Having recently celebrated my 75th birthday, my granddaughter Ashly suggested I share some of what I have learned in three quarters of a century. It has proved a more challenging process than I first thought.
I could write about the events and experiences that have shaped me. Strangely that is a different exercise that sharing the memories that come to mind as I write this.
I remember the scattered years peppered with hardship and pain so overwhelming that my courage and strength retreated, and I lost interest in the next breath. But the breaths came anyway, one by one, until fortitude and joy returned, and I was once again feeling alive in my life.
I remember the backpacking trips and the numerous hikes on land too beautiful to describe. Was it the physical exercise, the fresh air, the beauty that made me feel so alive? Or was I secretly communing with the trees and land spirits in an intimate language I didn’t know I knew?
I remember the sound of classical music playing in my ears as my mind translated notes on a page onto piano keys beneath by fingers, and I was lost in the world of making music.
I remember holding my newborn children and grandchildren in my arms and feeling the world stand still.
I am by now familiar with the expansion of my heart when I hold a baby or watch a seed poke through the dirt in search of sunlight. I am also familiar with how my heart feels torn apart by starving children, injustices, and lives filled with suffering.
I relish the memories of seeing life once again through the eyes of my children and grandchildren. I cherish the shared intimacies with my partner, family, and friends. Through it all I wonder, why does my life feel so perfect when I have lived it so imperfectly?
How is it that my attachments have taught me how burdensome and heavy things are when I carry them past their expiration date? Why is it that my embarrassing moments slice away at the coldness of sought perfection and teach me to laugh at myself and be easier with others?
How is it that my regrets stand as an ever-ready reminder to live in the wonder of the miraculous ordinary? Why is it that my failures in integrity, conscience, and good choices remind me how painful it is to chip away at my character and how precious my integrity is.
And why is it that a particular experience grabbed hold of my heart at a young age and shaped the rest of my life? What changed an ordinary evening into a life changing event? I was in grade school watching TV with my family when a commercial came on that showed hungry children with distorted bellies and vacant eyes. Something touched me so deeply I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and cried.
Whatever it was that touched my heart held on to it. It fed my seeking and instigated my travels to parts of the world where I witnessed injustice and suffering outside the parameters of my privileged life. It also led to the deep inner question of why, in a world so beautiful and abundant, do some of us make war on others and take way more than our share, leaving so many in misery.
The answer to this question took shape later in life as one of the great gifts of spiritual teaching. It came as the knowledge that what I witnessed in the world was already taking place inside me. The world was reflecting my heart and my mind. If I wanted to make a difference in the outer world, I needed to keep tabs on the inner one. I needed to take a good look at the disturbance, self-righteousness, anger, greed, and selfishness that occupy my insides. And so began my deep friendship with a disciplined spiritual practice.
I realize that even as I celebrate the gift of these 75 years with immense gratitude, the majority of women living on this planet will never live to see their 75th birthday. They live in war zones; they have no access to healthcare or enough food; their workload is too heavy. The stark difference of these two realities continues to shape how I live my life. It feeds the fire of hope and action that constitute my life.
As I begin my 76th year on this planet, I find myself holding all the memories, experiences, and unanswered questions of my life in what Richard Rohr describes as “radical, radical enoughness.” If I were to come up with a phrase to summarize these 75 years, those three words would be it.