WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Why I’m Done Deferring Joy

    Recently, I’ve decided that I’m done “saving it for good.” Nothing’s too good to use. Nothing’s too good to wear. 

    Mimmie's lemonade set
    Mimmie’s lemonade set

    When Mimmie (my father’s mother) died, I received her handpainted Nipon lemonade set. She’d promised it to me because I’d admired it for years. I also received Grandma’s (my mother’s mother) crystal goblets after Grandma died. I am pleased to own both sets—they are part of my heritage and they remind me of women I love. For 30 years, I’ve “saved them for good,” dusting them but rarely using them.

    I also have dresses, blouses, and a suit I’ve saved for good, which means I rarely wear them. Too often, the clothes are too small or out of style before I need them again. I wind up giving them away—which is OK, maybe someone else can use them—but why didn’t I use them?

    I don’t know whether or not “saving it for good” is a generational phenomenon. As a Baby Boomer whose parents experienced the Great Depression, I was taught that it was important to hang on to and care for the things you had, because somebody worked hard to get them, and you might not to be able to replace them if they got ruined. But somewhere along the line that practical impulse got subverted.

    My special things began to assume too much importance—they had to be protected in glass breakfronts, handwashed and dried, and only admired occasionally. That’s the impulse I’m rejecting. My sons never knew my grandmothers, so the meaning and memories go when I go. If the lemonade cups get chipped, so be it. They are meant to be used and enjoyed, not wind up in an estate sale. I will think of Mimmie and Grandma more often if I use their things regularly than if the items stay in my cupboard.

    Grandma's goblets
    Grandma’s goblets

    I’m also rejecting the idea of deferring joy—that there’s some bigger better moment in the future—some truly important occasion when I should dress up or use crystal. That’s akin to waiting until retirement to travel and then having a heart attack or some other debilitating illness and not being able to go.

    Instead, I’m choosing to live in the moment more—I’m not saving for a rainy day or waiting for the right time. Well, OK, I’m still saving money because, if heredity is any guide, I’m going to live a long time. But I’m spending more joy right now.

    So I’ll use Mimmie’s cups to drink iced tea and sip cabernet from Grandma’s goblets. And when I show up at work in a dress or suit, my coworkers can wonder if I have a job interview, but you’ll know the real story!

    Do you save anything for good? How do you seize the day and spend more joy right now?

  • Middle Age Is The Richest Time

    When my husband said, “Middle age is the richest time,” I thought, “No way.” Too often, middle age feels like loss—of youth, of a sense of possibility, of elders I love.

    No denying, those really are jowls, and since I’m not inclined to have plastic surgery, they’re here to stay. Lovely.

    The big 6-0 isn’t that far off and I meant to have accomplished more—published more for sure.

    My 92-year-old Mom is slipping a lot faster. Her short-term memory has gone on strike, so we have the same conversations again and again. “Are you coming for the baby shower? No Mom, I can’t.  I’ll be in Arizona that weekend,” and the next day, “Are you coming to the baby shower? No, Mom . . . ” At 90, she managed her household and finances. Now her kids take care of that. To be expected, but still. I miss her smart competent self.

    As Dad, who died three years ago would say, “Aging isn’t for the faint of heart.” No kidding.

    So I had to know why my husband, who isn’t prone to positive affirmations or yippee-skippiness of any sort, would say middle age is the richest time.

    Screen Shot 2014-01-22 at 9.39.44 PM“Because at middle age, you can see forward and you can see back. We can vividly recall the experiences our kids are having and we can see how it we’ll be in 30 years.” Hmmm, maybe.

    As each of our sons approached their senior year in college, leaving college for the so-called “real world” looked scary to them. My 22-year-old self was panicky, “Whoa, I gotta get serious. I gotta get a plan. But I don’t have a clue.”

    When each son moved to his first apartment, I recalled how much fun it was to make a place my own.  Like mine, their places were furnished with a combination of hand-me-downs and the discount store shower curtain and towels they chose for themselves.

    When they talk about their girlfriends, I remember the low hum of excitement I felt when I was going out with someone new. I know what a milestone it is to realize that even though I had a fight with the guy I was dating, we worked through it and we were still together.

    So from the vantage point of middle age, I think, “Yes, it is a rich time. I’ve experienced so many things. I know so much more about life. My guys will figure it out too as they get older.”

    Then the glow of that wisdom and those fine memories fades a little. I think of Mom again and dread her loss and the loss of my own capabilities as I age. I tell my husband, “I look at Mom and I’m afraid I’ll be just like her. I forget stuff now!” He wisely says, “Yeah, but your 90’s are a lo o n n ng way off. Don’t waste today worrying about what may or may not happen tomorrow.”

    So I pull back from the brink. This man, this life. I am rich.

    How do you view middle age? If you’re not there yet, what do you expect?  If you’re already middle-aged, what’s it look like?

  • Another Reason to Love Reading

    Ever since I learned how to read, I have loved books. Through novels, I’ve traveled to medieval Europe, ancient Israel, Ireland in the early 1900’s, Appalachia in the 1930’s, New England in the mid-1800’s and many other times and places. Books have given me a glimpse into life on a Native American reservation, what it might mean to be a Chinese courtesan or a Japanese American during WWII, to grow up black in America 200 years ago or now, to live on a tea plantation in India or be a first-generation Indian American.

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    I have long believed that reading literature has given me gifts of insight and empathy. Obviously, reading about a culture is not the same as living in it, but now there’s evidence that reading literature helps people develop empathy and the skills that psychologists call “theory of mind”—the ability to intuitively understand and predict other people’s feelings, beliefs, and intentions.

    In a recent article in the Star Tribune, Robert M. Sapolsky, a professor of neuroscience at Stanford University and the author of “A Primate’s Memoir,” describes research about how theory of the mind develops, “Subjects who read literary fiction, which for purposes of this study meant fiction that had won or been nominated for an important literary prize, performed significantly better in all those domains—exactly the type of skills associated with theory of mind—than subjects who read other things  or nothing at all.” He characterized “other things” as nonfiction magazine articles or popular fiction.

    So next time someone tries to characterize my desire to read literary novels as “not really doing anything,” I can smugly (but very empathetically) think, “I’m improving my intuitive skills and exercising my abilities to understand other people’s thoughts and experiences!”