R.I.P Steve Jobs and Aunt Ginger

October 10, 2011

Canada Thanksgiving Day

Gratitude

“(for) those things that aren't pleasant at the time, but turn out to be blessings in disguise.” Karen Coverett

The cycle of life. 

As Steve Jobs put it (paraphrasing) thank God that there is death. It clears away the old, the decrepit, the dead wood to make room for the new. New ideas, techniques, ways of perceiving and tweaking the world to make it a better place for not just ourselves, but those who come after.

Birth—I have attended six births in 36 years, beginning with my own daughter at home, naturally, in Northern California. My greatest accomplishment. Forty-eight hours of labor to produce a healthy, aware, human being. Three of the next 5 births were natural, no drugs. The remaining two were assisted by a c-section, but labor was without drugs.

Death—my sister and I undertook a labor of love to attend the funeral of a favorite aunt. In the inexorably trudge through life, it seems odd to write about death with gratitude.  It’s a mystery. And I’ve come to feel curious about it rather than afraid. Yes, I am afraid still. There is so much to learn and in this instance, I gained valuable information that I can share with younger relatives.

While on a sundown walk last Friday, my nephew began asking me questions about our family history. Sadly, I don’t have much information about my paternal relatives. He wanted to know things like “how did Papaw and Grams ever get together? They were such opposite personalities.” I actually knew the answer to that, because my mom had told me many years ago. She married my dad because he was the first man to ever say “no” to her. Silly reason, I know. It made sense, though. She was a spoiled princess who bewitched every man who laid eyes on her. My dad was a challenge. A curiosity to her. The marriage finally dissolved, but their lives were entwined even after they divorced.

My parents were civil rights leaders in the deep south and in Texas back in the ‘40’s and ‘50s. That’s saying a lot. My nephew wanted to know more about my dad’s family origins to understand how they thought about major social issues, especially racism. What happened, what thinking was involved that resulted in including black people into the family bloodline? Especially in the Texas of that time?

I only had assumptions and misty impressions from childhood. By the time I was aware of my paternal grandparents, she was blind, and my grandfather was taciturn. I don’t remember hearing him utter more than a dozen words during the short time I knew him. By that time, he was worn out from a life of hard-scrabble farming, failure, and pain. He more than likely was already suffering the onset of the leukemia that finally killed him. I remember him as a dour rock of a man. Not scary; rather monolithic. Not cold—enduring.

My sister and I drove to a small town just southwest of Ft. Worth. North Texas has enjoyed considerably more rain than central Texas, and it was like driving into the land of Oz. Rain, which we haven’t seen in over 9 months. We were bedazzled.

Met up with an older cousin, my closest connection to our grandparents. She has  some awesomely cool stories about our grandmother, but had never talked about granddaddy.  

She totally reversed lifelong assumptions I’d had about my grandfather. I expected to hear that ghe was the stereotypical Texas racist and misogynist.  Instead, she glowingly painted a portrait of a man who loved and respected his wife and daughters, and that a day didn’t go by when he didn’t say that getting an education was the most important thing for them to do. Pretty cool feminist thinking in the 1930's.

He farmed cotton until ol’ Boll Weevil knocked Texas farmers flat in the 50’s and 60’s. He not only paid fair wages, he respected his neighbors, no matter their color. Besides, during the Great Depression, everyone was equal. It made good sense and good commerce to develop good relationships for the community to survive.

Grandaddy died when I was seven, and since we lived out of state, we didn't have much opportunity to get to know him. He was always sweet to us, but just too exhausted to relate much. We had lots of cousins and aunts and uncles to keep us busy. Chinaberry fights, hunting rattlesnakes in the arroyos that formed in the last big drought in the 50’s, gathering eggs, feeding chickens, fishing for crawdads...we always had great fun when we did get to visit.

