"Solitary Confinement or Zen Retreat?" Elder Rosewalk finds challenges & rewards of caregiving.

As a caregiver, I find myself reading blogs to see how others have negotiated caregiving challenges. One post from a blogger whose spouse has now died offers this advice: don’t resist. Another caregiver’s blog post captures my attention, comparing caregiving to solitary confinement. Each day I negotiate the territory between these two extremes.

          My husband Jerry (“J”) had a disabling stroke in July 2015, leading to major alterations in his life—and mine. Repeated cycling through the stages of grief, we moved houses, acquired equipment, scheduled therapy. Speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy—each offered promises of improvement.

          Nearly three years later, J is somewhat improved, but still severely impaired. He requires assistance for most activities. He sleeps more than sixteen hours a day.

          Most of my choices consider his needs first: is an assistant available to stay with him so I can go to lunch with friends? will J have the stamina to ride in the car for two and a half hours to visit family? will a planned meal be easy for J to eat with one hand? These questions (and more) are the backdrop for our lives.

     Family members get busy with their own lives, neglecting to send even thinking-of-you texts. Three years after J’s stroke, most friends no longer ask what they can do to help. People are busy, and it is tiring for me to continue to explain our situation, difficult for me to explain how lonely I can be.

     Besides, J sleeps a lot, and he is overwhelmed by conversation or visits that last longer than an hour. Also, it takes energy and effort to maintain contact with people who are concerned but clueless.

          Some friends have dropped out of our lives; others are more present than before.  Sometimes I get lonely, but I try to focus on the moment: my husband’s snores, Norah Jones on the stereo, a vase of yellow roses contrasted with a gray sky, a pile of books and magazines waiting to be read, my purple pen, my journal . . . this is my life.

Instead of focusing on what J and I can’t do, I focus on what we can. We won’t be traveling internationally again, but perhaps we can make a trip to an adjacent state or to a nearby city for a concert. I won’t be joining the community choir in their weekly rehearsals (which occur during J’s most alert time), but we will continue to enjoy our favorite programs together, and we will seek out recitals and concerts we can attend together.

          Don’t resist gets me through weeks and weeks of caregiving challenges. And then, other missed opportunities beckon:  a summer’s worth of unachievable travel dreams, alluring evening events and activities—most of them not interesting (or accessible) to J. On bad days, I feel inescapably confined.

     I am not a pessimist by nature, but downward spirals into solitary confinement can be seductive. Sometimes, I let myself indulge in a few hours of despair, but sadness is exhausting.

     I have my go-to techniques to spiral out of despair:

a walk in the sunshine

a trip to the grocery store

lunch with a friend

a good book

catching up on the laundry

These things—and more—are key to maintaining optimism. I prefer hope to despair. I prefer a zen retreat to solitary confinement. It is my choice.

                                                   --- Rosewalk

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The Black 'Sawn': An Elder Remembers Teasing a Childhood Friend

         Just a short half-mile east of my small, rural hometown of Onaga, KS, the Vermillion River flows southward to its meeting with the much larger Kansas River.  During the summer between grades seven and eight, this spot was a frequent playground for me, my classmate and best friend, Joe Woods, and Neil Kolterman, one year younger. 

         Joe had a small canoe with which we played the watery version of “King of the Mountain.”  On one outing Neil brought a two-foot-long model of a pirate ship he had built from a kit.  The ship, named the Black Swan, was black and red, even the sails.  But Neil’s hand painting on one sail had spelled out Black Sawn. 

         My memory is that Joe and I teased Neil about the misspelling to where he developed hard feelings.  My involvement in that teasing incident is just one of a list of words and actions I sincerely wish I could undo.  Since such episodes never can be erased, it is important that, beyond a sincere apology, something be learned from each transgression that lessens the chance for poor judgment to happen again.  We must focus upon what we can do after what we did that cannot be undone.

         I have learned that the world of tease stands on glass shards.  To tease is to flirt with hurt, to threaten the shield that guards the tenderness inside another, a shield whose thickness we cannot gauge until too late.  But my mouth, without conscious malice, has sometimes fired hurtful darts into fragile soil. Learning both to control my playful tongue and to better understand others have been life-long challenges for me.

