NOTES FROM THE EIGHT DECADE #12

BETWEEN YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

June 2013

Now, resting between yesterday and tomorrow, my understanding of myself is becoming blurred by time.

The accumulation of years, 74 to be exact, seems to have blurred my understanding of who and what I am. I have a reasonably good idea of who I have been, and what I have, and have not accomplished during my lifetime. The goals, desires, and aspirations that have guided me, although somewhat depleted, continue to bounce about in my head, as modest and grandiose as ever. However they have difficulty getting traction because the years have worn away some of the unbridled ambition and enthusiasm that never failed to convinced me I was in charge of my future.

This revelation – if I can call it that – came about as I grapple with the difficulties of trying to live in the moment, a concept that has taken on more importance in recent years. Having lived my entire life with one foot firmly planted in the future, grounding myself entirely in the present is proving to be difficult. Even in their “depleted” state, goals and aspirations intrude on the day at hand, pulling me into the tomorrows. The fact that at age 74 they are poorly defined only adds to the difficulty. What is a soul to do?

One option is to simply stopping thinking about it. Take my eyes off of my navel and stop all the ruminating, a sort of “buck up Gonzo” approach. Heaven knows how many times I have tried this. Unfortunately any success I may have had was always temporary.

Or, I can do what I always do…write about it, and if I’m lucky, by the time I finish doing so the issue will no longer exist.

So what will it be?  I’ll have to think about that.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #11

RESILIENCE   How well does it age?

October 2012

My first gallery show was a two-man show in 1977, and all of my work sold at the opening reception. For the next twenty years I sold almost everything I painted. When I moved to Paducah, over 900 miles from my home of forty years, I knew I would have to build a new client base, and was confident I could do so. After a few years of promoting my work and myself I succeeded in establishing a fairly consistent market for my art. Sales remained consistent, even through 4 years of a failing economy, until this year, when, as abruptly as turning off a faucet, they diminished to a depressing trickle.

I have had lulls before, but never like this. The past ten months have seen the fewest sales since coming to Paducah. Suddenly I find myself being tested, facing serious questions about my future; how viable is my art, can I recover the market I seem to have lost, what can I do to reverse this situation, and is it time for me to begin putting the paints away? Underlining all of these questions is an awareness of my age, increasingly a major factor in so many of my considerations these days.

Which leads me to the issue prompting this narrative…how resilient am I at this stage in my life?  When I began writing this, I was prepared to delve into the complex issue of aging, and how it affects our emotional and psychological attitudes toward the “stuff of life”. But at this very moment, the answer suddenly seems quite simple, physical issues aside; we are only as old as we allow ourselves to be. Or, as the old adage tells us, “you are as young as you feel”.

Adding years to our life entices us to think we must be changing, because after all, older people are different from younger ones. That is why all of my self-reflection begins with the reminder that I am 73 years old. This type of thinking is an insidious process that quietly skews our attitude and re-enforces the stereotypes of ageing. Recently I have begun to appreciate how mistaken I have been.

Age is irrelevant in dealing with problems and issues with my work at this stage in life. All that matters is my willingness to commit to the task at hand.

Note…according to actuarial data, a 73 year-old man can expect to live another 11.82 years. Now that is something I can hang my hat on.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #10

A DIFFERENT PLACE, A DIFFERENT TIME

September 2012

Medical office on our Maryland farm 1993

Gallery 5 in Lower Town 2003

I have had the good fortune of experiencing purpose and meaning in my life, pursuing what  I believed to be my personal destiny, medicine and art. My commitment to them has resulted in a series of changes in my lifetime, some planned, others not, but always accompanied by a sense of moving forward.  