This story makes me so happy and grateful, especially for our children. They need to know that their great-great-grandad was a decent, hard-working, compassionate, wise, loving man; and to know that these values are present in their DNA, and that they can choose to improve as human beings. That’s an awesome gift. That’s what’s going to save the planet.

Retirement: Month Four

Last sunset of 2010, Texas Hill Country.

December--four months, one-third of a year into retirement and I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up. Beginning to wonder if I'll ever grow up.

Slow but steady progress towards making sense of things. And the Best. Christmas. Present. Ever. My daughter surprised me with a visit and the news that she will relocate in Austin within the next year.

That's huge. For the last fifteen years we have been separated by so many miles and so little money to visit I despaired we'd ever see each other again. To keep hope alive, I'd look forward to the next time we could be together. I've never insisted on adhering to traditional holidays, especially since she felt the need (and I concurred) that those special times were more important for her to be with her dad and his new family than with me. I can make a holiday out of any day of the year. Her presence is what makes it special for me.

To be sure, I have my own family to celebrate those occasions with, and that's been wonderful. It's just more wonderfuller now.

Reconnection: 2010 was full of surprise calls and e-mails from old friends who found me via Facebook, Twitter, the Showco listserv, and plain old Google. One friend UPS'ed me an antique Blue Willow mug that she had been carrying around for 35 years to return to me. Green (the band) reunions at James Neel House of Music were great fun, interesting to see where dynamics have changed, where they haven't.

Trying to reconnect with myself. Dealing with depression in a new way (shit happens--you won't be stuck forever) and peeling back resistance to commitment. Learning how to care for an aging body. Accepting good things as well as bad.

New Year's Investigations (as opposed to New Year's Resolutions): The word "resolutions" has several connotations. I associate NYRs with grim determination, mindless exercises in habituation, failure, and general dissatisfaction. For 2011 I am looking deeper. Redefining "resolution" to mean "problem solving," "arrival," "completion." Bringing curiosity into the mix. Jumping off cliffs. Cracking facades. Opening doors.


1. Music: spring concert season begins soon! AVAE is doing a piece (Poulenc Figure Humaine 1943) that I've wanted to perform for a very long time with a group that has the talent to execute. Thanks, Ryan!

Knocking the rust off the old flute chops. Wonder of wonders, one of the few things that was pre-organized before the move. All my flute music is safely stored in a clear bin, so was easily retrieved from the unlabelled boxes. There are a few items I keep close: my flute, passport, and a palm-sized turquoise bear fetish. Piano as well, all in a bin.

2. De-clutter: The unprepared move knocked me for a loop. I miss my old tree house, but my new place is definitely more conducive to fashioning a physical environment that is safe, healthy, and wildly creative. Several sub-categories: prioritizing what needs to go, what can stay; acquiring items that will enhance the above (computer chair, clothes dryer, slide/neg converter). Photographing items that I might sell on Ebay or Etsy. Accepting that I will probably NEVER mend clothing, replace buttons, etc. Aggressively dealing the unaccustomed onslaught of paper mail triggered by retirement (enough, already!)


3. 52 Weeks to Awesome: This is one of those serendipity things that showed up at the right place, time, and price. Already reaping the benefits from the bonus goodies alone--a lovely, hand-drawn watercolor Goddess calendar to brighten up the workshop wall as well as keeping me on track. Homies Pace and Kyeli from the Connection Revolution don't know me yet, but I'm looking to blow their collective minds and find myself in the process. Or vice versa. Scrumptious, either way. Evolution.


4. Rehab: Next purchase? A pair of supportive walking shoes. Austin has two awesome feet stores--Caravel and Run-Tex. I'll be searching for the ones that make walking more enjoyable. Especially now that it's as cold as it's going to get for the year--can't walk outside in hot weather, too many unhealthy heat/UV reactions. Psyche--look for ways to share PTSD recovery with those still inside the horror.

5. Simplify, simplify, simplify: Simply, make room for wonderments, good deeds, insane creativity.

6. Milestone birthday: The ol' Six-Five. Or as I like to say, "eighteen with forty-seven years of experience." Because that's what it feels like. Really.