         I do feel, through the years, that I have acquired more perspective and tongue control, but not soon enough for those that I, in supposedly good-natured fun, have stung with my wayward whiplash words.

         Unfortunately, the game doesn’t end with me.  This human trait plays in many venues.  In addition to real-life interpersonal interactions, television sit-com shows are a prominent example.  When young, our daughter, Laurel, and her friends loved getting home from school, robbing the munchie drawer, and watching “Sesame Street” and “Mr. Roberts” before going to the basement to play.

         But a time came in second or third grade when Laurel began to speak of a particular so-called comedy sitcom TV show her friends enjoyed.  Trying to be reasonably normal and indulgent parents, we three watched this new show two or three times, and we withdrew permission.  The show storyline was primarily a constant string of put-downs of one person by another. 

         A couple of other sit-coms Imogene and I sampled had basically the same format.  So much for that!  But I wonder how many people now reflect some of that acidic sitcom style in their everyday speech patterns and in interactions with others.  Studies have shown that violence and aggression on TV do affect the behavior of some viewers.

     Some would defend such shows by arguing that children need to be exposed, toughened up, and prepared for the real world.  But is a conversation filled with put-downs really a healthful reality?  Is such negativity, such calculated destruction of another’s presence, a constructive route to toughening up one’s persona for the real world?

     Neil’s pirate ship was the subject of a brief session of ridicule, but Joe and I soon realized that the words “Black Sawn” were the work of earnest hands that had wrought a transgression not even remotely capable of causing a ripple in the space/time continuum.  We soon realized our mistake and that we needed to anoint those hands with the balm of apology.

                                                                                                          -- Elder RiverSoul

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"When She Wore Heels," a poem by Kansas elder, PrairieTalk

When she wore heels

she never saw the whole sky.

She didn’t keep chickens or ducks

or walk between the corn fields.

When she wore heels

she never thought about the lilies.

She didn’t guess the reason for the moon

or shout out to the geese.

When she wore heels

she never smelled wild onions.

She didn’t grow pumpkins and zinnias

or sit among the cats.

When she wore heels

she never watched the creek rise.

She didn’t mend a screen door

or hold a dying songbird.

When she wore heels

she never came to see me.

--PrairieTalk

(More information about PrairieTalk (Ann Carter), please see her website:  annlcarter.com) 

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How to Manage the News (With a Little Help from Wise Friends and the Bible): Part I “Pray Without Ceasing” by elder Turtle GG

(Posted on 3/17/18; reposted on 3/21/2025)

1 Corinthians 16:14 (KJV): “Let all your things be done in charity.” 

Thessalonians 5:17 (KJV): “Pray without ceasing.” 

In the past years, I have appreciated a small group of lovely people over 90 years of age in an assisted living group. We have taken up devotions on several topics, some related to how to be informed about the outside world in a positive way. They have the same dilemma we all do—what to do with the violent sights and sounds that can bombard us from TV, radio, print news, and social media. What are we to do about what I call “The Bad News”? With 24-hour news cycles available from all kinds of sources, we learn a high proportion of bad news—kidnappings, murder, refugee and immigration woes, disasters, corruption, accidents, and violence perpetrated on the most vulnerable.

When we find stories in the news disturbing, it can challenge our beliefs and peace of mind. We may even feel discouraged and powerless. Here are some ideas about how to exercise our rights as consumers of the news for how to participate as we choose the degree to which we are exposed.

First of all, we are not at the mercy of “The Bad News.” Here are a few suggestions that put us in charge of our exposure to all kinds of news.

1. Limit news gathering to perhaps ½ hour per day.

2. Decide what kind of news you want—local, world, arts/entertainment, political, weather, sports etc. Do you want headlines or interviews with people involved?

3. After looking at different sources for a week (don’t forget different sections of a newspaper or magazine.) Choose one that leaves you feeling informed but not overwhelmed.