The abrupt decision to leave Pharmacy school for a pre-med education and medical school – 19 years old

Switching residency training from General Practice to Internal Medicine which resulted in being drafted for 2 years of military service. – 26 years old

Leaving a full-time private practice for part-time Emergency Room work to pursue a career in art.– 39 years old

The end of my seventeen-year marriage – 40 years old

A second marriage – 44 years old

Moving from the city to an 18 acre farm – 46 years old

Opening a new medical practice on the farm after 12 years of art and emergency medicine – 53 years old

Moving to Paducah Kentucky and leaving medicine completely – 63 years old

In many respects I have lived with one foot in the future, and have never hesitated to “turn the corners in my life” (a phrase borrowed from one of Willie Nelson’s songs). My ability to do so depended on several factors. 

I’ve had an unfailing belief in myself as well as an incredible sense of optimism, a combination that overcame the fears and apprehensions associated with change, especially when approaching the unfamiliar.

I also possessed a powerful resource - a medical degree. I knew that no matter what the future might hold for me, there was always the option of finding full-time or part-time work in medicine. 

That was then. Now, at age 73, I face entirely different circumstances. The optimism and belief in myself are still with me, though slightly tarnished by the realities of these many years. But the biggest change has been the loss of that key resource, my medical degree. I no longer have the comfort of that fallback position; we live on a fixed income with little to no options of increasing it, other than the sale of my art, and that is tenuous at best in this current economy. I have no regrets about the choices I made. There is no doubt in my mind that they were the correct ones to make, and they have served me very well. This new place and these new circumstances... just one more corner to turn.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #9

I DON’T FEEL SEVENTY

January 2012

I just turned 73, and the words of my dear mother come immediately to mind.  She was 70 years old when she said, “Billy, I don’t feel seventy”. At the time I mistakenly assumed she was referring to how she did or did not feel physically, however, reflecting on my own experience with this process we call ageing I realize now what she really meant.

As a young man I assumed that as I aged physically, I would also age mentally and emotionally, seeing and responding to the world with a mind-set that was unique and characteristic of the elderly, because old people were different from young people, or so I thought.  I have since learned otherwise. Yes, the years take their toll on our bodies, and the accumulation of our experiences undoubtedly affects our attitudes and belief systems, but at our core, the essence of whom and what we are remains unchanged. We see the world through the same eyes, we receive and process the input from daily living with the same hopes and fears that have defined us for all of our years. I don’t look the same as I did ten years ago; I have aches and pains that I’ve never had before, and I am keenly aware of how tenuous my future is, but I still look twice at an attractive woman, I like the same music, and I have the same fears, hopes, and personal quirks that I’ve had all of my life.

I don’t feel like I am seventy-three. 

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #8

TIME, SAM, AND ME

2011

I saw him walking with his wife, making their way to the registration tent for our 50^th college reunion.  I couldn’t make out the faces but knew in an instant that it was my old roommate.  Sam's gait and posture are distinct enough to be recognized even after 50 years.  He holds himself erect, with his head high, but not too high, and his gait is measured but sure, with arms held quietly by his side.  As soon as he recognized me a smile came to his face, radiating quiet authority and competence, totally disarming by a veil of shyness.

Sam and I shared a room with 2 other men in our sophomore year at college.  We were both pre-med students and although we went our different ways socially we shared a lot of the same classes. I was the extrovert and Sam was quiet and reserved.  Sam was also brilliant; I don’t know this for a fact but would venture to say that he never got anything less than an A in anything he did.

We had no contact after graduation even though we both went to medical schools in Philadelphia (as did another of our roommates from that school year.)  I knew he specialized in cardiology but did not know he has been practicing in the Boston area for all of these years, while engaged in teaching and research in one of the cities leading hospitals.

I must admit to being surprised at the genuine affection I felt for someone I had not seen for over 50 years, especially since we were not close friends during our college days. I’ve been trying to understand this phenomenon ever since, and have decided that it represents one way in which time manifests itself.

