2013-06-19T21:31:42-04:00 Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=rhoda-p-curtis Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Rhoda P. Curtis Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1284400 2012-02-17T16:13:00-05:00 2012-04-18T05:12:01-04:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
At 94, I have reluctantly given up driving myself around -- to the relief of my son and all my friends, even though my license is valid for a few more years. The other day, my friend and I parked outside a special vegetable store we both liked, and watched while a driver parked his van in front of us. He came around to the back of the van, accompanied by his teenaged son and younger daughter, and unpacked a scooter for his daughter and two skateboards, one for his son and one for himself. They all mounted their self-propelled vehicles and sped happily down the sidewalk. Their automobile wasn't enough to satisfy their need for a different kind of mobility!

Poets remind us of the joys of the open road, of wandering down wooded lanes or on the seashore, looking for shells. We grow up with strong images of freedom to roam the world, with the ability to run, swim, hike, bike, drive and even fly. As children, from the time we learn to walk, we are eager to explore the world, and this urge to move around, to explore, becomes part of our obsession with mobility. Owning a car gives us not only privacy in transportation and control over our environment while traveling, but most important of all, a car offers us a private room on wheels.

I remember a lovely book, written in the 1930s by two Russian journalists, Ilf and Petrov, called Little Golden America. Ilf and Petrov came to Detroit and chose a Ford motor car as it came off the assembly line. They knew that all the cars are alike, but when they chose their particular car, it suddenly acquired a personality, and became "theirs." They then set out to explore America, and they come to the conclusion that "America lives on the road."

That book has remained in my memory as a sharp analysis of American culture, and provides a good framework for much of American current history. The survivors of the Dust Bowl disaster of the 1940s, often referred to as "the Okies", could not have escaped their devastated land without an automobile. As Steinbeck described them so clearly in The Grapes of Wrath, their mobility depended on their ownership of wheels.

I was able to leave Northwestern University in the summer of my junior year, 1939, because I had a ride to Yellowstone Park, where I worked for the summer. Then a friend picked me up and drove me on to Berkeley, where I graduated in 1940, went on for graduate work, and never went back to Chicago. I suppose I could have done this by Greyhound bus, but the joy and privacy of traveling in a mobile hotel room was much more fun.

Elders I have spoken to in assisted living spaces and in nursing homes often complain about being hemmed in, and what they mean is that they no longer have the option of getting into their cars and going wherever they want to go whenever they feel like it. The urge for independence is strong among us, and lack of mobility reinforces a threat to our independence as we age.

Traveling in a car offers relief from struggling with decreased physical mobility. Sometimes I feel as if I am walking on the deck of a large ship, even in my own flat. The deck is familiar, as are other passengers; the sea is calm, but suddenly the deck beneath my feet is heaving up and down and maybe side to side. Of course, it isn't the deck (or floor) that's unsteady -- it's me! My dancer's legs are wobbly, my balance uncertain. I find the changes in my physical ability to be gradual, but the uncertainty gnaws at me.

When I am relaxing in the single room that is my garden apartment, I gaze out through my floor-to-ceiling windows on all the varied gifts northern California provides. I gaze happily at my loaded Navel orange tree, the lilac bush, the willows, the fish pond, the hummingbirds, dogs and cats who come to visit, and I long to join them in the garden. But I can't. So when I have the chance to be driven up to the Berkeley Rose Garden, or down to the marina, I am tempted to pat the car as if it were a reliable horse -- as of course, it is!

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room.

For more by Rhoda P. Curtis, click here.

For more on mindfulness, click here.
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Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
Actually, the only thing I can say I've learned is: "No experience is wasted." And that has become my mantra. "If only... " is a fantasy. I remember a film called Outward Bound (1930), which I saw in 1944. I thought it was about a ship caught in a dense fog, and the people on board are given an opportunity to live part of their lives over again. They are delighted to have a second chance to change their lives -- to learn from their mistakes. However, they all make the same choices they did the first time. The circumstances change, but the emotions governing their choices are the same, and they repeat their behavior. After checking the plot on the Web, I discovered I was wrong. I simply remembered a small section of the film and ignored the rest!

When I reflected on all the "mistakes" I made during my lifetime, I decided to let go of the "If only... " fantasy. I thought about how World War II changed my life, and how I blamed the war for the destruction of my dreams. If I hadn't married in 1941, my life would have turned out differently -- but maybe not! As I look back at the three men I married, I realized that they were all the same man, in different bodies. They were all brilliant intellectuals; they were great storytellers, and wonderfully in tune with their bodies and with mine. They were enthusiastic, impulsive, exciting to be with, and none of them got along with their mothers. I was nurturing and forgiving, sure of myself and positive that they would change. I was mistaken, of course. However, each marriage and/or relationship lasted 12 years or more, and the love between us was deep.

I don't regret any of it, and that's the key. I find myself thinking back over the six careers I have had, and I was convinced that the methodologies I espoused for training teachers to teach English as a second or foreign language all over the world were absolutely the best methodologies around. I am now re-thinking a lot of the ideas I proposed so strongly. I am enjoying a surge of semi-humility.

