Sylvia's Journal

We are now, what the Brits call holiday makers. We exchanged Manchester at its summer best for a cool, rainy and cloudy Edinburgh. After a short flight from Boston we arrived mid-morning just when the sun was (kind of) peeking out from behind the massive cloud cover. It’s a familiar climate – like Holland, probably a bit worse. 

The Exchange home we will be inhabiting for the next two weeks is lovely. We can see the bay over the roofs of two more rows of houses that separate us from the beach at the most eastern end of the Portobello promenade. A big deck and decent size garden will be nice once and if the sun comes out (not in the immediate forecast unfortunately).

We exchanged leftover monies, some very old British and Scottish pounds, for real money at the bank (except for the 20 Shillings piece from 1964 which is worthless now). We had our first encounter with a most uninformative bus driver who was singularly unhelpful and gave us no change (exact fare please!) from a 5 pound note for dropping us off at the wrong stop. 

Around lunch time things got better. We had a wonderful lunch at the Promenade in Portobello,  overlooking the wide sandy beach, drinking great beer and enjoying weather that the Scots said was warm (68 degrees).  It felt like Holland except for the views across the bay and the hills on the horizon. We were served by a young man from Australia who had studied aeronautical engineering at Purdue University in Indiana, where Axel studied as well (Indiana, not Purdue).

We paid a price for all the walking we did (having no exact change for the bus fare back and underestimating distances).  Back home we watched a video on how to get the knots out of our leg muscles and relieve our sore legs and ankles. We sat across from each other on the small Ikea couches (in this Ikea-furnished house) massaging our legs with ‘Tranquil Chamomille’ oil. Axel is better at this than I am – he has done it before and is treated by the guy from the videos so he knows the drill. I got impatient quickly. 

I brought my ukulele. I have stopped taking lessons in order to focus fully on my violin. Without a teacher to hold myself accountable to I figured that taking it on this trip would impel me to keep playing. I use my computer teacher (Yousician), who I pay 10 dollars a month to continue the teaching job.

In the middle of our celebration of life, all 34 four years of it, with Tessa I received news that a colleague from my early days at MSH had stepped out of life while he still had plans, hiking up Mount Denali. That left his wife alone with those plans. Poof, no summit, not ever again.

I remember, when my parents were in this phase of their lives, hearing from them that this or that friend or family member had died, some suddenly, some shortly or long after being diagnosed with this or that terminal illness. Now this is happening to us. Mortality playing peekaboo, now you see me now you don’t. 

I am thinking about all those people left behind with plans that included the person who left. These plans now need to be re-fitted for solo adventures or thrown out. I think about people who moved or re-modeled their houses to be able to live out their final days together, more or less independently but without having to do stairs, hard chores. Now what, live there alone?

We have many plans that include both of us. One of them we hope to get started this fall: to move our bedroom downstairs and turn the G&T porch with its heavy winter windows into part of that bedroom, with a summer porch attached. No more removing of the weighty windows in June, but yes to the G&T (winter and summer). Would that still be fun without my life partner, I wonder. The line in John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy (“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans,”) comes to mind. And here I am, with a suitcase full of plans for two.

Today is Tessa’s birthday, a momentous day 34 years ago.  The lore of that day includes Axel burning the croissants we had brought to a crisp in the birth center’s oven which had clicked shut to self-clean. The smoke summoned the fire brigade. All this while I was in labor or resting with a baby on my belly. That I cannot remember.

This is the first time we are celebrating Tessa’s birthday in her own house. I got up early to collect the flowers necessary for decorating her chair. Our daughters and their families have added a new habit by adding various tchotchkes found around the house (and for the kids, their favorite toys). But the first order of business this rainy morning was finding the flowers. There aren’t as many here as there are at our house because the chickens eat most flowers within their reach. I found enough to do the chair.

And now Tessa is one year older. According to one Google search (quoting an unnamed study), she is entering the last year of her youth. Others claim that middle age or middle adulthood starts at 40 or even 45 – at any rate for our daughters middle age is coming into view. Imagine that!

When she was very little I wondered what it would be like to have grown up children. I couldn’t really imagine that, immersed as we were in the demanding tasks of childrearing.

At that same time I found my parents rather old.  And now we are these old parents ourselves, though I am not sure I daughters see us as old the same way we did way back when.

When I look at pictures of my parents’ age group at the age I am now I see old people, dressed in old-looking and tired looking clothes. When I go another generation back I see 50 year old grandmas in rocking chairs. Times they are a-changing.

We feel still rather young, even though we are what the French call our ‘third age.’  Is there a fourth, I wonder? Some years ago I decided that my aspiration was to reach 130 years. Then, one day, someone said that she felt sorry for me, as she noticed my joints are already problematic now. This led me to revise my aspiration downward a bit.  It’s 95 in my retirement money needs calculator, so it will be somewhere between 95 and 130. By then all my joints should be titanium.

