Illustration from “The Wind in the Willows”+

I’ve been thinking lately that I have become a somewhat superficial person. I seem to spend less time contemplating the meanings of life. As I’ve managed bumps, bruises, twists and turns over decades, perhaps I have become less wise despite aging. Has my mind become more acutely probing, tackling multiple quandries successfully? Let me think on it, as not so sure. Do I take time to meditate on the synchronicity of outer and inner events and complex workings of both human and nonhuman life forms? Perhaps, but perhaps not with such a grand sense of purpose.

I considered that–whether I have become less serious, probing– while walking with a friend down a river path. She was gathering grasses and random blossoms and tucking them in her big purse. We talked about thrift shopping, clothes, bees, hair loss and flower arranging, with a passing comment on our sons. I paused in our walk as she snipped and thought: who am I becoming these days? I could not recall a time previous to the last 4 years that I’d have walked along glistening river waters, thinking only of second hand dresses while admiring sweet peas growing wild and bountiful–and with a person like her.

What was to come next? Talking about our mother’s china and our cumbersome inheritance of same? Or the curiously satisfying habit of sweeping tree detritus from our respective balconies and porches each morning ?

Have I fallen into a more easy come/easy go lifestyle? Or do I still possess high expectations of myself as I did even ten years ago? I may have slipped the last decade rather than progressed as far as being an intellectually broadened human being. Or a spiritually deeper person whose relationship with the Divine Creator gives me greater gravitas. I may have become more surface in attention and activities, more quick to move on from confounding experiences. And then on to embracing simpler, lighter facets of living.

And I have to ask myself: how much do I care? What now matters the most to me at the end of a long, still-busy day?

Born a pensive and intense personality, somber when in the thick of cogitation, I became more so as I edged into adolescence, then left home for the early adulthood portion of life. No one ever suggested that I skimmed the surface of anything in my teens or during university years (then marriage to my first husband, which I contemplated often). I was the kid and youth who always had a hand up, sidetracking teachers, taking up others’ time. My penchant for going deep very fast was noted. And that my devotion to pursuing matters of small or great import could seem daunting. Investigation of topics was not just important to me; it felt impossible to curtail close examination of a myriad points of interest each day. I gathered information from books, experiences and others hungrily. Then it was mulled it over as ideas were absorbed, tracking multiple tributaries they spawned.

Yes, I was intelligent enough. But that somewhat friendly beast of insatiable curiosity was created such hunger. When I took a journalism class, it clicked right away. I hunted information like a blood hound pursues quarry. I was compelled to discover the truth of matters (as if there was one truth), and imagined if I researched or experienced subjects widely, I’d finally “get there.” To some pinnacle of insight and knowledge, which should bring a happy liberation. I did gain more knowledge, but it wasn’t always worth my efforts, nor all that illuminating. There were plenty of times I followed my nose to places I had no business going and skimmed the outer limits of safety. And yet, that fascinating chase after perspectives, clues, and evidence on the spectrums of emotional, spiritual and intellectual clarity pressed me onward. It gave substance to personality. The search invigorated the mind. It provided me with a greater acuity– at least, at times. Other more ordinary or superficial experiences left me deflated. Yet when I got an answer to my questioning, it was also too often not a big deal. And how confusing to end up in a more dangerous territory, literally or figuratively.

The question I should have asked myself was whether all that pursuit of truth was fulfilling enough. Was it an enjoyable pursuit in which to be engaged? Yes, and no. I was never bored (still am not) as I poked about fascinating avenues of interest. Learning for learning’s sake becomes a love affair. Previously unknown answers aided in clarification of my journey, but other times presented dead end turns..but I kept trying. What it amounted to was that it made me more introspective, self-absorbed, and often just beyond the reach of many who may have befriended me, with whom I might have shared myself more. Where I had arms wide open to knowledge, even the arcane, I closed them to people as they inched closer–come on but please wait, step back. As much as I socialized, what meant more to me was learning how to navigate the choppy waters of life. To develop strength during hardship. It perhaps could be accomplished via spiritual and intellectual disciplines. The need: to establish a comfortable gravity resultant of peace of mind. Or find peace of moind that gave me gravtity. I neede it; I lived in the intellect and, too, within rich emotion it all elicited. And both proved to be an elusive paradisal state.

