“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming”-Pablo Neruda…I realized that I had a crisis of belief in heaven’s generosity.

Reading this line was a bit of an epiphany. Perhaps I was made a rabid flower cutter by trauma, the circumstances of my life or the chemical architecture of my brain but I had arrived at the lonely desert island that is the habitat of the curmudgeon and the chronic bitcher. In 92128 you can focus on bird song and wind chimes or on what my wife calls the,”old man sounds” of flatulence, throat clearing and coughing that emanate from every home when you take your morning walk.

Observing my 92128 cronies, I can see a new and better way. At our age a lot of life has been lived and everyone has their stories of personal tragedy- of cancer, family problems, economic struggle- yet they live in the Spring almost all the time. Their positive attitudes are an inspiration. They speak with quiet confidence about the shocks that flesh is heir to and the grab at life zestfully.

This is not easy for me.

As all good friends do, they challenge me at every turn. They tell me to cut the crap when I yell at drivers, they demand that I adapt and overcome when parking is a pain in the ass or the entree is cold. They teach me perspective. They also piss me off. My negative default is a hard won, long life position and I often think, what are these people missing? Shit, after all, is shit. Why don’t they see it?

The answer is simple…they choose not to. They have entered into a contact WITH HOPE.

WHERE DO I SIGN?

The timeless sage Yogi Berra once said, ” you better have a plan about where you goin, or you’ll end up somewhere else.” After months of strategizing, planning and agonizing we have become permanent residents of 92128.

Most people who have reached their sixties-and beyond- have done some serious planning and when that that little bit of intentionality meets opportunity we have a chance to retire in the long grass of 92128. I have been watching my neighbors, listening and observing their planning strategies. There is a spectrum that arcs from the simplest evaluation to intense, detailed stratagems designed to remove all vicissitudes.

My favorite example of brilliant planning is the method employed by one of my friends. He is a Scotch drinker and very particular about his brand. One day he showed up at my door with a large bottle of good whiskey and asked what cupboard he should put it in. I don’t drink, so I was a bit baffled. Sensing my confusion he explained,” this is for the time I visit…you won’t have to worry about having the right stuff.”

Booze cacheing is a very advanced form of planning, indeed.

In other 92128 homes I have walked in on floors dotted with hardware piles, furniture pieces and confusing instruction manuals. These are the people who have been to Ikea. I never array the hardware in these kits before I begin wrestling some Swedish nightmare into being and this lack of planning has caused frustration, anxiety and fear of failure. In 92128 all like machined screws are in discreet piles ready for use.

The bicyclists have their own planning rituals and hey sit behind their piles of tools, snacks, inner-tubes, patch kits and CO2 cartridges. They have highlighted maps of the up-coming ride and they carbo-load with great attention.

The hobbyists check their fishing lures, their woodworking tools and their golf clubs.

92128 is a planners paradise.

Travellers- A very large subset- are bent over maps and itineraries and lists of needs from luggage to lip gloss.

It may be a function of age…the fear of the spontaneous and the -un foreseen- that prompts this intense attention to detail. What is great about the process is that we are all looking toward a better, more interesting future. Our days of backpacking around Europe and Banzai road trips are long gone. Our planning now revolves around ease and comfort …and economy.

If you see an older person that appears to be doing nothing, think twice. They are up to something.

The hood is full to the brim with characters and eccentrics. This is in keeping with human aging, a process that magnifies our negative qualities and tends to mask our positive qualities. If you are a complainer by nature the years will only turn up the volume on your negative tirades. If you are an optimist sooner or later you will become Polyanna.

The first sub set of the quirky is the golf cart Parnelli. Day or night the high pitched whine of the cart is heard throughout the land. Some customize their rides with flags, streamers, grocery baskets and panniers. A close cousin to the golf carters is the car restorer. The car restorer can be identified by the car covers that protect their fabulous rides. A conversation with one regardiing a ’59 T-Bird was a brief education in itself. I now know that this was the first year that leather upholstery was available and that a Hotchkiss drive and parallel leaf springs were on board …knowledge that will have absolutely no utility going forward.