4. Some news shows regularly include a closing story about the goodness of mankind and animals. You might like this approach.

5. Arrange with a friend or family member to watch with you, with the intention of having a brief discussion afterward.

Of course, this group of wise elders can be counted upon to find ways to manage exposure to the news but not without asking—“What can we do as a positive response to what we learn?”

Marianne Williamson, author of Everyday Grace (p. 91 and 205), suggests we think of news as “humanity’s prayer list.” She acknowledges there is darkness in the world and that we need to lift it to the light. Becoming discouraged only contributes to fear. Williamson realizes that some reports are so heart-wrenching that they take us out of our comfort zone for finding compassion, but she hopes we can try to extend compassion to each person on “humanity’s prayer list.” She suggests the following:

1. Mentally bless everyone in each news story. Try to find the goodness in each person.

2. Pray for yourself to be a loving force in life.

3. Pray for peace in the world.

I asked my friends in assisted living if they felt prayer, compassion, and charity from them to others across the world would help. They were certain of the power of this approach; they were already working on it. One woman, age 101, wisely pointed out, though, that sometimes she feels this takes “prayers without ceasing.”

I had carefully avoided politics and judgment of news sources to keep our discussion positive, but Lydia brought up concerns about her granddaughter’s source of news. They all chimed with concerns about whether certain sources are reliable. The broader picture is of concern to them.  Please read more in How to Manage the News (With a Little Help from Wise Friends and the Bible) PART II  "Fake News: 

-- submitted by Elder Turtle GG

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"An Explanation" A Poem by Kansas Elder Egg Rock

An Explanation

How can I say it so you understand?

It was like a first snowfall

so soft, pure, gentle.

Enchanting in its beauty. Covering everything.

Altering plans.  Removing choices.

Constraining one to a smaller, more domestic world.

Not a bad world, just smaller and more domestic.

Digging out from all that accumulated beauty is exhausting work,

especially as more snow falls.

--Elder Egg Rock

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“Disarming the Wrong That Has Been Done” by John Salveson, an elder from Pennsylvania

"These are the windows I look at when seated at the organ console"

There are days when despair feels like a neighbor.  At a time when world leaders exchange childish epithets while holding threatening nuclear options, it can be terrifying.  The number of sexual abuse announcements has skyrocketed amid a time when mass shootings leave me numb.  The news of mass killings in schools, churches, and mosques reduces me to sadness so deep I can’t find words to express it.  There are moments I want to scream, “The world has gone mad, let me off!”

But this morning, as I prepare to go to my particular house of worship, I’m wondering, have we lost the art of confession?  Perhaps as a world, we need more than confession with a move to repentance.  These are words that have become quite unpopular in recent years.  Perhaps the church I am part of has been too keen to tell us we need to do this because we were somehow designed as flawed people.  But as I write this, that’s not what I mean.  To repent is to turn.  Am I personally capable of turning? 

Perhaps the energy in all this is that repentance, turning, confession, within our religious traditions are always coupled with forgiveness.  Deep within this paradigm is a spiritual energy that is profound.  In my repentance, I turn.  I see the world at a different angle.  I begin to identify with those affected by my greed, gluttony, and disregard for creation and the people around me.  When I forgive I acknowledge that I have been wronged, but I also disarm the wrong that has been done.  No longer do I allow the offense to continue violence to my psyche. 

In my tradition, there are long lists of people who have repented and forgiven, repeatedly.    St. Francis,  Mother Theresa, Oscar Romero, St. Hild of Whitby, St. Bridgid of Ireland, and a list that goes on and on, beginning with Jesus of Nazareth who, amidst horrible torture, was able to say “forgive them.”

So, today, I will go to worship, I will once again make confession, and pray that I have the grace to turn from the things I do that harm my planet, my neighbor, and myself.  I will hear the words of forgiveness, and then, just maybe, I will have the grace to forgive those who have harmed me.  Perhaps in doing so, I can look at the scars others have left in a new way.  Yes, they will be with me, reminders of damage done, but perhaps I will be able to look on the scars with compassion too. 