Anthropology, archaeology, linguistics, architecture, philosophy, geography and art and world history; the visual arts, music, dance, theater, literature and writing; natural sciences and physics (simplified), a basic cosmology, world religions; psychology and sociology, holistic healing, physical fitness and athletics; and service to others, the compassionate engagement with those in need of support and care…it was all a feast for mind and heart. I fed myself well and still do. On my table and surrounding floor are books about phosphorescence, homelessness, moblie libraries, trees, birds, container gardening, and wonder–and a small tower of mysteries and literary dramas.

But where is the sheer fun in all that? Satisfaction in a mind that keeps percolating, many moments of ahas. But simply fun?

Five years ago we moved to a suburb I’d not have chosen a year before that. But a daughter was having twins as a result of IVF and I intuitively saw rough times lay ahead. So we vacated our home of 26 years for the tony fringes of Portland metro. For the next few years life came at us fast and hard. We learned to navigate literal new territory (after entirely city-centric lives) in a home that fortunately provided a refuge, a place of beauty and serenity. It nourished us, was calming. There were long nights consumed with worries, days spent aiding the twins and their parents. I embraced being a grandparent again as I turned 70 and carrried out many duties; re-engaged with toddler play despite being a bit more limited physically. I learned how to protect myself from germs that preschoolers simply get and carry–during the pandemic we got creative so we could still help. I learned how to insulate myself from criticism when my spontaneous advice was unwanted.

But now they are 5 year olds and, though their growing up will pose challenges, I am less often needed. There is more time to write, walk every day, read those books, hike on week-ends. To pursue new interests if I wish. I am thinking less hard about much less. And have come to again value friendships.

Friends. That’s the key word in the center of this.

About a year after we moved, I met in quick succession people who became three new friends. One lives next door so I ran into her often; the other two were up a hilly walk or two. They all knew one another and had tossed about a community book club idea. When asked if I’d like to join, I jumped at the chance since I’m passionate about books. The book club didn’t hold–we kept discussing different ways to execute it and appreciated far different genre choices. But we held, anyhow, and started to share time in different ways.

The first lunch I was invited to, given by my neighbor, I was filled with nervous anticipation. I hadn’t “gone to lunch” other than with family in a handful of years. It was fantastic, filled with great food and stimulating, comfortable conversation. I liked these women–M, J, and V. They were variously accomplished, involved with light activities and serious hobbies, curious about much, and quick to laugh. And though a range of ages, all were retired and in another phase of adulthood.

Most of my other friends have been in recovery from addictions or other issues, or long term co-workers. That meant relationships were bound by recovery priorities or work –also heavy on psychological matters. Occasionally I’ve found good writing partners and we spend months sharing our rough drafts; we may become better friends or not. I might also go out for coffee with an acquaintance; if enjoyable, it’d happen again.

These new women, however, were always up to something intriguing, different from what I had done or learned, and they were able to live more spontaneously than I had done for years. And it wasn’t that their health was pristine or private lives were perfect. The opposite could often be said. Still, they’ve given plenty of time to rooting out life affirming, entertaining events. And to one another.

They were explorers of life. And that resonated, of course.

One by one they began to say quite frankly: “Cynthia, you seem tired out. You need to take back time for yourself, give a little less to all your family. We know you love them. But you need to have more fun.”

At first it somewhat offended–what did they know of how much I had to do, to whom I was accountable each day? But the truth of their words rang loud and clear. I did need time to just be, and explore my own vistas. To have respite from serious matters.

And so, I thought about sticking my toe in the water–to loosen up a bit. I was so busy with the twin granddaughters, my spouse and a sister who developed dementia that I still often declined invitations. Yet the more I consented, the more it was apparent how wonderful my new friends were. We’d go on long meandering walks together, meet at a corner to catch up between tasks, and go out for lunch. I thought with a laugh, “Oh no, I’ve become one of those women–‘a lady who lunches!'” and it felt strange. I was privately aghast and embrarrassed, as if that should not be an option. As if I was not that kind of woman: I was a serious person with too much to do. But, it turned out, I could be that woman–at least with these three.

I got to know them one at a time. It was inspiring to learn of all they had done and all they still loved to do, to try. Worn by life’s changes, losses, demands, I was more empty than full despite a person with decent reserves. Talking with them made me feel that more expansive living was not only possible, it was indisputably necessary. I asked them to go places and do things with me. When they accepted I was so pleased–off we went. My schedule was not so set the past year and we were there for each other if suddenly needed. During knee surgery problems, they came by, offered food, brought flowers, called. It had been aeons since I felt so cared about by those who had no obligation to do so.

Mt strong barriers between myself and others lowered. I stopped looking at the mobile phone’s dictating Time, and made less assumptions about them. I began to breathe more easily–I laughed more than in such a long while. And I remained lighter-hearted after meeting with them.