Age, of itself, is not a good measure of learning. In certain parts of the world, once an individual reaches the age of 60, that individual is considered "wise." While I like that idea, and while I realize that for women in those parts of the world, being 60 is liberating, I'm not so sure I would consider every 60 year old I have met automatically "wise."

Donald Hall, in a recent article in The New Yorker magazine (Jan. 23), writes about being old and sitting reflectively in front of a window in his house, watching the weather change and enjoying the interactions between the birds, squirrels and cats he observes. He writes about how irritated he is with people who patronize him, and I really sympathize. I remember how I hated being patted on the head by patronizing elders and now I wish people didn't have to bolster their own sense of virility by discounting me.

However, being pushed around an art gallery, and driven places by somebody makes me feel privileged! The other sensation I enjoy is liberation. I have entered the land of the "old old." There are no expectations of me at this age; if I feel like reading all night and sleeping all day, I can do it. I can drink wine but no martinis, and I have the sense that I have somehow crossed an invisible barrier. I can do whatever I want to do -- or feel capable of doing physically, and as long as I don't deliberately endanger myself, I'm not being unfair to my children and my friends.

Learning is an ongoing process that doesn't end with old age. Learning anything requires discipline, practice, humility and hard work. It's intensely rewarding, and the process is invigorating. One of the important elements is accepting the possibility of failure. In fact, I have learned more from my failures than from my successes. When my efforts at writing a short play succeed, I am delighted, but when they don't work, I really start figuring out the reasons for the failure. That's a vivid learning experience.

Finally, reflecting on what I've learned, at 94, is the following:

• Acceptance is more important than understanding;

• "If only" is a fantasy;

• We learn more from our failures than our successes;

• No experience is wasted.

Learning new skills is empowering -- even at 94!

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room.

For more by Rhoda P. Curtis, click here.

For more on aging gracefully, click here. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1211263 2012-01-17T15:33:17-05:00 2012-03-18T05:12:01-04:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
The hardest change was when I closed my business, Rhoda Pack Leathers in 1962, after having been in the business of creating leather handbags and sandals by hand since 1945. During those seventeen years, I created smooth leather for clothing, designed and made jackets, coats, dresses in leather that could be sponged off. It was leather clothing that was fashionable, soft and eminently wearable. I collected many fashion awards, and my designs were available in top stores throughout the U.S. (even in Hong Kong).

My identity WAS Rhoda Pack, and it was hard to give up. I went back to teaching, and gradually acquired a new identity. After acquiring a second M.A. at the age of sixty, this time in English with an emphasis on TESOL (Teachers of English to Speakers of Other Languages), I became an expert in teacher training at the University of California, Berkeley Extension. I traveled extensively, teaching teachers around the world, especially in South Korea, Japan and mainland China. My new identity was as master teacher/trainer of ESL/EFL teachers.

I have been teaching the TESOL Workshop at California State University East Bay in Hayward since 2002, but that job is now over (too few students are enrolling in the program). My new identity is that of Elder/Author/Writer/Journalist, and it seems that this is my final "reinvention". However, I am really not reinventing me--I am simply changing jobs, which requires a new public perception of who I am.

When I was conducting graduate classes in TESOL at UC Berkeley Extension, I created an exercise in which I asked my students to create a diagram for themselves, defining their different public roles. It required a reflection of how their behavior changed, depending on their interaction with others. Try it: draw a circle and put your name in the middle of the circle. Now draw radiating lines from your name to the rim of the circle. Name the people with whom you interact. If some of the names that appear are Lover, Mother, Father, Teacher, Student, Husband, Wife, Child, Brother, Sister, you will find that if you react to your lover as you would to your child, you will encounter a cross-communication! You are a different person to the different people with whom you connect during your daily life. It is not a matter of "reinventing" yourself as much as it is ways of adjusting your behavior to the perception other people have of who you are.

People from my past lives still think of me as "Ricky's mother" or Rhoda Pack, or Professor Curtis, or as Educational Consultant. They are all mes, at different stages of my life. There is no question that the experience of changing one's job or physical location or life pattern (marriage/divorce/child birth/adoption), to say nothing of gender change, requires enormous courage and a willingness to fail. The final question of "reinventing oneself" means finding out who you really are, and how well you make sure people recognize the new (or different) persona you have chosen for yourself.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1179533 2012-01-02T11:39:26-05:00 2012-03-03T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/ According to Wikipedia, "A New Year's Resolution is generally a goal someone sets out to accomplish in the coming year. Some examples include resolutions to donate to the poor more often, to become more assertive, or to become more environmentally responsible. A key element to a New Year's Resolution that sets it apart from other resolutions is that it is made in anticipation of the New Year, and new beginnings. People committing themselves to a new year's resolution plan to do so for the whole following year.