You will often see the game players on the move. Eighty year olds don’t play ping pong, they play table tennis. They sport custom made bags for paddles and balls and they make the pilgrimage to the tables at the community center. For the less physical ther e are cutthroat games of Rummi Cube, contract bridge, 9 Ball and Bunco. Another group in this species is the aging athlete who plays pickle ball, hikes religiously and sports a cycling jersey issued by some local eatery or watering hole.

As you dodge these weekend warriors you will encounter some actual warriors. Aging heroes sport pins, hats and t-shirts that memorialize their military experience. All branches of service are represented . Semper Fi hats compete with the names of ships and- more rarely- a specific unit organization appears…503RD Airborne, Screamin Eagles and Green Berets…to name a few. As these warriors age certain comedic situations arise. I once saw an old soldier swapping stories with a fellow veteran who had significant hearing loss. The lack of communication didn’t seem to matter, it was the chance to swap stories that mattered.

There are the custodians. One woman sweeps the streets… not the sidewalks…the street. Others have strong opinions regarding the neighbor’s landscape choices, their house color or the height af their trees. There are the meticulous and truckloads of Latino gardeners often off-load in front of their perfected abodes. These are the folks who have lost the battle with perfectionism. They serve us all by volunteering for committees on the community board.

Most common of all are the health reporters who regale you with stories of gall bladders, knee replacements. and a host of varied medical events. They sound like a group of residents in the break room and they ply medical terminology, triage assessments and prognoses with a facility that leaves one gasping.

On the spectrum of quirky, there is a place for everybody.

Who said old folks were boring ?

The medieval bestiary was a basic community document, containing treatises on real and mythological animals. The books were richly illustrated and chock full of moralistic instruction designed to improve the soul. The books were part natural history, part fantasy and part morality. It is also a complete list of the monsters that lurk in the dark places of your village.

In Seven Oaks, the feline, avian and reptilian species abound but my earliest encounter in 7 Oaks is still the most dramatic. On. a walk down Callado Street I came in close contact with a snowy egret that was strutting between parked cars. In time, I named this beast Joe but our first encounter was not expected and I was shocked by Joe’s nonchalance and beauty. He owned the place while I merely visited. In many cultures the egret is the symbol of long life. In a 55 and older community Joe was meant to be there patrolling the streets.

More mundane were the rats that scurried about the place. Rats are almost universally disgusting but they also fit the bill symbolically. They represent wealth and abundance in more than one culture and the dominate many conversations in 92128. Some people are known for how many rats they have summarily disposed of. The largest rat killer stat that I’ve heard is 89… and that is impressive hunting. Another symbol of abundance-the rabbit- is equally stalked by some. Rabbits are controversial. For some they are “cute little bunnies” and for others they are, “those mangy bastards.” Feelings about rabbits are directly related to whether or to you regrowing tomatoes.

The king animal, the beast that occupies the psyche of the inhabitants of 7 oaks is the coyote. The coyote can live anywhere. The Navaho culture will advise you to turn back if you see a coyote in your path. Coyotes dominate the thinking of all 7 Oaks people. Canis latrans is death to the small ankle biting, irritation dogs of the village and the citizens are on perpetual watch. Almost every casual conversation includes one or more references to a coyote sighting.

A swirling dance of lizards never ends in the hood. The tiny squamates are flitting everywhere with the skink dominant in terms of numbers. Joe gets a few to be sure but he has only scratched the surface. Early on a quiet morning you can almost hear the scrabble of thousands. For many, the lizards indicate a messenger from the spiritual realm. The Greeks and Egyptians saw the lizard as a symbol of wisdom and good fortune.

The doves -symbols of peace and love-coo daily and birdsong often fills the air. As a counterpoint the dominant insect-the termite is everywhere, as are the circus tents that envelop many houses. Fumigation is necessary. Ironically, the termite is a traditional symbol of social interaction and group strength.

These are the most common animals of 92128. The rattlesnakes and crows are there but I choose to ignore them.

The neighborhood is teeming with totemic animals that suggest abundance, long life and good fortune. The last animal to consider is the human. More on that next.