Retirement: Month Two

We're not in Kansas anymore, Linus. Platitudes build up like vascular plaque, to be scraped into two columns: 1) so very true, and 2) you gotta be kidding!

Best laid plans--(1) This was a crying shame. After having drifted through life as a preacher's kid, vagabond, following wife, and PTSD-zonked recovering co-dependent, I bit the bullet and put together a plan for getting out from huge debt from alcoholic relationship and settling down in one place long enough to scrape up a pension, I was stoked. Out from crushing financial burdens (and I count zero as a blessing), car paid off, and non-penalized, maximized retirement and social security. I had a viable, kick-ass goal. The State of Texas went "Aha! Let's yank that right out from under her." Massive sabot tossed into the clockworks.

Adversity makes you stronger--(2) No it doesn't. Solving problems makes you stronger, and sometimes adversity stacks up so deep you're drowning in alligators. You gain strength from learning HOW to solve problems, not get beat-up.

My friend and fellow elderblogger Ronni Bennett send a congratulatory note when she learned that I'd retired and signed up for Social Security. She wrote of the day she decided to march down to Social Security and officially begin this new phase in life. Ronni stressed the importance of celebration, which I must admit was way down the list of what I mostly felt during that time: stark terror.

She reminded me that all of life's great passages are to be celebrated and enjoyed. And so I promised her I would begin to envision how I shall celebrate this step along my path. I'm beginning to see Winter Solstice as a fortuitous date. Remembrances of Paul Winter Consort concerts in the Cathedral in NYC, Howleluja Choruses, the urge to push, to grow out of the caves, the earth, the crypts.

This is the first Halloween I've identified with in a long time. Not as trick or treat, no little kids will be coming to my house on Oct. 31. More the feeling that the ground is being prepared for the winter, and readied for spring and growing.

The first 2 months of my retirement have been in turns hectic, despondent, excited, hermitizing, singing, way too introspective, seasoned with books and film. Realizing that other friends were correct in warning me of the physical crash. Your body telling you that you were unbelievably stressed out, and now you have to take care of it.

Like being underground. Cracking open a geode to find something unexpected. Dancing to new rhythms. Anticipating the light.

Post Concert Season Doldrums

Singing is a lot of work. Good exercise. AVAE is dark for the summer. Noticing a pattern here. After the last concert, unless I have other work lined up, I get a little down. It's nice to have a little break, but then I want to get back to practicing, rehearsing, whatever, to keep the pipes open and oxygenate.

This year was different. More than a little down.

There are other circumstances which are really getting on my nerves that are making it harder to focus on recent changes in my body. Namely, I can now see the cataract in my left eye, or rather, there is a tiny line that is out of focus right in the middle.

Damn. When I close my right eye, I see double, just ever so slightly. There's the line of type, and a faint offset line just below it. Damn. Time for the eye doctor.

Of course when one thing starts to change, it's easy to fall into fear-of-being-a-bag-lady mode and it becomes a little more tedious to turn the thinking around.

A trick that sometimes works for me is heaping gratitude upon the universe for making progress on other fronts. Things I am grateful for: Z-coil shoes that make walking relatively pain-free. My friend Darnelle who transformed my living room over the Memorial Day weekend. My wonderful daughter who sends me flowers every Mother's Day. Vicariously enjoying her travels to Tokyo and Dusseldorf. Fabulous neighbors who trade kitteh-sitting and are great cooks and take my trash out when my back is out.

That's barely scratching the surface. Haven't even gotten to my sisters and the Rat Pack at work.

The other trick I do is make myself write about it--sooner or later. If I keep meeting resistance, I throw the I Ching. In the forty-two years since a mystic English professor introduced the Ching to me, after an evening locked in the zoo, witnessing the animals come to life, I have never failed to find a key to gather my wits.

