No, you can't do anything if you put your mind to it

You know that scene in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker is flying his little X-wing fighter into the Death Star and he has to find the exact spot to destroy it, and instead of using his fancy high-tech instruments, he trusts the Force to guide him, and he ends up saving the Galaxy? Well, don’t try that at home. 

I learned that back when I was in third grade. Ridgewood Avenue stopped at Adams Elementary School on one end, and at the other end, four blocks away, it stopped at my house, 435 Edwards Street. It was a straight shot from the school to my house, downhill.

So, one day as I was riding my bicycle home from school, I got it into my head that if I coasted perfectly straight and closed my eyes, I would end up at 435 Edwards Street. I knew nothing of the Force, since it was years before George Lucas would even imagine Star Wars. But, in my mind, there was no reason why this wouldn’t work. So, I closed my eyes and coasted toward home.

A telephone pole jarred me into reality.

When you were growing up did anyone ever tell you that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything? And do you remember when you learned that that’s a bunch of hooey?

We all have limitations. Our school years alone teach us that. Everybody can’t be class valedictorian. We can’t all become the homecoming queen, or the star of the basketball team. And for those who seem to breeze through it all effortlessly with the wind filling their sails, it’s simply a matter of time before they, too, are confronted with the reality of their limitations.

It’s just not true that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything. Learning to live within the limitations of our lives is a primary task of growing from a child to an adult.

Since I turned 70, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the limitations I’ve learned to live with in my life are changing and how they will probably continue to change even more.

The world that we once commanded in all its fullness gradually shrinks for us as we age. Surely a senior citizen’s worst day is the one where they have to relinquish their car keys, knowing that for the rest of their lives they will be dependent upon other people for something as simple as picking up a loaf of bread.

In all this thinking about growing old, I’ve had a revelation. In the past, it’s seemed to me that growing older is primarily about loss. I think a lot of people see it that way and that’s why they spend so much time pushing against it. Few people like to admit to being old and they will resist the notion for as long as they can. But I’m thinking that’s not the way I want to grow old. It’s my hope that I will do a lot more than resist and resent it.

During the first half of life, we discover what the possibilities of our lives are. But the second half of life is about accepting our limitations. It’s about finding peace with our humanity.

And that’s the point of Ash Wednesday. It’s a day for all of us, no matter where we are in our life’s journey, to remember that a time will come when our hearts will stop beating, and our brains will shut down. It’s the ultimate limitation, the one that not one of us can expect to escape.

364 days a year, we may pretend that we are faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But not today. Today we remember that we’re all going to die.

That’s the message of Ash Wednesday. We’re all going to die.

Some people may fight against that reality. Some run from it. Others face it with fear and trembling. Or they resign themselves to the inevitability of death as the sad reality of their lives.

But we gather on Ash Wednesday to face the ultimate limitation of our humanity in the presence of God, standing in community with our brothers and sisters in Christ all around the world. We come because God invites us to rest in his grace. We can be at peace with who we are because we can be at peace with who God is.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Hearing those words and receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can feel a lot like riding a bicycle with your eyes closed and being jarred into reality by a telephone pole. Or hearing those words and receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can feel like falling into the arms of our God who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

 

 

Aging, Acceptance, and a Word About Our Presidential Candidates

 This is hard for me to say, but I must say it. I’m not the person I was. And despite all my efforts to hold onto the person I was, I need to accept that I’ve become someone else. For me, this acceptance is the primary task of aging. I say “for me” because I know that aging is not the same for everyone. I don’t assume that what is true for me is true for others, but at the same time, I also can safely say that I’m not alone in my experience.

I remember how I found old people amusing when I was young. There was a woman in our neighborhood who drove her car down the street at about 10 mph. Every time my friends and I saw her peering over the steering wheel we would howl with laughter. I’m beginning to understand why she was so fearful, and it’s not so funny anymore. (The fact is, she should not have been driving.) I often rolled my eyes when old people told the same stories repeatedly without realizing it. Now I can see how I too have the potential to become one of those storytellers on a loop. I used to wonder how an old woman could go out in public with long whiskers all over her chin. Why didn’t she take care of that? I understand now that she probably couldn’t see them. No, I’m not there yet. But I am aware of the direction my life is going, and I can see it coming if I live long enough. That’s just the way it is.

I felt this happening before I retired at the age of 70. Yes, I could continue functioning in my job. Yes, I had acquired wisdom from the experience of serving for over forty years in my field. Yes, I was still enjoying my work. But I was not the person I once was. Not as quick, not as creative, not as energetic. That wasn’t going to change; it was only going to get worse.

Not very long ago, I was in the thick of things. I was a vital part of important decisions. I had amazing moments of triumph. I felt powerful. I could change the world around me in significant ways. It was my time. That is no longer the case. I’ve moved from being an active player in the game to becoming a spectator on the side-lines. It’s a weird feeling.

Because I am a Baby-Boomer, I know that, along with me, a whole lot of other people are coming to terms with their aging status these days. We are learning firsthand about the indignity of agism in our culture. But a greater challenge seems to be the inability we Boomers have accepting that our lives have changed. Most notable are the two likely presidential candidates for 2024. Why are they hanging on for dear life as if the future of the world depends upon them? The truth is, it doesn’t. It’s time to step aside and trust that the next generation is capable. And, I dare to say for all of the above reasons, more capable. It's their time. I’d like to see what they can do.

I’m not who I was. That part of my life is over. But that’s not to say that my life is over. I have a future, and I have some control over how I will live it. I look forward to spending more time with the people I love and new adventures yet to unfold. I long to savor good food, music, theatre.  I continue to be curious about the things I've yet to learn. I believe I still have a contribution to make to the world around me. I’m interested to see what comes next for our country and the planet we share. All of that is true. And yet, in order to live fully in my present reality, I need to accept the fact that the past is in the past.