At watchnight services, many Christians prepare for the year ahead by praying and making these resolutions. There are other religious parallels to this tradition. During Judaism's New Year, Rosh Hashanah, through the High Holidays and culminating in Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), one is to reflect upon one's wrongdoings over the year and both seek and offer forgiveness. People may act similarly during the Christian fasting period of Lent, though the motive behind this holiday is more of sacrifice than of responsibility. The concept, regardless of creed, is to reflect upon self-improvement annually."

The success of these resolutions appears to be connected with the modesty of the goals. For example, a resolution to "lose weight" is less likely to succeed than a resolution to lose a pound a week, or some such specific goal. From a realistic point of view, such resolutions are a form of superficial "mea culpa." If we are really serious about changing any part of our usual behavior, we will do so, with or without a written or verbal expression.

Let us examine the possible reasons for New Year's Resolutions. When we make such resolutions, we feel virtuous, as if by acknowledging any failure on our part to behave in a moral or responsible manner over the past year, we become absolved of the errors of our past ways.

It has been my experience that our behavior really doesn't change much over the years. If we don't pay our bills on time, we usually pay a penalty in real time. If we drink too much, we get sick; if we smoke, we will start coughing; our bodies will remind us that we had better stop, never mind a resolution to do so. If we neglect our children, or our spouses, or our friends, we will experience immediate negative results. So why bother making a resolution?

We seem to need to acknowledge publicly a social or personal failing. Perhaps it comes from a cultural resolve to be a responsible public citizen, and therefore it is recognition of political and social responsibility toward fellow human beings.

I'm all in favor of political and social responsibility toward each other, since that is the social construct by which we live; and we cannot have a viable society without such behavior. Over the years, I have become more conscious of the necessity to reaffirm our belief in each other, and perhaps New Year's Resolutions are a good way to do this.

I'm not sure how seriously we take New Year's Resolutions in the year 2012. The verb "resolve" carries with it a sense of serious commitment, and its origin in religious ceremonies reinforces that sense. For me, a New Year's Resolution is frivolous, because I have already had to change my behavior during the past year. Now, entering my 94th year, I find I have made a lot of changes in attitude, all relating to a decline in physical ability. I have had to change my mindset from "I can do it myself, thanks," to "I need help. I'll just sit here until you can give me a hand."

I realized how profound that change in attitude was when I understood that I had made a switch from thinking of myself as an independent, fully functioning person, able to drive myself around, or walk anywhere alone if I chose to do so to someone quite different. Now I have accepted being driven anywhere I want to go, accepted help in walking up and down stairs, or even walking around my neighborhood if I want to. Suddenly I have become a dependent, rather than an independent person.

This is a significant adaptation in our society, and it upsets many people in my age bracket. Cultural adaptations to the cultural mores in which we live are part of our persona, and are formed m childhood.

Therefore, when we make a New Year's Resolution to make a change in our behavior, we are doing something quite significant, and quite worthy of celebration. I intend to celebrate any and all New Year's Resolutions my friends and I shall make with festive glasses of champagne! ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1140548 2011-12-11T10:13:40-05:00 2012-02-10T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
For elders like me, December, not April, is the cruelest month (apologies to T.S. Eliot). Eliot was writing about April, in his bleak, cold environment in England as a deadly period before spring in May, which would herald rebirth. December, on the other hand, in California, is rainy and wet, and February is the month when the hills turn green.

December is the cruelest month for us old folks because there is often no beckoning of new beginnings. For us, there are only endings--endings to friends who have died during the year; endings to independence; endings to physical ability, and for some, deterioration in mental ability. It is hard to deal with endings, and we light candles, go to parties at which we struggle to stay awake, and try to think of cheerful, encouraging things to say to friends and family.

However, I look forward to January with pleasure and anticipation. It means that, with luck and careful attention to where I put my feet, I will live another year. It means changing my mind-set, and being comfortable with that. I'm not saying it's easy, it's just that I've done this mind-set changing before in my life, and this is simply another area in which I have to do this.

I am a cautious optimist, not a Pollyanna, nor Voltaire; I do not believe we live in the best of all possible worlds. I do believe, however, that we are capable of adjusting to changing conditions. Sometimes our adaptability works to our detriment--we are too passive when it comes to political changes, and we wake up to an erosion of our privacy and the democracy we live in when it's too late.

I am reminded of the fable about the frog. Drop a frog into boiling water, and it will leap out and live. Drop a frog into cool water, increase the temperature gradually--the frog adapts, and drowns.

I am as active politically as my body will allow--no more protest marches and demonstrations for me, but the Internet offers some outlet for my pacific passions. What I was referring to above was the importance of changing my mind-set regarding my own physical and mental survival. It's too late to leap out of the boiling water, but I can still swim.

The mindset I'm talking about is this--giving up the idea of independence. I don't mean giving up my car--my license is still valid, and I'm still able to drive well--I simply choose not to drive by myself. It's too much of a hassle to park, haul the walker out of the trunk and slowly move into the grocery store, the bank, or wherever. I have to practice sitting in the passenger seat of a car, and when we park, wait until the driver comes around, opens the door for me to a waiting walker, and wait while I pull myself painfully upright. I have to practice happily accepting the arm that is offered, the railing that is at hand, and accepting the assistance that is offered. This is not easy.