So this weekend is planned. Pick up Z-coil sandals, never-ending laundry, and maybecatch Star Trek at the Alamo South. Got a taste for the "Wild at Artichoke Heart" pizza there--roasted garlic, goat cheese, chokes, sun-dried tomatoes, and excellent fresh-brewed iced tea...and it's in walking distance.

I feel better already.

Back in the saddle again

This holiday break was wonderful. A white Christmas and New Year's, spending quality time with my baby and her sweetie and his family, and generally ratcheting down from a busy fall semester. I shamelessly did not contact my Boston peeps, for which I will now apologize. I will be back, and I will contact you.

But this visit was all about my daughter and her bf. And enjoying snow for a change. Funny thing, as soon as I got back from Texas, we've had record-breaking hot weather--all the way up to 80 degrees one day. Then down to freezing two nights later. We really are in for several decades of turbulent, rogue weather while we figure out what in the hell we're going to do about global warming.

Following the caucuses, as evident from my last post. Thinking of past campaigns and the state of the Republic at those nexuses (nexii?). Remembering campaign promises made and broken, or kept. Hoping that one day my vote will count as it used to. Like Bill Clinton--whatever his faults, he reminded me more of Stevenson and Kennedy than any other candidate before or since, and that's a good thing, in my mind.

The internet phenomenon is even more evident this campaign. After a shaky start in '00 and '04, it seems to have matured to the point that more people are listening to what the on-line buzz is rather than network TV. Another good thing. I love the badge Ronni Bennett has on Time Goes By that shows a '40's style blue-collar woman with her sleeves rolled up in front of a typewriter: "Blogs are like little first amendment machines." YES! I want that badge in a bad way.

Thus my fascination with gerontechnology vis a vis politics. I am convinced that if we make the internet more accessible to Boomers, we can actually make a difference. Thus my intention to launch a Web site dedicated to two things: making technology available and inviting for Boomers, and offering awards to Web sites that promote and embody universal usability. You heard it here first, folks, that's a long-term dream of mine. Should anyone want to participate, let me know--many heads are better than one in the blogosphere.

So to that end, I am initiating a new blogroll for sites that address gerontechnology issues. The elder blogroll will remain; this new heading is for actual Web sites that advance usability for elders. This is a subject I've been researching for years, and it's time to do something about it.

There are so many great elderblogs out there--I've had a wonderful and enlightening experience visiting every link on Ronni's elderblogroll. You can all expect at least one comment from me in the coming year--it's time to reach out and move forward with vigor!

Thank you all for blogging and enduring. Experience does count, and when we work together, we can make great things happen. Cliched, I know, but true, doncha think?

Beverly Sills, music, and aging

This is where I spend most of my time at work. You will notice the wave keyboard and orthopedic mouse. Also the theater monitor screen, which is more for opening several docs at once for reference and comparison.

Just the floaters that swim around in my eyes (I know they really don't!) can make me swear there's a comma rather than a period at the end of a sentence. Needless to say, unless I'm 8" from the laptop screen, I always bump the magnification to 150-200%. Don't get me started on dotted note values in music...

This issue of reading music is looming on my horizon. It may come down to a race between which goes first, the eyes or the voice. The limiting feature of musical scores is that the larger the notes/words, the larger and heavier the printed edition, and the more pages to turn. The only solution I can see at the moment is magnifying glasses. This would mean scaring myself or the conductor to death with alien bug-eyes, or relying on peripheral vision to watch the conductor.

I refuse to give up my musical endeavors. I just hope that I have the perspicacity and class to bow out before I 1) make a pitiful fool of myself, or 2) compromise the musicianship of a group. One of my sheroes, Beverly Sills, the gifted opera soprano, retired at the peak of her career. I admire her more for dealing with the personal loss she must have felt than for reasons 1) and 2) above.

Ms. Sills filled her life with activities just as meaningful as performing at the Metropolitan Opera. After retiring from singing, she became the director of the New York City Opera, elevating the organization to the top of the field. She didn't stop there--she eventually directed the Metropolitan Opera and Lincoln Center.