The day after I returned from South Africa, the work at home picked up to a frantic pace. We had 5 days left to get our house ready for 5 total strangers to move in for a week. We started preparing for that earlier this year by tackling the big projects, such as rehabbing the bathroom upstairs, cleaning kitchen cabinets, decluttering. Now, with only a few days left the to-do list had ballooned to 50 tasks – mostly small, but all consuming.

On Thursday, by the time we closed the doors behind us, just hours before the family would arrive, I was exhausted, but pleased. The house looked like a dream. I would have killed to come from the Colorado mountains and (having arrived in the dark), and wake up to Lobster Cove at its best on a 10+ day. 

The home exchanges this summer (there are 3), are a pilot for something more serious – a paid for summer rental while we retreat to a (much cheaper) summer rental further north or west. This we see in our not too far future. While our house and surroundings are being enjoyed by others, we are moving in with our daughters, three days in Easthampton and four days in New Hampshire, where, for the first time ever, we will celebrate Tessa’s birthday (July 2) in her home.

Yesterday we completed the second in the series of Easthampton Futures, working in and with the space created two weeks ago, and perfected on Friday. We spent most of Friday getting the space ready, checking off the multiple tasks, made the necessary purchases and got to know our fellow crew members for this event.

If the first session was about discovery and sensemaking, this one was about possibilities and prototyping, initiating the shift from divergence to convergence: we worked down from a 60000 foot view of a preferred future to about 5000 ft, making the contours of possible paths down to the valley more visible.

I was a little disappointed in the turnout. I had hoped that the buzz created by the first event would propel more people towards Eastworks – the converted mill building where all sessions take place. It was, just like last time, a glorious Saturday after a week of rain. Given the dismal spring we have had so far, I cannot blame people to want to be outdoors rather than indoors thinking about the future. It is the one time that we think of a sunny weekend day as a problem.

Still, it was an inspired and energy-filled day during which I daresay, everyone learned at least one new thing. I learned from than one. Sita introduced all of us to a framework (the Futures Cone) that is a huge improvement on the way I have most often seen ‘futures’ envisioned (essentially a linear extrapolation from the present, or what sometimes goes for a prediction). By the way, the only people I know of who have ever successfully predicted the future were Da Vinci, Gordon Moore (Moore’s Law) and Kurzweil. The rest of us earthlings have done so rather poorly.

The Futures Cone is a tool to help think about possible futures, plausible futures, probably futures and preferred futures. I led a small group, using this tool, to think about these various futures as it related to the intersection of arts & culture on the one hand, and space, environment, resources (natural, energy, human, etc) and sustainability on the other. We spent 45 minutes building on each other’s ideas and easily finding a convergence towards a series of paths forward. It was such a productive conversation that I cannot imagine how we’d gotten to a similar place in any other way.

For someone raised on a diet of languages (6) in high school and then further nourished on behavioral (Pavlovian & Skinnerian) psychology in university, the recent advances in neuroscience and epigenetics has led me through some spectacular French doors into a landscape that rivals Versailles. Not a professional landscaper or neuroscientist, I am wowed by the beauty of what I see, by the surprises when I stumble on a new perspective, without understanding the intricate and unimaginable complexity of what went into the creation of all this wonder, our neural system. 

My newly acquired academic credentials, if they can be called such, come from webinars, online courses, MOOCs and books. I have become an avid student of everything that sheds light on the complex and often hard to understand behavior of people. Why do people do things that create exactly the consequences they don’t want? Why, when they know what is good and not good for them, do they postpone action that would lead to better health, more joy and more love in their lives? 

Life is made up of cycles, and I find myself cycling back to things I had to read in university. The fights between Freudians and Kleinians in mid 20^thcentury London seemed of little import at the time. Having been brought up, after WWII, in a pretty harmonious family, with parents who loved each other deeply, how could I relate to childhood abandonment theories, trauma and such? Now I feel drawn back to the readings that meant so little to me, and which I now realize are classics because of what they brought to the surface. That what happens early in children’s life becomes a driving force (for good or bad) in that child’s adult life. 

What’s puzzling to me now is why I picked psychology when I knew so little about it, had no self-awareness and knew only two psychologists. These were the father and mother of my classmate Edith in grade school. Her mother was a child therapist and had an office (at home) full of toys, doll houses, lots of dolls. When I first laid eyes on that office I said to myself, that looks like a fun job. I want to be like that. Even though, at 13, I had no idea what psychology and therapy were all about.  Edith’s father was an industrial psychologist with an office next door. His office was a typical office with a conference table and lots of binders and folders and books. I think I may have seen it once and never returned as it was boring to a 13 year old. Now 54 years later I am struck by the merger I am finding myself in the middle of: the merger between understanding a child’s early life experience and how these then play out in and out of the office. Edith’s parents influenced me deeply. Edith herself went into a direction that had nothing to do with what her parents did. She studied potatoes.