However, when I decided to enroll in a play writing class at Stagebridge, an organization in Oakland, California, dedicated to bridging the gap between elders and youth, it became a commitment that helps me look forward to the New Year. I think we need goals, no matter what our age may be. It doesn't matter whether we achieve those goals or not--that's for December to decide. In January, it's the choice of a goal that's important; it's the process that counts--achievement is great if and when it happens.

A friend of mine, in her seventies, retired from a life in the corporate world, decided to learn to paint. She joined a local community college last year, and enrolled in several classes, applying the dedicated time and passion with which she acquired a top management position in her previous life. For her, December is a happy month. She has several compositions worthy of an exhibition, and this may come about in January.

December is a time for looking back, and it's possible to concentrate on the good times--on the accolades of grateful students; on acquiring whatever managerial position we aspired to; publication of a novel; performance of a piece of music we have composed; whatever goal we met during the past year, or any year of our lives.

With that sense of achievement, we can look forward to January with confidence. That's the kind of transitional attitude that will move us from December to January with relative ease.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room.





]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1113845 2011-11-26T02:25:03-05:00 2012-01-25T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
There's a wonderful joke I like to share with friends who say they are having "a senior moment." An aging couple goes to their doctor, complaining that they keep forgetting things; they want advice as to how to improve their memories. The doctor advises them, "Write everything down!" They go home, and that evening, while watching a TV program, the wife says to the husband, "I'm thirsty. Would you mind getting me a soft drink from the refrigerator?" "Sure," he says, and starts to leave. "Wait! The doctor says to write everything down!" "I'm only going to the kitchen, for heaven's sake." Half an hour later, he returns with an omelet. "Where's the toast?" she asks.

Now all I have to do is say, "Where's the toast?" and my friends relax about their so-called senior moments.

Creating a routine gives us a sense of security. We are relieved from having to decide on when and how to do small, unimportant activities like where to sit at the table--which fork or spoon to use--whether to have coffee or tea. These simple, everyday activities reassure us, and unless we decide to change, we don't have to think about that change. My friends, also in their eighties or nineties, who live alone, have a routine for their week's morning activities: An egg on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; cereal on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; waffles or pancakes on Sundays. They also have regular routine activities for the rest of their days; classes, the gym, religious meetings; book clubs, coaching at public schools, whether elementary or high school. They know that involvement in community activities or active participation with other people makes them feel valued--not detached from the world.

Ritual is different. It is connected to a rite celebrating a particular occasion or initiation. Yes, it requires repetition and practice of a sort, and yes, it does require discipline, but the purpose is different. It is ceremonial; it is dramatic, and it is not commonplace or something that is practiced every day. Muslims who pray several times a day, Buddhists who meditate several times a day, Jews who recite prayers in the morning, facing East, Christians who pray before each meal and before going to bed, may create these ritualistic behaviors as part of a routine, but they are not. Rituals demand thought, often an inner meditation on an abstract concept, whereas a routine is performed without conscious thinking.

Rituals demand attention to process as well as to affect. When we participate in a ritual, like going to a place of worship on a particular day, we make a commitment to join other people in a rite of passage. Weddings, funerals, baby-naming, birthday celebrations, graduations, conferring of honorary degrees all demand certain particular behaviors and even socially acceptable clothing. A baby-naming is a ritual connected to a rite of initiation into a tribe, and is performed differently according to tribal custom. The same, of course, is true of courtship, marriage and funeral customs.

Ritual connects us to our community and to society in general. Routine reinforces our sense of control over our every-day lives. We need both routine and ritual. Without routine, we are beset with decision-making over the smallest, most mundane aspects of daily life; without ritual, we deprive ourselves of connecting with other members of our tribe or social group.

When we are young, our parents create routines for us that make their lives (and ours) easier. They insist we do our homework at a specific time every day; that we have breakfast and dinner at a specific time; that we do chores around the house or garden according to a specific schedule. As teens, we often resist their scheduling, and try to set up our own schedules, establishing our own routines. The process is important, even if it is not often successful.

We need both routine and ritual. We crave the patterns of socialization--they remind us of our connection to others. Routine helps us to organize our time, creating schedules that fit our needs. Routine helps to give form to our daily lives. Ritual expands our horizons to aspects of life beyond daily requirements. We need both pillars to sustain us, especially as we age.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1078646 2011-11-11T12:16:22-05:00 2012-01-21T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/ you cope with change?" I replied, "It's very difficult." Several possible answers flashed through my mind -- a flippant one, "with difficulty" -- but I managed too look carefully at this young man, 20-plus years younger than I, and realized he was suffering.

He was really asking me for help in managing the changes occurring in his life. The question he asked was very profound, and it is one that assails us through all phases of our lives. I knew he had just been promoted "up" from active director of a company he founded to chairman of the board, an honorary position, but not one that carried the responsibility of day-to-day management. He was suffering from a challenge to his identity and to his own adjustment to his changing status.

