Notes From The Vestibule

This happens to be my birthday week, not one of those significant ages that ends in a zero or five and makes you feel you are stepping into a different zone, but a worthy number, unequivocally into my seventies. I have begun to refer to this part of life as the vestibule of old age. We’re in the building now, but loitering in the lobby, near the entry door. There’s a hallway ahead, and we know where it leads. It gets darker in there, harder to move, not much of a forward-facing view, and whatever we have glimpsed of it does not look like fun.

And so we linger in the anteroom, discussing aches and knee replacements, the way words slip from recall, how a sit on the sofa in the middle of the day turns into a little nap and we didn’t even realize we were sleepy. We know we are the lucky ones if we are slow but still ambulatory, if an annual wellness check has revealed nothing worse than diminished bone density, if we can afford the price of eggs and stream a mindless movie. We fear falls but manage mostly to stay upright, and we never dreamed we would be called upon to be activists at this point in our lives but we’re too outraged by what’s happening to ignore it, and our hearts overflow with so much love, it is impossible not to express it. We know, in this vestibule, that our time is short, and thus it is all the more precious.

A yellow bird has appeared outside my window. A sudden flash of lemony brightness. I managed to get a blurry picture, texted it to our amazing birder friend, Ryanne, and she identified it as a lesser goldfinch. She said they are here year-round, but I am grateful to have seen one right now, on this very day. I am simple, I realize, but this is the kind of thing that lifts my spirits.

I am in fact a collector of spirit-lifting phenomena. Even before I spied the lesser goldfinch today, a bank of white clouds above the hills to the east were piled up like snow, maybe thick enough to walk across. There have been showers and rainbows all day. And yesterday there was an impromptu Saturday morning hike with two neighbor-friends, up and up to a high point, with a view of the ranchland and hills below, and a strip of Highway 1 glinting in the sun. Our conversation was deliciously frothy--and there’s no need to divulge how such topics arose, but we discovered, among other things, that the friend who grew up in France did not recognize several of our idiomatic expressions, such as “booty call” or “hold my beer”. On the way back, Carey caught a glimpse of a turtle in the pond––have they returned? I hope so.

Earlier in the week, I spent a few hours at our local school, where I was a teacher thirty years ago. Now I am volunteering as a writing teacher, working with my geologist friend, in a program to teach the kids about the environment. I sat in the very staff room where I used to eat lunch, and I met the team of new teachers, charmed by their enthusiasm and idealism. Afterwards, the principal-superintendent told me something that touched my heart and has stayed in my thoughts ever since. I’m paraphrasing a bit, but here is the gist of what she said:

“If I have to think of a word for my role here, I see myself as a ‘caretaker’. There are so many possibilities, but I didn’t come here to immediately foist my own ideas upon the school. I came to first observe, understand, and respect what was here already––and to take care of it. I help care for the kids, the culture, and this extraordinary place.”

Caretaker. It occurred to me that this is an approach to life worth emulating. There is so much honor in it, so much tenderness and respect. During my remaining time in the vestibule, I want to be a caretaker. I want to tend to what is vulnerable and dear, look after those I love, and somehow in my wobbly way help make things better, starting here, in this tiny corner of the world, because this tiny corner is all that I can access, but maybe it is everything. If you zoom in, you find infinity.

The view from the vestibule can be volatile and vague. I do think that wisdom accrues with age, but life remains tricky and challenging, and it takes a lot of resolve to do it well. I know now that my beloved dead will never leave me, and my task is to sift through the sadness to the learning and the love. I have been shocked to witness the ugly turn my nation has taken in its leadership, frightened and disheartened by the effort to shred and rewrite history, by the cruelty, disdain, and betrayal. I feel a kind of grief and shame for my country now, and my fervent wish is that before I am called into the rear chamber of the Very Old, I will see this nightmare turn around. In the meantime, I also understand that beauty and wonder are meant to be savored, and laughter is vital, and it doesn’t make things worse if you let yourself be happy now and then.

There is a sign on the northbound side of Highway 101 that I have been seeing every day for months during the inexplicable and never-ending construction there. New Traffic Pattern it proclaims, written in lights, some of which are out, followed by a tangle of lane closures, white lines, and cones. You slow down and wonder for a moment what you’re supposed to do.

I’ve decided, as my birthday approaches, that New Traffic Pattern may well be the theme of the season. It’s not clear what the pattern is, but I have certainly slowed down and been alerted to a change. As I said, the view from the vestibule isn’t always clear. But even if the redirection amounts to nothing more than adhering with greater faith and resolve to the route I have always trusted, I’ll do my best.

And yes, I shall aim to be a caretaker. I’m trying. (Very trying.)