Will it change the world?  I’m not sure, but maybe, just maybe it will change me in some small way.

--John Salveson

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"An Elder's 2018 Resolution: Turn off Cable News & Compliment a Stranger" by Grandmother Windsong

Chris works at a local grocery store

“The greatest challenge of the day is: How to bring about a revolution of the heart, a revolution that has to start with each one of us.”  Dorothy Day

Near the end of 2017, I took inventory of my health and decided I was way too irritable every day, especially after watching cable news for a couple of hours.  I was hooked as I watched pundits spin political topics around and around the table, interrupting one another, over and over, while I cooked, dusted, or exercised.  It didn’t matter WHICH cable news I watched, I got angry at “the crazies” who were “ruining our country.”  

I was developed an “us-vs-them” mentality.  I could, and can still, see rage in others too – family, friends, and patients in a doctor’s waiting room.   Many Conservative Republicans become red-faced and scowl at the words “Liberals, Democrats or Obama”; the same is true with a lot of Progressive Democrats when the conversation leans toward “Conservatives, Republicans, and Trump.”   Anger, it seems, was thriving in 2017 and I caught the disease. 

I have come to believe politically motivated cable news, talk-show radio with goals of agitating their viewers and extreme left-right web sites are mainly responsible for pounding a wedge into our relationships.   Investigators have found that Russia is behind a lot of this discord, especially posting erroneous information on social media.  This divisiveness does not harmonize with my Christian teachings of “loving my neighbor,” and besides, I asked myself, "where does my true loyalty lie?  With a political party? Or with the Golden-Rule teachings of Jesus?"    I decided that I had two choices – I could contribute to the ripples of anger and discord or extend waves of kindness and peace.   

Before New Year’s Eve—actually a few days after Thanksgiving--I turned off cable news and refused to read political posts on Facebook for a week and began looking at each person I encountered as individuals.    I thought of  Mother Theresa's words:

I see Christ in every person I touch; it is as simple as that.”

Instead of trying to guess if strangers were of the “enemy” political party, I began presenting a pleasant smile and making eye contact with people of all ages and ethnicities--acknowledgements like the friendly waves people of my hometown give as they drive by.  If the person who checked my groceries wore a name tag, I mentioned her name and expressed appreciation.  I began tipping more generously in restaurants.  I looked for ways to compliment strangers.  The rewards were instantaneous and joyful as people smiled back.    

Most of my past resolutions faded by February 1, but this one seems stronger today than when I implemented it in late November.  In the past three months, I have kept up with news by reading  my local newspaper and by watching 5:30 PM network newscasts that end with a positive, inspirational story.  Sometimes, I listen to the music of my youth while I “dance” through household chores.  I read more, visit with friends more, notice sunsets more.  Even on days when the news is infuriating, I think of that smile I received when I complimented the young man, Chris, who bags my groceries, and I am at peace.  

--Grandmother Windsong

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"Our Last Goodbye," A Story of Unending Love by Widower and Elder--RiverSoul

       Most goodbyes are ephemeral, followed after a period of time with some form of hello.  Couples in a relationship experience countless separations and comings together, but always, at some distance on the horizon, lurks that last goodbye.  Young people give little thought to this reality.  But the well-known poet, Maxine Kumin, said it all in a poem that celebrates the conception, gestation, and birth of her daughter:  “Death blew up my skirt the day I signed for you.” 

       My beloved late wife, Imogene, seven Earth-years now in the Spirit World, but in this life a widely-published poet, once told me that for poets only three topics exist—birth, love, and death.  She wrote of all three.  She remarks in one poem, in which she described all of the rocks in her life that she had hauled up from here or down from there, that she has handled all of them “except the one I will own forever.” 

       Our last time out together is a treasured memory.  Although very ill and weak, she still liked to go on afternoon drives, even during her last days in hospice.  As usual, I picked her up in early afternoon and drove, at her request, to the hilltop parking lot overlooking Tuttle Creek Dam a few miles north of town.  This second day of December was sunny, 50 degrees, with a soft breeze from the SW.  She lowered her window halfway and asked me to recline the back of her seat.  Soon, warmed by sun and caressed by breeze, she moved into a beautifully calm two-hour nap, the most relaxed I had seen her in weeks.   Knowing the time was near, I gazed long at her and wondered when.