Even as she guided the fortunes of these stellar organizations, she managed to raise more than $70 million over ten years as national chair of the March of Dimes Mothers' March on Birth Defects.

My musical career is miniscule in comparison. I hope that when the time comes, if it does, I have the integrity to make as graceful an exit as she did.

Brava, Bubbles. You made the world a better place in many ways. We miss you.

I actually have roots

I denied it for decades. A broadly-educated, cosmopolitan adventuress doesn't do roots.

I've just returned from Aunt Midge's funeral and memorial gathering. It was an unexpectedly satisfying and reassuring experience, one of the few times in recent history that my sisters and I have interacted with that branch of the family, as my father was a minister and pastored churches far away for a good portion of our lives. In spite of our limited acquaintance with Aunt Midge's husband's family, the day gave us a welcome opportunity to get to know our various cousins and their offspring.

It was daunting, absolutely, at least at first. How could counting the number of surviving family elders on one hand, and finding oneself in a benign but slightly alien scenario not be daunting? Participating in conversations and listening to stories revealed that we had in common a rich, enduring heritage that typifies the spirit of those tough, durable ancestors who migrated to Texas in the 1800's in the hopes of carving a decent life from the earth.

Two octogenarian women sitting behind us in the chapel whispered to each other as immediate family filed out at the conclusion of the service. I'm quite sure they didn't realize that their conversation was clearly audible--they unconsciously compensated for impaired hearing by whispering louder.

"That Roy Junior is a handsome young man." (Roy is at least four years older than I am, which puts his age between 65 and 70)

"Oh yes he is--a very handsome young man."

Adorable. My heart swelled with pride and love for a family that I've been away from for too long.

Ordinary? Yes. We come from hard-scrabble farmers who worked themselves to death in the struggle to survive and flourish in a frequently hostile environment, rarely completing more than a few years in school. They were needed to keep the farm producing. At times, the only option was everlasting physical labor under brutal conditions. And when Ol' Boll Weevil brought King Cotton low, these hard-working people turned to less risky, more dependable employment in the local butcher shop, grocery store, or filling station. A microcosm of an agrarian populace adapting to the changing world.

Extraordinary, certainly. These descendants of the original Texas settlers inherited and passed along the more useful traits of their sturdy ancestors: courage, resourcefulness, love and husbandry of the land, determination, the importance of family, honesty, and a natural wisdom sufficient to thrive.

Today was a marvelous, gorgeous, warm, late autumn Indian Summer gem, gentle, stray breezes giving notice of an impending cold front. Midge was buried in the Young's Prairie Cemetery with many of her ancestors. Earlier this afternoon, our little gang visited our Daddy/Papaw, grandparents, and other family spirits in the tiny Elgin cemetery, recounting childhood stories, with occasional interjections to clarify the relationship for my niece's benefit.

The late afternoon sun saturated the cemetery and surrounding farms in a soft, golden light. A profound, peaceful stillness settled over the land. Pecan shells crunching underfoot, we wandered among the old and new headstones as the service proceeded, our attention focused on the solemn ritual unfolding under the small, open tent, even as we processed the experience--one foot grounded in the earth, the other connected to the small group of people huddled together near the casket.

My sisters in our usual style--quietly making irreverent quips to one another, unobtrusively pointing out the cultural artifacts particular to Central Texas--headstones decorated in the school colors and symbols of the oldest college football rivalry in Texas: The University of Texas at Austin and Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College, better known as the tea-sipping Longhorns vs. the hard-drinking Aggies. A visceral manifestation of a long-standing Texas tradition.

Delicate tinkling sounds bubbled into awareness, drawing us close to an old pecan tree close by, where four silvery wind chimes danced in its wind-rocked branches, adding a pleasant, high-pitched polyphony to the minister's simple, elegant homily; weaving a magical contrapuntal progression into the murmured prayers and responses.

