GRACE and THE TALKING HEADS

Baby bird fell out of the nest. Mom and Dad to the rescue. Photographer unknown.

Wild thistles are in bloom in my naturalized back yard. Each evening, tiny goldfinches arrive to dine on the seeds. The tall skinny thistle plants wave around in the wind but those little yellow birds hang tight. Not even the circling hawk disturbs their dinner.  

Some of the purple thistle blooms have already ripened into cottony heads; the air nearby is full of weightless flying bits of fluffs. I assume these seeds predict an even bigger thistle crop next year — good news for finches.

Meanwhile, along the side border, other birds focus on more civilized flowers. My theory is that the gardening practice of “dead heading” (trimming off and discarding spent blooms) originated from a pre-Martha Stewart neat freak who didn’t want browning plants to disrupt the perfection of her perennial garden.

But dead heading removes a winter food source for little feathered co-habitants — the snow birds. I don’t cut back and this is not merely a sign of my admitted laziness. It’s also an aesthetic decision. I like the visual of standing browned stems and shriveled flower heads in winter. Nature draws strong graphic contrasts if left alone.

I was asked to define “grace” yesterday. It should be an easy question! Grace was the theme of Chautauqua lectures for five days. I was there and I listened to every one. But like Chinese food, two weeks later, I’m running on empty.  So the question jolted me into focus. I reviewed some notes.

First: FIERCE INTROSPECTION (the preliminary to “Grace”)

What does it mean to be human? How do we want to live? How do we want to live together? (BIG QUESTION!)  “A “wise life” is one that leaves a positive imprint on lives around it.” Is that the same as attaining grace?

Basically, yes. That’s all there is. Leave a positive imprint — as much as possible — on lives that you touch — oh, and on the earth — and on people not like you — and animals.

So why should this flight of philosophy matter to me and this blog whose title promises discussion of art? Because I believe that art (in all its renditions and definitions) serves as a bridge to shared common humanity — fear, love, loss, loneliness, awe. The poet Richard Blanco said “art begins as a self-centered urgency to understand and react.” (He also said  “My poems are smarter than me.” I love Richard Blanco!) 

When I write, there’s a tiny voice whispering “is that what you really want to say? is that true?” I wish I was better but I’m pretty clear about my objective — add something positive to the human conversation. 

Painters — dancers — guitar players — lucky you guys! You are more than half way to Graceland.

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David Byrne of The Talking Heads has begun a web site/online magazine called “Reasons to be Cheerful.”  I wonder if he watches chickadees eating flower seeds in his garden? Maybe I’ll send along that suggestion.

SEX OVER SEVENTY

How do people deal with sex after 70? 

I’d like to hear from you.

How do you separate the mythology from the reality? 

We know the myth about “dirty old men” — “it’s the last thing to go” —(snicker, snicker.) I suspect men delight in this fantasy. Somehow they got the message early on that its “manly” to brag about the old pecker. And when that ends, KATIE BAR THE DOOR! Life is over. Worse than turning in your Xerox pass or keys to the corporate restroom.

 On Netflix, two women — Frankie and Grace — both near 80, take lovers, invent dildos and talk to each other and friends openly and often about “serving themselves comfortably.” Then they wave around their invention that looks like a gigantic purple pickle.  

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why this invention of theirs is so groundbreaking. But there they are. The script has them selling hundreds of these things to women in the “bloom of their years” with the promise that old age will be a million times improved with a little grind, a little yabba-dabba-do!  I don’t know a woman on this planet who has ever said “Gosh, my problems will be over if I just had a new vibrator in a perky color.” 

My life will be better when somebody invents a cure for flatulence!

My women friends and I used to talk about sex. One morning at coffee, one of my besties said “I’m exhausted. He nailed me at 3 a.m.!” Now she’s 72. She has chronic insomnia and listens to her radio until 3 am. Paul falls asleep in front of the t.v. at 8:30. They had sex once in 1998. 

I’ve been married to the same man for over fifty years! We have always “enjoyed each others’ bodies.” Once upon a time, when we traveled, we made room for the “fun stuff.” We are on a week’s vacation. One entire travel bag is full of pills, three pairs of glasses each (sun, computer, reading), and thirty pairs of shoes  — hoping to stave off back aches and bunion pain. We are still attracted physically to one another. Knee squeezes, pats on the bum, and spontaneous back rubs take the place of the frantic groping we once excelled at. 

Intimacy now is being the “plus one” at all doctor’s visits — asking questions and taking notes. Or discussing the day’s events while on the toilet, or checking his body for ticks! He helps me into my bras now instead of pushing them aside. I know when he calls “will you take a look at this?”, it inevitably will involve blood in one orifice or another.

Sometimes I think about yabba-dabba-do. When the opportunity arrives , he’s asleep, I have indigestion, he’s really tired, I need to walk the dogs, he’s chasing deer out of the garden, I need to “finish this one page.”

Maurice Chevalier: “Ah yes, I remember it well!” 

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(PS...I'M STRAYING FURTHER AWAY FROM MY ORIGINAL INTENT: TO WRITE ABOUT ART. I'M HOPING YOU STICK WITH ME ANYWAY...WE'RE TALKING MORE ABOUT 'ARTFUL AGING." I'M CONSIDERING RE-NAMING MY BLOG. WHAT DO YOU THINK?)