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Lady blowing bubblegum
Growing older poses unique challenges, including some scary ones, and, as they gradually seep into my life, I’ve found a role model in my mom, rest her soul. However, the lessons she taught me and my siblings in this regard don’t just apply to elders, but also resonate with folks of all ages who wish to live fully. What often stands in our way? Fear. Here are some of the ways my mother vanquished our common emotional enemy:
Stay young at heart. Confined to a wheelchair later in life, Mom once asked a small favor. “Take me outside to see the comet,” she said, referring to Hale-Bopp, which passed by Earth in 1997. So, on a clear night, I wheeled her to a park with a panoramic view of the sky.
“There it is!” she shouted, her face riveted and awash with childlike awe and wonder. She was in her late 80s then but still a youthful soul. Around the same time, she asked me to take her sailing on Lake Michigan, a first for her. With some machinations, we wrangled her into my sailboat and spent the afternoon slicing through the waves. The look on her face said it all—childlike delight.
Take some risks. While my father rarely wandered far from home, Mom set out to explore the continent and, thankfully, often hauled me along. She also had a habit of rushing outside to experience the power of thunderstorms and blizzards (not recommended). She wasn’t fearless, but she didn’t let caution smother her zest for life. Once, as a teenager, when I was agonizing about whether to go on a challenging wilderness trek, she listened to me worry and debate out loud and then asked, “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Her admonition helped me find it.
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Stay close to nature. Mom’s prescription for emotional distress, including anxiety and fear, was to go dig in her garden. “Get some dirt under your fingernails,” she often said. “You’ll feel better.” And she was right about that long before eco-psychologists conducted research proving her point. She realized that when angst and worry dominate one’s life, nature remains a source of solace. In her last years, she still found ways to commune with the natural world, despite her lack of mobility. Summer heat or winter cold, she always kept her windows cracked open. And every morning she said her daily prayers while peering out a bay window at the birds, squirrels and rabbits that knew her feeders would be full.
Keep learning. Books, newspapers, NPR, lively conversation—she devoured them all, embracing the new. “You either open up or you shut down,” she said, referring, without realizing it, to what we now call “brain health.” As such, right up until the end of her days, people called her “sharp as a tack.” Research shows the best way to enhance mental acuity and emotional resilience is by learning new things.
Keep moving. Swimming, stretching, small weights—even when wheelchair bound, she was a body in motion. As her mobility ebbed, she remained active by adapting around her limitations. “I could have given up,” she told me. “But that’s not how I’m made.”
Live your values. Mom made giving to others a top priority. In her small town, she was regarded as “that nice grandma” who snuck treats to the younglings and offered an ear to the emotionally wounded and lonely. “Praying is easy,” she once told me. “You have to live your faith.”
Be ready to die. By the time Mom breathed her last, she’d given away most of her possessions, planned her funeral and made peace with the world. She looked death square in the eyes and didn’t blink. Her mindset was not morbid but, rather, a nod to reality and a desire to be at peace when her time came.
She provided other lessons as well, but, at some level, most of them involved courage. Deep down, she understood that fear must be kept at bay, lest it end up running your life, including its final chapter. As Anais Nin said, “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” Mom lived large.
For more, visit philipchard.com.