After saying our last goodbyes to Aunt Midge, we re-convened at a local family-owned Bar-B-Q establishment renowned for their smoked meats. We enjoyed the traditional two-meat dinner plate, with pinto beans, potato salad, sweet or unsweetened iced tea, onions, pickles, two slices of foamy, white bread, and a taste-tingling infusion of two humble ingredients: ground chile peppers and vinegar. Each bottle carries a warning label for the tender of foot or tongue. One of the grand-daughters brought a scrumptious, home-made lemon pound cake--a companionable finish to a Texas-style dinner.

Small town Texas, country goodness. Robust tales of days gone by. A gentle and reverent gathering to honor the passing of a well-loved and accomplished elder.

Mea Culpa

I apologize. I'm mortified. I espouse elder design and this blog is a good example of how NOT to design for elders. What was I thinking? Mushed up green peas? And the font size--I can't even read it myself.

I will not take on shame or blame, I will count it a lesson and find some time to make it easier to read muy pronto.

There are some scintillating writers in elderblogland. You already know of Ronni Bennett and Rosemary Daniell. I was recently introduced to the Joy of Six and Freydblog. Both writers craft exquisitely poignant gems that connect past, present, and future. Wise women all. You know that flash you get when a raw emotion zaps you out of the blue? Wrap that in a technicolor silk scarf of words, and that's kinda how they write.

Elder design. Ran into a new manifestation of the need to be mindful of a few limitations: eyeglasses. Specifically, frames that are so trendy the screws are extra tiny. Really. And the tiny screwdrivers in the eyeglass repair kit are too large. Even the facile young woman who tried to find one that would fit became frustrated.

I fixed them myself. With dental floss. Good thing I had my vision appointment this morning, the string has frayed to a mere wisp. We won't get into the two kinds of eyedrops business.

Nowadays I have three pairs of glasses to lose: everyday progressive lenses, computer with $10 discount store frames, and sunnies--UVA/UVB protection PLUS current ones are so over four prescriptions ago.

Which brings me to the second experience with elder design. Cellular phones. I need one with bigger buttons. Everyone will need one with bigger buttons sooner or later. The occasion was calling in two prescription refills. Do you know how many numerals there are in a prescription number? This pharmacy assigns twelve...with a dash thrown in. What are the odds a 60+ will successfully complete this transaction? Twice. With different numbers. Then comes the pickup time scheduler. "Is that a.m. or p.m.?" My fingers are so clumsy I have no idea whether I'm supposed to collect my prescriptions at 7:00 a.m. or p.m.

I'm being silly, but the point is that both of these experiences have little to do with cognition, and much to do with physical changes. Just because we are 5% down on our fine motor skills doesn't mean we're stupid. As a matter of fact, in a recent article about aging and the brain (I'll have to find the url) the author pointed out that some cognitive areas improve with age. Duh. How do you think the human race evolved? Somebody was smart enough to survive long enough to teach the youngsters how to evade a saber-toothed tiger, tell the chanterelles from the amanita phalloides, or build the latrine downstream. It's crucial to pass along collective wisdom. Like, what happens to you when you eat an amanita muscaria. I know, strictly from observation. The muscariats don't know, because they turn white, pass out, and wake up with nasty headaches and only remember snatches of weird dreams. That bit of wisdom is known by very few, but could possibly deter anyone else from attempting the same experiment. It turns you into a zombie--don't do it. There were only plain old mushrooms in my salad today.

The good news is that there is research leading to the development of brain exercise software and techniques to help the gray matter keep cranking it out.
I like being smart. I don't plan to stop, because as I get older, I always want someone intelligent to talk to, even when I'm alone.

Flashback: Stockholm, 1996. A friend shared a Swedish homecooked meal of chanterelles and reindeer in a savory sauce over mashed potatoes, with other veggies. It was divine. I do love the edible ones, especially the ones in my salad today.