       Back at hospice, as nurses were pushing her wheelchair into the dining room for dinner, seemingly out of nowhere came my exclamation “Even if we never have another time together outside, today was a super good one!”  I kissed her goodnight and left for the day. 

       The next morning, she was non-responsive but gasping, and in early evening of the next day she took her last breath.  It so happened that, earlier in the evening of that second day, while I was massaging her neck and chest, I took her hand in my other and slowly recited the famous poem by the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore:

                                  Death is not

                                      Extinguishing the light,

                                  It is putting out the lamp

                                      Because the dawn has come.

     

      Then I kissed her—and she kissed me back, much to my amazement and to that of family members gathered around!  Two hours later, still totally non-responsive, she passed. 

     Greetings and farewells come in many flavors and are not always appropriately timed.  And I, learning to live the life of a widower, have given thought to just when our last goodbye occurred.  I now strongly feel that it was when she sensed something very familiar and kissed me back.  And I also harbor the notion that she, as much as saying goodbye, was sending a promise of things to come.  From the place she stood that moment along her Cosmic Arc, perhaps her reply to my kiss was as much "hello" as "goodbye!" 

                                                                                                      --Elder RiverSoul

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"The Day My Uncle Decided to Leave Western Kansas" by Aldwyn

Progress is man's ability to complicate simplicity.  Thor Heyerdahl

       The Dust Bowl tested the ability of the Western Kansas farmer to survive and rise above adversity.  I remember those days vividly as we put wet sheets over windows attempting to bring relief from heat and dirt.  I didn’t give it much thought at the time; it was just something everyone did. 

       From 1930 until 1936 my uncle moved his family to western Kansas and rented a farm about eleven miles south of Horace.  They had their first wheat harvest in 1931 which averaged twenty bushel per acre, but he only received 36 cents per bushel for the first load.  The price then dropped to 25 cents and stayed there until the harvest was over.

       The next year they increased the acreage, but the wheat was so poor they just cut patches in the fields.  The wheat was then loaded into a box car at Horace and shipped to Cardwell in Wichita.  At the time the price in Horace was only 19 cents per bushel.  That was slim pickens!

       On April 14, 1935, a storm hit just as my cousin was about halfway around the field he was plowing.  He was driving a caterpillar tractor and pulling two one-way plows over a section.  It took him from 2 pm until 6 pm to cover one round and get back where he had started.  The storm would let up once and awhile so he could see the furrow he had been following.  He could only move a few yards at a time then stop and wait for the next lull.  His father and younger brother finally came to pick him up.  After driving around the field twice they grew terribly frustrated.  You couldn’t see the tractor although it was only 100 feet from the road.   

       His father finally stopped and got out of the car.  Well, uncle always wore a hat and the storm blew it right off.  That hat just kept spiraling around and going higher until it disappeared from sight.  The brother remembered his father saying “I will not stay where a man’s hat does not come back to the ground.”  He then added “both my brothers said “Amen” to that!!  I was also told that he “would not give a nickel for the whole of Greeley County” that day.  

       After they left, the family heard the one hundred and sixty acres where they lived sold for $125.00 the next summer.  I could never understand why they were out plowing up the ground in the middle of a dust storm.  It makes no sense.  My uncle once told me that the reason for purchasing a farm lay in the fact that: “with so many boys, you better find something to keep them busy.”  And so he did!

And earth moves on!!  Aldwyn

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"Surviving a January Blizzard" A poem created by two Kansas elders

In a warm and cozy home 
I sit and watch 
the wind and snow rage 
against the living room window.  
Best of all, 
a January blizzard
often gifts me with the chance to read
slowly
to think about that which confounds me.
If I'm lucky,
I drift into sleep,
where funny dreams 

bring smiles to my drowsing face.  

 by Elders Aldwyn and Grandmother Windsong 

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