It occurred to me that the question of coping with change depended to some extent on who initiated the change. If you initiate the change, it becomes a positive act, and you look forward with anticipation to a challenging experience. If, however, you are the object of a change, pressed upon you by circumstance, your reaction is likely to be quite different.

When I was 21, I decided to leave Northwestern University in Evanston, Ill., and transfer to the University of California as a senior. This was an adventure that I deliberately undertook, with the full confidence of youth that I would succeed.

Later in my life, when I was 34, and had been running my own business for several years, I went broke and had to give up my business. I was a designer and manufacturer of leather clothing for women and men and had my own shop on Grant Avenue, San Francisco, called Rhoda Pack Leathers. That was hard; it marked a huge change in my life. Not only did I have to change the way I made a living, I had to give up the identity I had created for myself.

What happened? How did I deal with that momentous change? I considered my assets. I had a lifetime teaching credential for California public schools, but I didn't want to go back to teaching in an elementary school. So I took some classes at University of California Extension and got a credential to teach English as a Second Language. After teaching in the Berkeley Adult School for several years, I decided to attend San Francisco State University and get a master's degree in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). I was 60 years old, and thus launched myself on a new and rewarding career.

There are no easy answers to the question of coping with change. I talked to several people in different stages of their lives, looking for answers while I was preparing this article. I talked to professional and non-professional immigrants of all ages; I talked to elders living in places other than their own homes; I talked to college graduates facing a non-existent job market; I talked to retirees who changed their lives and found similar attitudes toward coping. In general, the people I talked to were survivors. Here are some comments they made on what helped them cope with change:

• A deep sense of strength in self.

• A period of stock-taking; making lists.

• A willingness to re-assess the need to adapt and to adjust.

• It's not easy.

Those of us who lose our jobs after years of perfecting our skills find it difficult to re-assess our assets and find the courage to learn something new. But there is no other way to cope with change imposed upon us. The sense of ground shifting beneath our feet is extremely unsettling, even though we know, intellectually, that there is no such thing as "terra firma." We are comfortable with routines; patterns are reassuring. When the patterns break, we are faced with enormous challenges.

In today's world, we have fewer opportunities to move into new careers, especially as we age. There are fewer opportunities for older women than there are for older men, and the opportunities for change and flexibility are not what they have been.

There are no alternatives to the aging process; therefore, the only way to cope with change is to be willing to take a chance on changing our attitude toward many things.

Security lies in our own strength. If we are willing to break out of comfortable modes, we will find that engagement with other people makes our lives easier. We are all part of a volatile universe, and the only feasible way to cope with change is to take an active part in the life around us.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." To buy Rhoda's books and to read her blog, visit her on Red Room.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1002737 2011-10-11T08:48:00-04:00 2012-01-21T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
When we consider the basic impulse to paint on the walls of caves, we see that the impulse to record impressions of the world through art has existed before the written word. This is documented in caves with prehistoric paintings in France, Spain, in China, Korea, Japan; or on stones in the U.S. by native artists; in sand paintings and dream paintings by native artists in Australia, New Zealand, New Guinea; on bone in Alaska, in Newfoundland; in ice in Finland, Siberia. This impulse is part of our human heritage.

Not only do we find a continuum in the expression of the creative impulse, we find that there is a desire to communicate an impression of the exterior world. In the process of this communication, the interior voice of the artist is revealed. This is true in all fields of art, including weaving, music and the making of musical instruments.

Humans, as well as other animals, are hard-wired for creativity, but only the human animal engages a process that creates a product. The nature of the creative process is so basic to all human endeavors that we have lost respect for its importance. We take it for granted in the same way we take our sense of smell and taste -- it is just as basic. We are not only hard-wired for creativity, we are hard-wired for the process, and this does not change as we age.

When teachers use B.F. Skinner's theory of behavioral psychology -- which involves imitation and repetition by rote in order to acquire results that can be measured and tested -- students don't use the creative ability with which they are born. When students are not encouraged to use their innate creative ability, they learn to become submissive and accept directions without question. While this may be a useful training device in some situations, it is not useful for preparing citizens for innovative, responsible, creative solutions to economic and political problems.

The creative process encompasses the common human impulse to explore, test, evaluate and test again. Consider the way young children learn to walk, to use a pencil, pen or drawing tools.

The child stands, tests out stability, takes a few tentative steps, sits down, stands up again, evaluates what happened and tries again. This formula of try, test, evaluate, try again also applies to other forms of human endeavor. A good cook puts ingredients together in a pot or bowl, adds some known (or unknown) spices, tastes the combination and either throws it out and starts over, or continues depending on how it tastes. The evaluative part of this process is the most important.

All learning processes are creative. Yet, as we age, the effort to acknowledge our creative urge becomes harder and harder to encourage. Throughout our lives, we are barraged by negative judgments, which we internalize. We are continually told that our work (whatever it is) isn't good enough, isn't competitive, isn't likely to win first prize. It's easier to tell ourselves, "Ah, well, I'm never going to be good enough to have a gallery show; why bother? Might as well just forget about it."