Designing for elders

I had a lovely Monday morning surprise. The July & August 2007 edition of the information and communication tech (ICT) magazine interactions--New visions of human-computer interaction was brought to my attention by a colleague. There is a special section on elder technology, and what has become one of my all-time favorite headlines: "Innovations for graying times--designing for seniors." Is that not priceless?

And not just one, this baby has eight, count 'em, eight articles, under the guidance of guest editor Jonathan Livingston from The Memory Project. Each author offers a vision of the "needs/attributes/solutions" approach to elder technology. These brilliant writers have created elegant, articulate pieces that will feed my current obsession with cross-generational tech design quite nicely.

I love being full of untapped potential.

Shifting paradigms

This is the post from my recent guest blogger inclusion at Time Goes By. Figured it wouldn't hurt to include it here as well...

Kokopelliwoman's paradigm

Working for a university these days is like taking one step forward and two steps back. We received a letter from the Prez saying that the Texas State lege budgeted precious few monies for the next biennium. Then I had to "choose" our single remaining insurance plan. Next week staff dial-up internet goes away. None of this is inherently negative or bad. It is rather disconcerting, however, to realize that my Golden Years may be more modestly funded than I had planned. Prompting a reality check that paradigm shifts come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some appear in a blinding flash; others span decades.

There's a growing flood of elders who cannot afford to retire, regardless of whether or not we enjoy our work. This is not a matter of stopping all meaningful work to embark on some completely separate, magical journey; ceasing work that you truly love, that helps you remain productive. For me, this means remaining at my current job as long as possible, and supplementing with a side gig.

I tried that for close to a year. Selling and relentlessly/endlessly folding infant and toddler clothing in a high-end retail store for 20-40 hours a week on top of my day gig. Brutal. I fell asleep every time I sat down. Paradigm as rug yanked from under you. I did get an interesting scar...

That was several shifts ago. Lately, the frequency seems to be increasing. I'm beginning to believe that aging is a paradigm shift per se. The adventures never stop. This aging thing takes a lot of ingenuity, especially if you have limited resources. Acting against my instincts tends to attract negative shifts, so I've learned to depend on my intuition. The trick is to surf on top of the changes.

When I was six, my parents told us the Easter Bunny was too poor to visit that year. I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach. In one fell swoop, all my childhood icons crumbled to reveal my folk's solemn faces in the dashboard light of our '52 Chevy. I swallowed the revelation with good grace. A pleasant fantasy, nourishment for a robust imagination. After all, I was growing up, and that was good. I was satisfied with my new perspective.

Since then, I've racked up a few "aha" moments. For instance, I assumed that everyone lived by the Golden Rule. Wrong. Took years to sink in that the world is not fair, and that it was unrealistic to expect it to be so. About that time, I finally understood that the only person you can change is yourself. A little later, I lived in Sydney for two years. Australians drive on the left. I actually felt the shift when my brain reversed directions. Driving was easy--when you see oncoming traffic, you'll automatically move to the left. It was much harder to adapt when walking. The childhood habit of looking right-left-right before crossing the street goes deep. Takes longer to make the flip. Oddly, walking didn't shift back when I returned. I continue to move left with oncoming pedestrians.

Recent shifts involve health issues. We've all been there. Some not especially good news that rips through your denial and turns your lifestyle upside down. That cold ball of fear in the pit of your stomach that tells you this paradigm shift means business. You are closer to death than to birth. Death and birth are cyclical, in a benign interpretation of that particular paradigm.

Some shifts sneak up on you. Think back to the early 1970's, and to the groundswell of concern about oil and the environment. We predicted that in thirty years we would be in an oil crisis. I allowed myself to be distracted. I lost that urgent drive to save the planet. Look what happened. The mess is worse than we predicted. We're hardly batting an eye while the current administration burns the house down with everyone in it. I guess some of us were not so distracted, and got busy manifesting that which we most dreaded.