7 Oaks is the kind of place that has constants and consistency… and the most reliable thing in the neighborhood is Walking John. In the morning on the way to the shops, or church, or the doctor you will see WJ and in the evening on your return home you will see him again. WJ must walk eight-or more miles a day. He covers all the vu s: Deja, Presque and Jamais. He screws with your perceptions as you think he was already seen (deja) you dimly think he means something but you can’t recall exactly what (presque) and at times he seems strangely unfamiliar though you have seen him hundreds of times (jamais). He is a force in your awareness.

WJ walks with a marked list to starboard, eyes down cast and arms swinging. He sports a cowboy hat and a rather ratty pair of tennis shoes. If movement is life, WJ is living to the fullest. This man is not at all like the stream of aged walkers that pass you every day. He is not being walked by a small irritation dog; he is not merely ambling or promenading. WJ walks like a man possessed-fast and with obvious purpose. Stories that explain Walkin John are many…he was in submarines, he’s had both hips replaced, he lives alone like a hermit, he lives only for the experience of getting down the road.

Whatever Walkin John is, he is certainly a celebrity. His name comes up over cocktails and people speak of him with a true sense of wonder. The sedentary feel guilty when they think of him. As WJ glides along the winding streets his reputation grows.

Strangely, one actually roots for Walking John. You hope that he finally reaches some destination in the near-or far-distance. WJ has become a vital part in your own story…you expect-even hope- to see him regularly. Somehow he makes life in the ‘hood better and richer.

We will never know if WJ is walking toward, or away, from something but everyone enjoys the effort. Onward is a great place to be.

My life took a significant turn in 2008 when circumstance took me to a neighborhood called 7 Oaks. The place is an expanded dorm room for seniors that contains more than 1,000 homes cast onto high desert land in an arrangement that avoids the right angle…planners clearly despised the idea of laying out this development on a grid, so there are switch – backs, cut de sacs and the serpentine roads that wind.

Houses appear in a variety of colors including peach, pea green, yellow and all the earth colors from tan to sienna. Colors are subject to the approval of the, “architectural committee” – a resident group comprised of the control types and the color blind. The overall effect of the colors and the serpentine layout is the sense of a long necklace draped on a wrinkled neck. Fitting.

Streets are all sporting Latino names – Callado, Serape, San Tomas- and the street that I was destined to live on was -and is- called Horado. Horado translates to grotto, cavern or niche… and a niche it proved to be.

Although the original area was limited to a mere 7 house designs, decades of renovation and other accommodations to need and aesthetics have given the place some diversity and design interest. Nature does her part by providing a range of mountains to the East and a perfect procession of beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Doves coo and crows caw.

When I first came to 7 Oaks I had no idea about the many characters, texts and sub-texts that informed the place. My first stroll down Horado was pretty revealing. As I marched down the street, I noticed many open doors and heard a woman’s voice proclaim, “Too bad. We’re having bacon, goddammit. ” I could even smell the bacon she referenced. I could smell the world-weariness too. I realized that this community was full of stories. A couple thousand people on the dark side of age 55 would be an endless source of material.

In the ensuing years I have heard-or been a part of-many stories. I’ll tell some here. after all, I agree with George Bernard Shaw: “We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” There is a lot of playing going on in the old people’s sand box that we call home.

© 2019

I am comfortably wrapped in the stage of life where I no longer have Christmas lists, long discomfort about the thing I don’t have or a need to own the next best thing. My wants have neatly converged with my needs and all is well. This is true …mostly.

Every New Year’s Eve my wife and I break out the Waterford toasting glasses and our journals to record the events of the past year and the vision for the next. For the last 15 years, I am faced withe the fact that I do want something. PATIENCE.

As I wonder why I have so little of this essential element, certain thoughts come to mind. The most basic notion is the cultural influence that leaches in to all our lives. Recently we are in a long discussion of the influence of the patriarchy on our daily lives. Everyone cites the negative-and insidious -influence that toxic masculinity has on the lives of women. True… but it poisons men’s lives as well. We are taught to be leaders, stoic and driven, the people who never tolerate second place, or a poorly cooked dinner. We are served a stew of discontent mixed with competition instead of a more nourishing dish of calm intelligence and ironclad life-affirming stubborness.

