone by, however, I’ve been reminded of a perspective I invariably lose when I myself am in need.
There are mixed messages on all sides here, more than enough to go around. Sometimes I wonder if my wish to be cared for is palpable, and so drives people away. On the other hand, people here often describe me as “kind,” which I am beginning to hear as the assumption that I will always and universally be of unilateral service to them. My career was spent in a “service” industry, where I had to learn to be observant of people’s needs, both obvious and unspoken. While I know that pastoring and administrative positions were not without their challenges, few pastors opened their own doors or brought a covered dish to parish suppers. I am reminded of my New York pipe teacher’s invitation to play at the Irish Arts Center ceildh and pot luck dinner. Because I rode on the subway, I could not manage both pipes and casserole. When I arrived sans pipes, I explained that to my teacher. “What do you mean!” he roared. “You are The Piper! The Piper never brings a dish. You bring your pipes.” Same for the pastor, the priest, the Dean, the chairman, the president, and perhaps for most males in authority, as well.
My second learning is that for better or for worse, and usually for worse, we are all old here. This one is harder for me to come to terms with. None of us are getting out of here alive. Covid hasn’t changed any of us, but it has forced many of us to flee to the surface of our relationships with each other where there is no air for more than our own wants. It has been more than a year and a half since we’ve been able to resume our community meal together, and many of our connection times – – noon meal, memorial services, weekly Vespers, Sunday services that we provide for the homebound – – those have all disappeared. It’s hard to remember who among the fragile among us have died during this time. Twenty-four have left us, and we were not allowed to bless them on their way. And the still living? We are so chained to our own self-absorption that there’s not enough energy or attention left to notice who can’t fetch their own lunchbox at noon. I struggle every day to put a floppy cardboard carton full of wet food into my basket along with containers of fruit, salad, bread, milk, salad dressing and dessert, and every day the old ones behind me wonder loudly and petulantly who’s holding up the line. It’s a young server who sees my struggle and, without fuss or nudging, comes around the counter to gently steady my elbow.
So as I write to unravel my feelings about my accident and the community’s inability to respond to me, I grieve more than my untrustworthy gait. And I’m angry about more than my neighbors’ insensitivity to me. There must be times when I am equally insensitive and unobservant. Those will probably come more and more frequently as I continue to age. I am comforted and reassured by being known as “kind” now, and I wonder if I will lose that as I become more fragile. Will I become less able to keep my cranky, irascible side under wraps? And what will happen to me when I can no longer earn my keep by being nice?