Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
We had seen it, some time ago: the sign for the “California Botanical Garden.” It sits on 846 acres in Claremont, a historic and quiet community about 40 minutes south of Los Angeles as the crow flies. It is one of many smaller interior California cities that are chock-full of history, including Azusa, Arcadia, Glendora, and Upland, just to name a few. Most of them were groves in the old days, where lemons, oranges, and olives once thrived, but now they are neighborhoods, still leafy and fruited, the scent of citrus and jasmine all around.
I grew up in California, but that is a region I have never before explored. As a young, newly-driving teen, I headed straight to the coast when given the chance. The legendary Highway 1 held all of the mystique and most of the allure. San Luis Obispo, Carmel, and San Jose charmed with beauty and sass. The quaint Danish traditions of Solvang, and the rich food and wine scene in Santa Barbara never disappoint. Then, of course, there are the big guns at opposite ends of the state. Chilly, scenic, ritzy San Francisco and warm, laid-back, storied San Diego.
Though I lived for two years in Pasadena, one of the oldest cities in California, I never ventured east-southeast, never traversed the hillsides in between. The interior towns of San Bernardino County didn’t catch my attention, but they are quite something to behold. They hold the history of California in their DNA. Those towns are teachers.
We were driving along, on our way back from attending the theater in La Verne. Another lovely historic place I had not experienced until that time.
“Oh my God, Dean, we have to go there! I would love to see it! The Botanical Garden!”
“I have lived here for twenty years, and I’ve never been.” He shook his head.
We made a note to go as soon as our schedules would permit. The moment arrived this past weekend, though we were both pushing the envelope to embrace it. I had just flown home from the East Coast, and he was 48 hours hence headed to Europe, to tour with his aging mother. One thing we both know is that with our busy schedules, there is never an ideal time, so we honored the commitment.
This particular Sunday, a few members from Dean’s church were gathering to observe a spiritual stroll through the gardens. I was relieved to learn that this was an entirely unstructured endeavor; we were not required to stick together. I am a fast walker and prefer to go at my own pace; Dean easily matches my stride, but most folks cannot. The group leader fanned out a collection of cards in his left hand, and we all were offered the chance to choose one. This card was to be our inspiration, was intended to give us food for thought. Like a fortune cookie for believers, without the sweet treat to entice.
I chose a card and glanced at it. The title was “Seasons of Growth.” Below it was a longish paragraph, and off in the margin in small print were the words: “walking thoughts.” I walk ten miles a day, so I know a thing or two about those, but I read on. The message was a tad sappy: “Every season represents a cycle of change for our Earth.”
“Well, that’s a bit of the genius of the obvious,” I thought, but I continued to the end.
“Today, as you walk, contemplate this season of your life. What season are you in? How does it feel to be in this season?”
Huh. Those questions kept repeating over and over in my head.
“Look, Dean, a little bunny!” We stopped, and he snapped a picture.
“Oh, how sweet,” he later declared.
We had come upon “Children’s Woodland,” a play area made entirely out of old tree stumps and hollow logs. Not fancy, but there were plenty of things to hop on and crawl through. An old-school playground where the kids have to figure out how to entertain themselves. The tots on hand were managing to do just that.
We strolled past all manner of beautiful species. Great wild-looking Joshua trees, Torrey pines, Western Junipers, and stubby Scrub Oaks, all of which had flowering shrubs around their perimeter. The question kept popping up:
“What season of life am I in?”
THAT CRISP AIR.
I am not sure which would be assigned to me according to the rings around my trunk. I am sixty-seven; have a little over a decade to go before I reach the age of life expectancy for women. I will live past it, of course, is what I say to myself; but whether or not we choose to believe it, the data tells a story.
I am sometimes confused about where I am in life. I am still busy with deadlines, auditions, and photo shoots. I enjoy all of the activity but admit that I crave freedom from the many obligations that consume my precious time in this body and on this planet. The creative drive that has fueled my life keeps pushing me forward, while the contemplative part of my soul craves quiet and ease. If and when I allow myself to feel it, there is a schizoid pull in opposite directions.
What season? Crap, why did I read that card? What season?!
I am well past spring, that is certain, and I have never been much of a summer gal. Most would say a woman my age is entering the winter of her life, but that feels too cold and brittle. I am not who I once was, but I am still limber, still moving through space, still learning and yearning. I am not yet frozen, and though my bones may in fact be, I do not feel breakable.
Let’s go with Fall. I am in the Fall season of my life. I have shed a lot of my finest feathers; time is stripping me down to the basics. My senses are dimming, vision and hearing straining for input, reading lips, and cupping one ear. I wake with stiff joints; my flesh does not stretch as tautly over the sinew beneath. Objects slip easily from my grasp, and I spend an inordinate amount of time each day trying to find my keys. My phone is never where I am certain that I put it …
… okay, LATE Fall. Dammit.
I am in the LATE Fall phase of my time here. I am haunted by the ghosts of loved ones lost and know full well that the hobgoblins of fate could trip me up any day. My friends are coping with demons like AFIB and high blood pressure, many avoiding grapefruit because it interferes with their cholesterol-lowering meds. I have my weird heart issues and the damnable Psoriatic arthritis, but except for low-grade anemia and meager platelets, my blood work looks great. I am keeping the Grim Reaper at bay, giving the terrors of All Hallows’ Eve a run for their money. There is a chill in the air, and I am wrapping myself in layers, but I am not yet bending into the wind.
One thing for sure about seasons is that they change.
Winter will come for me as it does for all of us, and I want to be prepared for that final stretch of life, but as of yet, there is no plan to speak of. Where will I be as I sip some tea and watch the outlines of the day unfold? Which rail will I hold onto when I can no longer perceive the depth of the stairs beneath my feet? What community will I seek to share those last days and nights with?
I do not know the answer, but the final question on the card at the entrance to the garden asked, “How does it feel to be in this season?” I can give that one a whirl.
I am far enough along in the late Autumn of things to feel some nostalgia for the brightly colored passions of my youth. I love deeply but am now devoid of the white-hot emotions that once stole my breath and squeezed me tight. I can still be roiled by events, upset by injustices, and offended by a lack of regard, but I breathe through it, treat upset as routine. I walk all those feelings toward the hills and climb with them high enough that the light renders them transparent. Dark thoughts cannot hold me for long; I simply don’t have time to spare for them. I am thicker and slower, but somehow, feel lighter and less weighed down.
I am celebrating Thanksgiving as often as possible. Not the one that champions the conquering and cruelties of our forefathers, but the essence of the holiday. I am gathering near my loved ones whenever and wherever I can. I am making time to see the beauty all around me and to feast on the bounty of my blessings. I am saying grace over and over and over again, at times under my breath and others, singing it to the heavens. I am saying it and praying for it every day.
Grace.
On we go …
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