We are unaccustomed to patient endurance and encouraged to go for the quick score and the instant gratification that is the foundation of our society. We have no need for compassion or long suffering effort toward a goal. Anger and anxiety ensues.

Or doing is not the experimental activity of a true scholar it is often a manic drive toward a goal we have not really tested for its worthiness. We are not as integrated as, say, Leonardo da Vinci who fully understood the tension between talk and action. Da Vinci puts it like this: “I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough, we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do.”Do what?

I think we are counseled to think and move with the stubborn determination we often call patience. Like the great scientist we reject impulse and act in a sober-and hopefully creative-way. I talked to a buddhist monk once who shared his life principle with me he said it simply, “don’t just do something…sit there.” Learn patience and sober effort and good things will come from it.

Every once in a while, I think I’m getting some patience; then I have to drive somewhere and the opposite immediately asserts its truth. I hope that I will have some.

Someday.

Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, their soul is on its knees.” – Victor Hugo.

Life often gives us the opportunity to turn to a higher power for needed instruction, insight and comfort. We all know theses times of challenge, tragedy and overwhelming circumstance but I am becoming less and less tolerant of people who, when faced with difficulty, decide to , “pray on it.” I’m with Mother Teresa on this one, ” prayer is the way we prepare our hearts and minds for ACTION.”

Everybody is praying up a storm these days. Some pray that LGBTQIA people will go away or be converted. Some are praying that all infidels die and others are simply praying for a new refrigerator. Here’s the secret…the people who are seriously praying are taking action in service to others.

I see young people taking action on gun violence, women taking action to gain their rights and activists in many nations bringing food and water to those in need. These folks know how to pray. They know how to petition the cosmos for change and they are completely devoid of the pious piffle that comes so easily to the falsely devout. These orisons resonate.

So a big dose of gratitude to those who are militating for the better day and the better way. Catholic prayers- my early education -fall into four categories: Adoration, Contrition, Petition and Thanksgiving. A different way to say this is that there are prayers of praise, asking for forgiveness, asking for a favor and showing gratitude to God. Leave it to the Catholics to parse the thing so aggressively. To me prayer is getting off your ass and flipping a pancake for someone who is hungry; it is weeding another person’s vegetable garden so they have better food. When I see this form of prayer among my friends and in the world at large, I am convinced that there is hope for us.

I guess this blog is a prayer of gratitude.

It is so easy to be constantly aggrieved these days and to succumb to the dreary conclusion that our current political reality can not be changed or salvaged. Today a further grievance surfaced for me, that is the tendency of pundits and other parties to find the behavior of Trump and his partisans amusing. We are often laughing when we should be screaming.

The philosophy of humor reveals many of the reasons for our thinking that high crimes and misdemeanors are a chuckle. Thinkers from Bergson to Marteison have pondered why we think things are funny. Many of these interpretations seem to fit our circumstances. The first is, perhaps, the most obvious. Laughter is often a defense mechanism that we use to combat despair … we laugh so we don’t have to cry.

There is also the argument of implied superiority, the thought that we are better-morally superior- to the person who lies and distorts and we are certainly more intelligent than the poor folks that believe the garbage they are fed. We can feel that we are not saps. A bit of schadenfreude is at work here…. we are pleased that the descent into ignorance has not happened to us. The incongruity that powers most jokes is a driver here.

Certain conditions for humor are clearly manifest, including the discovery of incongruity, the wild narrative and the disregard for social and moral norms are all part of a good joke. But what we are currently experiencing is not funny despite the existence of these elements. When the talking heads report on the latest lie or tone deaf pronouncement and then treat it as comedic, gifting us with their sneers and titters they give a certain license to the perpetrator.

We laugh because it is unpleasant to scream. The news show on cable would lose its flow if everyone paused to scream and cry about the horrors they are reporting. But… I hope for the day when lies and crudities are met with disgust instead of the, “there he goes again’ reaction we are now getting. There are many ways to be conned by a criminal and one of the most powerful ways is to get a diminishing-and humorous response from those you seek too victimize.

Outrage is required now. We’ll laugh when it is all over.