My sister was a sculptor and her work definitely merited a public showing, but she continually demurred. Although she lived in an assisted living center whose director wanted to arrange a show, she refused to submit her sculpture for display. She allowed the negative judgments she dealt with all her life to discourage her, and she became almost paralyzed with inertia.

The question always arises, what to do? How do we, as members of the aging population, honor our creativity? The whole idea of trying something different, something new, requires a process of trying, testing, evaluating and trying again. It's fun, and even when we fail, it is the process that is so rewarding. I have a friend in her 70s who, after retiring from an exhausting executive position in a dot.com company, decided to study painting -- watercolor, acrylic and sculptural collage making. She finds the learning process so challenging that it takes her mind off her aches and pains.

We, the aging population, have reached a plateau that allows us to move beyond our self-imposed limitations. We can reach out to children in community schools as volunteers, helping children become better readers; we can become writing coaches for junior high and high school children. There are programs in place in our communities that train volunteers to use the skills they have forgotten they have. We can join the community at large on our own time, expending as little energy or as much as we decide.

What a liberating state to be in. Even with aches and pains, even with low energy, there's usually a bit left over for self-gratification.


Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every 12 years, and "After Ninety: What." Read her blog on Red Room.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.956203 2011-09-12T00:49:00-04:00 2012-01-23T05:12:01-05:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
There are small things that tell us this. We like to have our hair washed and combed; we like to have pedicures; we like to stroke each other and to be stroked, even in small ways. I find myself patting my friend's hand; deciding to use a cane rather than a walker. If I use a walker, I don't need anyone else's help; I am more independent than if I relied on someone to lean on with one hand, while I lean on my cane with the other. I like the touch of my friend's hand. Ah, and massage! Oh, the joys of a good massage! I recommend having a massage at least once a week, and also, if possible, learning how to give a good massage.

We are born with the need to be touched. If we are not cuddled as babies or children, we do not develop as well. Mammals, also, need to be touched and cuddled as pups. There are many experiments with chimpanzees, orangutans, Bonobos, as well as other monkeys, rats, cats and dogs, which demonstrate dramatically the difference between touched and cuddled as babies and those who are not.

All animals have a profound sense of touch. Sponges, tapeworms, insect-eating plants live mainly by touch. A woodpecker uses its tongue to find insects; penguins must touch to survive -- the babies stand on their parents' feet and press close to their warm bellies. Watch a house cat rub and wrap itself around its owner's leg. Observe a dog squirming with pleasure when it gets its stomach scratched, or its ears stroked.

Diane Ackerman, in her provocative book "A Natural History of the Senses," says, "Touch is a sense with unique functions and qualities ... Touch affects the whole organism." She quotes Saul Schanberg, "It's ten times stronger than verbal or emotional contact, and it affects damn near everything we do. No other sense can arouse you like touch." Schanberg stated, "If touch didn't feel good, there'd be no species, parenthood or survival. A mother wouldn't touch her baby unless the mother felt pleasure doing it. If we didn't like the feeling of touching and patting one another, we wouldn't have had sex ... We forget that touch is not only basic to our species, but the key to it." In the absence of touching and being touched, people of all ages can sicken and grow touch-starved.

I've seen bumper stickers that ask, "Did you hug your child today?" I'd like to see a bumper sticker which reminds us to hug each other more than we would do a tree. Trees don't respond the way people do. At 93 plus, I have a caregiver who comes every day to help me bathe and dress. We make it a point to hug each other; I massage her back, and she massages mine. She also massages my feet, hips and legs, and I feel exhilarated by her touch.

Have you ever noticed the way baseball players touch each other? They pat each other on the back, stroke and hug each other; they grab each other's butts as they trot onto the field. Football players go into a huddle, their bodies touching, and then they slap each other's hands as they leave the huddle and run onto the field. A coach will pat his players' heads.Tennis players shake hands and hug each other.

Our sense of self is related to our sense of touch; with how we feel. We stroke our forearms; we run our fingers through our hair to relieve stress. And as we age, we need more assurance that we are loved. If the restrictions of our culture frown on touching, holding hands, hugging and kissing, we have to ignore them. We have to learn to give each other joy through touch, the most important of our senses.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of 'Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years,' a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every twelve years, and 'After Ninety: What.' Read her blog on Red Room.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.923894 2011-08-15T16:04:21-04:00 2011-10-15T05:12:02-04:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
Jane Kramer, in a recent profile of Elizabeth Badinter in The New Yorker, July 25, 2011, quoted Ms. Badinter, "...beneath the anger (of feminists) there's a real problem, because the equality of the sexes is still ...a 'secondary' issue."

Kramer continues, "For most feminists, parity meant striking a reasonable balance between social strategies and social ideals. For Badinter, it was the first crack in France's universalist commitment -- an attempt to insinuate exceptionalism, or as Badinter calls it, 'differentialism into French life.'" In the United States, we have already accepted differentialism into American life.