Here's a happy shift: I don't care if anyone finds me attractive or even likes me. Great for reducing stress and saving money. I don't have to listen to commercials, read advertisements, or be bombarded with exactly why I'm not OK with the rest of the world. Makeup ads don't move me. IMHO, "looking younger" is a fantasy, and a complete waste of money. I'm not saying one shouldn't feel good about ones' self. That's part of being healthy.

Listen up--aging is not a sin or affliction--much in the same way that pregnancy and childbirth is not an illness. It's just life, folks. Growing old is cool, considering the alternative. Replace those worn-out, shallow paradigms with making someone's life a little better, take a trip to Prague, or write poetry.

Good or bad, I'm in for the ride. From daily minutiae to world-shaking events to mind-blowing revelations, I'll take any lesson the universal gear box torques out rather than live with a brittle, closed mind. Shifting can keep you agile and increase your options. Have you had a paradigm shift lately? Let's hear about it.

Focus: senior Web design

Pacific Coast, Northern New South Wales, AU

It's time to look outside the sandbox and see what's going on out there. What I'm seeing is a shitload of Boomers who are intelligent, capable, tech savvy, and eloquent, presenting needs that must be addressed to ensure that the combined interstellar experienced body of knowledge of this generation can continue to benefit society rather than totally screw it up.

To do this, we need to accomodate our elder thinkers right from the start--design. The body of knowledge must be required research to acquaint our youth with designing across the spectrum. We're doing pretty well with technical literacy for the 21-45 age group (anecdotal guesses, at best). We could do much better with education, but it's coming along. The groups that have the greatest need (IMHO) remain able to communicate electronically as long as they wish are Boomers. We're beginning to face some real and show-stopping aging crises.

HUGE untapped workforce for ideas and change. DESERVING of a loving country that respects and reveres its elders and helps them remain productive and happy to the end of their days. Am I so wrooooong?

What the hell more do you want? I'm convinced we have a whole new market in designing specifically across the continuum. I am seeing some great stuff posted by us elderbloggers, real life answers to consolidate energy and have some to spare. Dang! There's the good'uns, and then...we can't read a comment that could change someone's life. Or at least offer them the opportunity to promote the health of us all by raising critical questions and participating in free, open dialogue focused toward regenerating and preserving humanity.

A new kind of corporation. A positive-outcomes oriented collaboration honestly working toward improving every person's life on the planet. There's no excuse for the governments to devolve to primitive political posturing when we have enough brain power, and the means for linking it, to solve a whole buttload of some nagging, fear-based reversals in human evolution.

I may be dreaming, I may be full of shit, but this truth I know: I will die sitting (or lying) at my keyboard, and I will do my best to make sure my friends can all do the same, so we can talk about it and write about it. :)

So how about it? I know that I'm at the far left end of the learning curve of researching exactly what's going on out there in the techie part of the senior usability equation, because I haven't met many yet. I need to change that. I met a few Appollonian and Dionysian designers and writers at SXSWi s, whom I would have loved to have more time to engage in that dialogue. There are so many savvy people I admire and would love to chat with. If you ARE a techie interested in a dialogue about this subject, then shoot me a comment. Or if you care to write about it, just let me know where to find you.

That should work, shouldn't it?

Wow. That class really got my synapses firing. Just finished two days with Pat Schnee, who teaches an oral presentation class (among other things) and she totally inspired me. Now, I do not use that accolade lightly. I saw her mold passionate speakers, break negative self-tapes, and produce a lively, loving boot camp on how to be an authentic, effective, and engaging communicator in front of a dozen plus strangers. Professional development as guerilla theater. Dynamite stuff. Got me going, obviously.

Pat pegged me as a rambler in less than ten seconds (duh)! And she understood me totally. I have never seen a trainer so involved with her students that she can relate to every single Myers-Briggs type. Her secret? She cares. She has a priceless well of knowledge and understanding. She's good. Incendiary combination.

So my area of remediation is rambling, did ya guess??