Feel The Air

The doom-scrolling was particularly dire. I could feel myself getting discouraged in a way that would be very hard to shake. It’s been cumulative lately, and I know it’s unwise to keep my phone by the bed. These middle-of-the-night forays are masochistic and unhelpful, and, wide awake after reading the so-called news, I inevitably drift into a sad litany of regrets and anxieties in my personal life, and that never goes well.

Furthermore, this was the day of my husband’s 75th birthday. As daylight approached, I resolved to make it special for him. Rather than dragging myself around, uselessly neurotic and heavy-hearted, I decided to be on high alert for whatever prompted joy and wonder.

It wasn’t long in coming. In an hour or so, a knock at the door heralded the appearance of a little boy with a handmade card for Papa and lots of ideas about how we would spend this day, most of them more suitable to a 5-year-old than a 75-year-old, but this boy is irresistible. There were to be fantastic parties, flags, parades, presents, games, and cakes, none of which materialized, but along with his mother, we set out to a playground that overlooks the iconic spires and towers of Oxford. Coming upon a wide expanse of bright green grass, Felix launched into a run, which is his usual pace. “Run, Mommy,” he called out to her, “Feel the air!”

And there was my strong daughter, running after him, her long woolen coat swinging, her laughter audible. Monte and I followed along more slowly, appreciating the views and pausing to ponder a particularly yellow tree, beneath which fallen leaves had formed a pool of gold, but we too, felt the air. Outside the park, brick houses from another century lined the narrow streets, and one house was so overgrown with vines, it seemed to be constructed entirely of glossy red leaves. The bins were out, and frankly, there were garbage smells at times, but there were also smells of recent rain and earth and new-mown grass. We passed an old school and a churchyard, and as we walked, I asked Monte if he had any advice, as a 75-year-old man, and he said simply this: “Be patient. Be flexible. Adapt.”

Being flexible, we wandered to the book store, Caper, a community place, where kids and parents were immersed in conversation, reading, or book quests. In addition to the shelves of books, this shop has a Narnia-like wardrobe that you can walk through, and a refrigerator filled with “cool” books, a tent to climb into, and other surprises. There was a happy hum in here, and I loved that children were so excited about reading.

“It’s a beautiful thing that a place of books can hold such magic,” I said to a young dad who was browsing with his kids.

“I’d feel more magic if I wasn’t hung over,” he replied, with unexpected candor.

But by now I was in magic mode, noticing vignettes of wonder everywhere, and it continued throughout the day. Wildflowers were tenaciously blooming in a vacant field where an old building had been torn down. The aroma of roasting coffee beans filled the air, toasty and on the cusp of burning. Felix donned a cardboard skeleton mask and strode around importantly, and we were a family of ogres and skeletons, and I had lentil soup in a pub, and it reminded me of the soup my father used to make. Monte ordered a slice of pumpkin pie, his favorite, and of course we remembered Nancy, his mom, who never failed to bake him one for his birthday, a little bit spicy, not too sweet. Two old men at a nearby table were engaged in intense conversation, another was contentedly working on a crossword puzzle, and the place had a cozy living room feeling. Felix didn’t finish his meal, but he got an ice cream anyway, a tall swirl of vanilla.

Dusk arrived, cyclists pedaled by, brisk and competent with bright headlights, and streetlights beamed, and a young woman walked by in a cloud of perfume, her coat cinched tight around her waist, all made up and ready for a night on the town. (I could clearly remember stepping out like that, ages ago, in my own wasted youth, knowing I looked good, which seemed important at the time, but sure of little else.)

And there were orange leaves on rain-puddled cobblestone streets, and my grown-up daughter, effortlessly hoisting up baby Alice, leaning forward now and then to gently kiss her head.

But the perfect moment, perhaps the best birthday gift of all, was Monte “doing bedtime” with Felix, helping him get ready, reading to him, tenderly tucking him into bed. I tiptoed upstairs and peeked into the open door. I heard the murmur of their voices, saw Monte snuggling his grandson, saw Felix’s brown-haired head on the pillow.

Later we walked along the familiar streets back to the flat, and there were messages from friends whose days were just beginning. Kappy, in Santa Fe, sent me pictures of the inside of piñon bark etched with tiny veins. “This is what keeps me going,” she wrote. “All the mysteries that go on without us.”

Jan wrote to me about faith and community, brewing good trouble, and I will join her soon in California. Robin, going through her own version of upheaval and displacement, empathized with me, anticipating tea and walks and bolstering talks when she visits soon. She used the word “disoriented” and that is exactly how I’ve been feeling. It’s nice to be understood.

I have been reading a book of essays by the late poet Donald Hall about being in one’s eighties. He seems to have had a curmudgeonly sense of humor, but also presents a somber picture of aging, referring often to his physical disabilities and grief. He describes growing old as a ceremony of losses. The circles grow smaller, he says, until you lose everything.

I look up at Monte now, my dear old lion at 75, so grateful for his company. We are only in the vestibule of old age, and I can still imagine my circles widening in some ways. Or perhaps I am looking more deeply and acknowledging the infinite possibilities of things unseen. Although recent uprooting has shaken me up, maybe new perspectives have emerged, and I’m tougher than I thought. This complicated life can seem like a banquet, and at other times an assault, but it is always mysterious.

There are many ways to respond. I choose love and hope. Hope is a stance that takes some effort, and I will sometimes falter, but I intend to try. As the musician and songwriter Nick Cave has observed, “Hopefulness says the world is worth believing in.” Cynicism depletes us, but when we see the world with eyes of love and act accordingly, even in the smallest ways, we help to make the best of it true. Wonders abound, this life is precious, and we will not go gently.

Above all, I think of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73: “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

Feel the air.