We have already accepted same-sex marriage in the United States, when it happens in different states. It is still not the same as equality with heterosexual marriage, because the federal government still does not grant equal status to same-sex marriage couples. Same-sex partners cannot share social security benefits when one partner dies, nor can members of a same-sex couple visit a loved one in a hospital or a nursing home. In the United States, we are a long way from granting either "parity" or "equality" to same-sex couples.

Trying to achieve "equality" in human relationships is difficult. Historically, we have seen that there never was equality between those who own land and those who don't. This is an inherent and basic premise of social human infrastructures.

The basis of the peasant revolutions in Russia lay in the attitude of the peasants toward the land. The peasants believed that they owned the land on which they planted seed and grew crops, and when they were deprived of what they had produced by their own labor, they revolted. There was similar dissatisfaction among the sharecroppers in the southern United States, where similar rebellions were put down with a heavy hand by the plantation owners.

Within the human family, the child is never equal to the adult, nor is the adult equal to the child. In the educational structure the student is NEVER equal to the teacher, nor is the teacher equal to the student, no matter how much various ideologues might try to argue (or pretend) otherwise.

In the working world, the boss is NEVER equal to the workers, nor do the workers consider themselves equal to the boss. I learned that when I was the owner, designer and manager of my own leather clothing manufacturing business. When I began my manufacturing business, I hired a stitcher, a cutter and a finisher, and I notified the Leather Workers Union that, since I was an employer, I ought to offer my workers a union. The union rep nearly fell off his chair when he realized I was talking about three employees! My father was a socialist, and a deep believer in equality. I was following the pattern laid down by my father. The union rep did come out, and we had a union shop.

It was at that time that I realized my workers never did feel that they were equal to me, even though I felt that some of them were not only equal but superior to me in their ability to stitch the garments I designed. They made me understand that I was the Boss. And slowly I realized that while workers may demand certain rights, it is always within the purview of the boss as to how many and which rights will be granted, through negotiation. Control of the situation is the key.

The most important aspect of "equality" reflects acceptance. It incorporates the idea that the person in control must be willing to accept the idea that she is equal to the person not in control, and that this equality is so complete that she would be willing to trade places. This is indeed an idealist view of society.

I don't know anyone who is willing to accept that concept. The few people who have tried to put that concept into action have suffered disastrous consequences. I am referring to teachers who have tried to turn classrooms over to students who may not have learned the "normal" rules of social behavior, discipline, and ways to share responsibility. I don't know of any situations where implementation of this idea has worked.

For the time being, I think we have to work with the fact of "parity" and keep the ideal of "equality" ever present in our minds.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of 'Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years,' a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every twelve years, and 'After Ninety: What.' Read her blog on Red Room.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.911286 2011-07-28T08:38:13-04:00 2011-09-27T05:12:01-04:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
How sad. Elizabeth is only 83, and is quite healthy by my standards. I will be 94 in February, 2012; I can't walk more than one block without running out of air, and I take lots of pain killers to ease arthritical pain. When I look in the mirror in the morning, I see an old face, but one with a vibrant look of curiosity in the eyes. With the help of a caregiver, I take a hot shower every morning and gratefully accept my caregiver's help in putting on my clothes, especially my stretch stockings. I do some exercises recommended by my physical therapist.

Whenever the pain lets up, we go to the local Y and I walk in the water, use an underwater bicycle and soak in the spa. That's the physical routine. Since I'm a writer, and a retired teacher, I've signed up for two play writing groups and I go to plays and concerts. I discuss politics vigorously with other activist friends. Once in a while I cook for friends, for my son and his wife. My grandchildren are off doing their thing; I like my life!

Why does Elizabeth fear old age? Why does anyone? There is a strange conflation in our American society between growing old and becoming infirm. And there seems to be a sense of shame connected with infirmity, in spite of all the wheelchair accommodations in our streets and the electrically propelled chairs whizzing along the sidewalks and the streets. It's this sense of shame that I don't understand. It isn't as if the ageing process was something we could control and/or manage. Bicycle, motorcycle and automobile accidents render people of any age infirm and dependent upon all kinds of physical support to be mobile. Are we ashamed of becoming crippled in any way? I think we are. Political correctness phrases like "Otherwise enabled" don't really fool anyone, least of all a person in a wheelchair or on crutches or someone walking with a cane. The "crippled ones" know how they feel; they know how debilitating pain really is, and they know how difficult it is to stay mobile.

Any self-image that prevents people like Elizabeth from engaging fully with life is a destructive self-image. Conversely, it's when we engage fully with life that we find ourselves enjoying that engagement. We feel satisfaction. If we accept someone else's image of us as true, it becomes true, no matter how damaging or uplifting. If that image doesn't conform to one that satisfies us, we slowly destroy our own possibilities.