And so it continues. We enjoy ourselves as we meet together or individually. Two are lifelong athletes and remain very active–I join in when I can. It is getting easier since that knee replacement and battling serious anemia (winning that fight now). One friend has great talents for design and cooking. Another is a fine woodworker and runner/hiker. A third has a fine green thumb and is an expert kayaker. I appreciate the diversity of their lives and personalities.

I sometimes do wonder what I have to offer them. How did I get so lucky? A writer like me–not commercially successful, occasional literary journal or anthology contributor–doesn’t expect to be read by friends (and rarely by family). This is sometimes disappointing. So I don’t talk about what I’m working on. About my enduring passion for writing and all it entails. Oh, I know a fair amount about certain things, if asked. (Why does not one talk about music? Maybe because I listen to classical and jazz. Why don’t others want to discuss mental health, alcohol and drug abuse? Perhaps because it is a heavier subject.)

I know little about so much despite my ample reading and researching. I have no notable domestic skills, but decent people skills built from a place of empathy. I like to hear others’ stories, to engage in spirited discussions, to develop mutual trust and appreciation. To be there if needed. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I can or cannot accomplish, though. In time, we have become friends.

These three have stirred within me a greater anticipation of basic joy and big gratefulness. I don’t have to be profound or scholarly–nor an award winning anything. I can just be me. I’d half-forgotten how lovely it is to embrace the day with its dents and dings as it unfolds way beyond a “to do” list. To just get up and go. To embrace any good energy it generates not only in action, but in being. In that simple knwoing that we are all good women. And we are becoming strong allies as we age.

Is chatting about one’s hoard of fine to middling to bad books; or that fine jewelery once worn for work and idling in a beautiful box; or the latest episodes of a newly discovered BBC series; or the life cycle of hydrangeas and lilies; or the newest physical aggravation that popped up; or the blessings and trouble of having a spouse and not having one, and the intriguing or wild ones we long ago passed up, so it goes: Is all this worth my attention and time?

A resounding yes.

The work or conundrums I left behind for a couple of hours will be there when I return. Peace comes and goes as there will be disruptions, hurts, goals unmet but life is a river, I remind myself. And I want to hop on our unique women’s boat more and find out where it goes.

When J and I walked that lovely trail and she gathered elegant weeds and flowers and random twiggy things for her bag and we talked about this and that, I was glad to be out of the house. Just breathing brightly spun late June air, and eyeing the wide river as it carried boats and the teens who dove in from a high place, and river otters going under, then bobbing up and ospreys fishing so beautifully like the experts they are, and taking photos as I always do of all the wondrousness, and all the strangeness of nature and whatever brings me closer to God and to wholeness. That wholeness that I sought so hard as a kid, as a young adult.

And then after J and I were done and I was home doing an ordinary task, my doorbell rang. I opened the door and J held out a tall vase in which she’d arranged several delicately pink sweetpeas, a stem of tiny rosy flowers and various grasses. It was fresh in design, lovely in its gracefulness.

“Thank you!” I said. “I thought you were gathering things to make a giant, gorgeous arrangement for your own house.”

“No,” she said as she turned to go, “I have enough in my house–these are for you and I made one for V. Talk later!”

Is this a true friend? Of course–of such small things are dear friends made.

The smallest things always do move me, and my heart grows bigger, deeper.

Am I really more shallow? I still wonder. I will think that over– later. I often think not. I spend less time with gnashing teeth sunk into hypothetical meanings of life and how to accumulate wisdom. How to penetrate or solve life’s great mysteries?–we are all an essential part of a greater Mystery and maybe that is enough for now. And if I still give too much thought to little, at times, it doesn’t feel as dire a thing as when I was younger. Not so voracious a need to examine a thing to its very core. Afterall, I have trod a long course, am still here. It means something–but who knows quite what?

It is a good thing to live the remaining time with greater respect for others and self. I can contemplate anything desired–later. Meanwhile, I hear that I’ll be taught how to kayak this summer; how to find more daring, unique clothes at thrift store costs; and how to build greater stamina bya diehard athlete. I might put a request in for flower arranging lessons.

I can rest after a day of play and work, sit alone under sun’s gleam and a cloud-accented blueness, or a slip of moon hung among night’s dancing stars– as has often been my habit. I can also choose to be in such good company, have a laugh about how we’ve even made it this far, and the ways in which we will enjoy the rest of our paces. Even when it hurts, even when it becomes something altogether different than we planned: we’ll have a little robust fun. And therein lies more wisdom.