Time has a way of focusing our attention on the essentials rather than the non-essentials. Looking back into our lives the unimportant and frivolous seem to fall away, allowing us to see or remember what we may have failed to see or have forgotten. At 72, I have more respect and admiration for some of the very things I tended to avoid or dismiss when I was 19. My first experience with this phenomenon occurred with my father. As a young man he had habits and ideas that I could not tolerate, but later in our lifetimes, and even more so after his death, they simply disappeared from my mind. I think it was Mark Twain who said, when he was 17 he thought his father was really stupid, and at 21 he was amazed how much his father learned in 4 years.

In Sam’s case we share a common past. We both experienced the joys and difficulties of medical school and post-graduate training so I can appreciate the commitment he has made to the profession. Coming from my own-checkered career I am impressed with his achievements and the fact that he is still practicing medicine full time. I regret that I missed the opportunity to establish a friendship with Sam. I think of him as one of the “good guys”. I believe we could have added something to each other’s lives. That may be the cost of the foolishness of youth.

Tonight at dinner I will raise my glass of wine in a quiet toast to Sam.

Shubrooks & Renzulli LVC graduation 1961

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #7 Winding Down Years

WINDING DOWN YEARS

April, 2011

It started before I got out of bed this morning. I woke up thinking about what someone once wrote: “…never was a man so unafraid of his destiny”.  That quote played an instrumental role in my journey many years ago by allowing me to think about my own destiny. Until then, destiny was an idea I attributed only to larger than life historical figures. It was a revelation to realize I too could claim what I considered to be my destiny - a life that combined both medicine and art.

Lying in bed it occurred to me that although I have been living it, I no longer had that confident grasp on my destiny. The solid foundation underlying my life for the past 30 years was slowly beginning to weaken as doubts and insecurities began to find there way into my head. I thought of myself as being in those “winding down” years, where it is difficult to look very far ahead. I approached my morning journal intending to write something about this and was immediately struck with doubt and misgivings.

What am I thinking, that it is time to pack up and dust off the rocking chair?  That instead of exploring and pushing at the boundaries with new work I should be content with looking back and reminiscing? This is absurd. Is there some biological clock that tells us it is time to slow down and begin looking back instead of ahead? I don’t think so. Granted, there is a natural tendency to do this as we reach these later years, approaching work, and life, with a bit more deliberate and critical thinking. And if we’re lucky, there may be some wisdom somewhere that we can draw on (no pun intended). Yes, it is difficult to see a long-term destiny when we reach the 80th decade and beyond, but that only means our energies are focused on the work in front of us today. We not only can, but must continue to explore and create. Long-term plans now span 1-2 years and not 10-20, and what the work may lack in terms of grand, sweeping ambition it makes up for in its intensity and commitment. I once made a promise to myself and to every patient that I left behind that my goal was create the best art that I am capable of doing. I intend to honor that promise.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #6 AM I OLD YET?

AM I OLD YET?    Some notes

July 2010

When do we become and “old man”, or an “old woman”? Does the transformation take place at a certain age? Are there criteria that we can use to make that call, and if so, what are they: physical appearance, functional status, mental acuity, attitude and personal outlook?

The old man I see so clearly in my mind wears a wrinkled face topped with thin unruly hair, including wisps in his ears and nose. His back is slightly bent and his gait slow but certain. His trousers are baggy and his flannel shirt is encased in a loose cardigan sweater. Although his hearing is impaired, his vision is adequate with glasses, and his appetite for companionship, conversation, and good food and wine is undiminished. As a young boy this description fit my grandfather in his mid 70s when he lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. One of my jobs was to take my grandfather on a daily walk when weather permitted. He held my hand in one hand and his white cane in the other, and together we walked the quarter mile to the highway and back. I remember my grandfather as an old man.

The years passed, and I watched my parents grow old. Sadly my mother died at the age of 76, never reaching the status of an “old lady” in my eyes. My father died at the age of 82, about a year after suffering a stroke that left him partially disabled. In spite of that he was never the old man I saw in his father. And as I’m writing this, it occurs to me that the difference between my perception of my grandfather and my parents is not due to anything on their part, but is a reflection of my own age.