There are many societies where deformed or crippled children are hidden, because the parents feel ashamed that they have birthed an imperfect child. Some societies encourage infanticide, yet at the same time revere the ones who survive to old age. Whether the old ones are revered or not, the fact that they have survived the hazards of living makes sure that they are often regarded with awe and respect by other members of their society. In South Korea, anyone living up to and beyond the age of sixty, becomes automatically wise. There are special ceremonies celebrating this achievement, memorialized in paintings resembling great feasts. The celebration is especially important for women, who become liberated from societal restrictions once they reach the venerable age of sixty. In that society, living past the age of forty or fifty is remarkable; in the United States, living past 100 used to be worthy of a signed letter from the president.

When I lived in South Korea about 30 years ago, I noticed that women over the age of sixty felt encouraged to go into business for themselves, and in general seemed to be happier than the under-60-year-olds. When we learn that aging is not a societal disease, it may quietly disappear. When I was thirty-two, I had a serious skiing accident, and had to wear a steel brace for almost a year. I recovered mobility, but I think my body never forgot that serious injury. I thought of myself as accomplished physically and it is now difficult for me to concede that I qualify as truly disabled. I am learning new ways of living; I am learning to accept my physical limitations, and to live within them. It's not easy, but then my life has not been easy, either.

I think we need to accept ageing as a necessary process, not as a disease. Aging is a process that begins with birth, and does not need to be conflated with infirmity.

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every twelve years, and "After Ninety: What." Read her blog on Red Room.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.881317 2011-06-22T08:23:00-04:00 2011-08-22T05:12:02-04:00

Rhoda P. Curtis http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rhoda-p-curtis/
I decided that it is the viewer who decides. After all, the dancer executing a difficult leap or pas de deux is not concerned with whether or not her movement is graceful; she is concerned with how skillfully she executes the movement.

At 93, I am definitely part of the aging population. I happen to be blessed with clarity of mind, awareness of physical difficulties and a willingness to ask for help. If this be graceful, then so be it. I welcome the use of devices -- walkers, canes, walking sticks -- and I welcome the advice of physical therapists.

We live in a society where independence is highly valued, and when it becomes apparent that independence is a deterrent to safe living, some of us are unwilling to be dependent. I think accepting dependence is not only graceful, it is sensible. Some of my friends have suggested that how we live when young depends on how we live when old. This is a tempting rationale, but not always applicable. I have always lived an active life, as a dancer (both en point and modern), a skier, a backpacker and a swimmer. I can no longer ski, nor dance, nor swim.

How do I deal with these losses? I walk in the pool at the Y, up and down 10 times (one mile), soak in the hot tub and stretch in the shower. I join writing classes and writing groups. After I published my second book in 2010, I decided I wanted to learn how to write plays and took an intensive six-week course at the Berkeley Rep School of Theater. Then I joined Stagebridge and signed up for their playwriting class. In addition to that, I joined a group of play writers who get together once a month and read scenes from their plays, getting feedback from fellow writers.

Not one of the writers in the monthly play writing group is my age. They are all younger and none of them is ever patronizing. One of the worst things I have experienced is a patronizing, overly helpful attitude; sort of like an older person patting me on the head, saying, "there, there, you're doing fine."

There is a similarity between persons in adolescence and persons who are aging. I checked out a list of anxieties expressed by teenagers and those expressed by people of my age or younger by a decade or two. Here are some of the statements and questions that often come from teenagers:

Age of Anxiety: Puberty
-My body doesn't feel familiar any more. My hands and feet feel so big!
-When will I belong? I feel like I'm on the outside looking in.
-I have a sense of being invisible.
-I'll never make it, why try? Do I have to go to school?
-I feel like I'm drowning.
-Are things going to get better? When?
-Nobody understands me!

Age of Anxiety: Aging
-I feel useless, helpless.
-I feel invisible.
-I don't understand what's happening to my body.
-I can't walk with ease. My hips ache.
-I want to belong somewhere.
-I don't have any energy. What's happening to me?
-Is there any possibility that things will go back the way they were?
-The answer to that is no! So -- how do I cope?
-Nobody understands me.

These questions fall under what I call "the ages of anxiety," puberty and aging. You will notice the similarity of the questions being asked and how the anxiety of uncertainty hovers over the teenager and the aging person.

So we return to the original question: How does one age gracefully? I would say that from the point of view of the aging person, the subject could be "aging comfortably." And then the discussion would focus on specific things that make us comfortable -- like taking a one or two-hour nap if we feel like it; allowing someone else to do the driving for various errands around town.

Perhaps an observer would regard a person who is "aging gracefully" as a person who doesn't gripe about her aches and pains, who smiles bravely when someone asks, "How are you?" and responds "Fine," when it isn't. We old ones are conscious of the endgame being final; there is no future for us, as there is for the teenager. We ask ourselves and our friends, "Will I ever experience that wonderful sense of joy and of discovery?"

I have found that the answer to that last question is: "Maybe. Keep looking and trying. You have, literally, nothing to lose."

Rhoda P. Curtis is the author of "Rhoda: Her First Ninety Years," a candid memoir of a first-generation American woman who was willing to change the direction of her life every twelve years, and "After Ninety: What." Read her blog on Red Room.
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