Month: December 2023

We Don’t Know What’s Ahead (thank God)

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Surely one of the greatest gifts Creator bestowed on humanity is our short-sightedness. We can celebrate New Year’s Eve with abandon because we have no idea what’s just around the corner. 

I’m thinking back to Dec. 31, 2022, when I quietly observed the passing of the year in my cozy home on the river. If I’d foreseen that 2023 would include the deaths of three of my dearest friends and that by the next New Year’s Eve I’d be living on the thirteenth floor of a Seattle high-rise — I believe I’d have gone to bed, pulled the covers over my head, and never come out again. 

When I do know of coming events, they tend to loom rather than promise. I’m pessimistic when I needn’t be. Example: plans for my massive, three-day moving sale filled me with dread. It turned out to be one of the best, most fun parties I’ve ever hosted.

I look back on this year of tumult — globally and in my personal life — with both mourning and gratitude. I mourn the loss of life and separation from friends. I’m grateful for the love that has supported and sustained me, and the Divine Love that persists in sustaining us all.

Overview of Omak, WA, a slice of the Okanogan Valley and Tiffany Mountains in the distance

In November, I expressed my gratitude in a letter meant for publication in the newspaper that my husband and I long ago owned. For unknown reasons, my words never made it into print. I’ve been assured the letter will be published in the next edition. Just in case, though, and because not everyone subscribes to that (or sad to say, any) newspaper, I decided to share it here. It’s a love letter, a fond farewell to an exquisite valley that stretches across an international boundary, a valley bordered by vital shrubsteppes that climb to forested mountains, a valley thinly populated with generous, kindly people:

“When I recently moved from the Okanogan Valley to Seattle, I left behind something important: a large part of my heart. For more than forty-four years I have been nurtured and inspired by the beauty of the Okanogan landscape and the vibrancy of her people. 

“It is a joy and honor to be part of a community that is so committed and supportive. This was especially true during the fourteen years after a devastating stroke paralyzed my late husband, former Chronicle publisher John E. Andrist. That same level of care and support prevailed as I prepared to move. Friends, family and neighbors generously stepped up to help with the many challenges. 

“I’d love to name names, but I fear leaving someone out. I especially thank members of various groups: Okanogan Valley Orchestra and Chorus (OVOC), St. Anne’s Episcopal Church, the NonViolent Communication practice group (LOLO – Language Of Life in the Okanogan), and a particular circle of women who joyfully share their creativity and love of beauty. 

“The part of my heart that I’ve managed to hang onto is deeply grateful.”

As we move into a new year, many prognosticators are planting seeds of fear and foreboding. I would remind us of Casey Stengel’s wisdom: “Never make predictions, especially about the future.” Blissfully ignorant, may we lurch onward.

Be It Ever So Humble

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized4 Comments

“Money must be a consideration,” said the drop-in visitor as she glanced around my 340-square-foot studio apartment. I was just moving into our downtown Seattle retirement community of 378 apartments (another 152 to come in five or six years). Mine is one of the smallest, least expensive. She was right. Money was a consideration, but probably not in the way she was thinking.

For years I’ve used a coin purse featuring a cartoon character pulling green dollars out of her billfold. My coin purse is so well worn that the caption is becoming unreadable, but still memorable: “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.” 

Snug, liveable, and more than adequate

Those “mo’ problems” were a factor but not the driving motivation for giving up the home and community I loved to move here. I want to reduce my footprint on our Mother Earth as I age. I want to use fewer resources, live in community, take up less space, and spend less money to maintain house, car, etc. Not yet two months into this venture, I occasionally feel unsettled, mourning what I’ve given up, suppressing envy over larger apartments. So I go for a walk. 

From the west wing, I walk across Freeway Park, where I see two camping tents. There are no signs of life but I’m certain the tents are occupied. I walk past a man who is seated, holding a crutch, staring at nothing. He’ll still be there hours later when I return.

I enter the glass-encased Convention Center, take escalators down four floors, and I’m in the heart of downtown. Heading to Pike Place Market I notice a mummy-style sleeping bag stretched out on the sidewalk in an alcove. It appears to have a body in it. I pray that it’s a live body, though I wonder if life itself is any kind of blessing for this mummified soul. 

That same day the Seattle Times reported that both nationally and in Washington state, homelessness is “growing at a rate never seen before.” The official national count is a 12 percent increase over 2022, and in this state 11 percent. That’s based on the annual Point-In-Time Count. I helped with that count as a volunteer at the Okanogan homeless shelter. We simply recorded the number of folks sheltering on the appointed evening. Shelter populations can vary wildly depending on weather, time of month, and other factors. Nevertheless, we know that on a given night there were at least 28,000 people in Washington who had no place to be. That’s higher than the populations of Mercer Island or Moses Lake.

But those are only numbers that don’t really tell the stories — except for some stunning numbers offered the next day, again in the Times, by columnist Danny Westneat. There’s a building boom downtown. Some 7,200 living units (aka apartments) are under construction. Help for people with no homes? Not so much.

“This boomlet isn’t visible at street level,” Westneat writes. “It’s in the sky.” Once again Seattle has more construction cranes dotting the skyline — forty-five of ’em — than any other U.S. city. The columnist warns that high-rise apartments are likely to turn downtown into a “gated community … only vertical.”  He cites the example of a penthouse atop the 58-story Rainier Tower, renting for $19,999 per MONTH. 

I can’t imagine what it would feel like to drive my luxury car from the garage below my $20K-a-month apartment and spot a homeless person, wrapped in a sleeping bag in the sidewalk. It’s hard enough for me, having just left my snug studio, to walk on by, even with a prayer in my heart.

Carried away by the spirit of the season, I bought more than I intended at the Market. The walk back, with awkward packages, was a slog. Arriving home, I was more grateful than ever for a home to arrive to. Gratitude guarantees contentment. 

I’m not so naive to believe that moving into a tiny apartment or giving up my car is going to solve climate issues or homelessness or myriad other problems. But isn’t that a basic message of Christmas? Just another baby born in an insignificant town, and everything changed. It’s clear — to me, anyway — that if enough of us care a little more, live with a little less, we too can make a significant difference. That’s my prayer for 2024.

Uneasily At Ease

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized2 Comments

A question frequently asked by we who are s-aging is: “How (*insert) did I get here?”

(*Insert whatever exclamatory phrase you prefer, e.g., “How in the world …” or, “How on earth …” or, “How the hell,” etc.)

The “here,” when that question floated into my head, was the lobby of the retirement community that I’d moved into a few weeks earlier. The lobby is nicely furnished, not ornate but more like a mid-priced boutique hotel. On that particular day, the start of the holiday season, it was buzzing with activity and people. The automatic glass doors would barely whoosh shut before they’d glide open again, admitting a constant flow of family delegations coming either to visit or whisk away “Granny,” or “Gramps,” or in my case, “Auntie.”

It’s a significant part of family celebrations — thoughtful inclusion of the oldest generation. Often it requires extra effort, like going out of one’s way to provide transportation, figuring out how to cram a walker or wheelchair into the car trunk, altering the dinner menu in consideration of special diets, arranging chairs and tables just so. I’d done it all many times and loved doing it. 

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose,” suggests Helen Keller. “All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”

I believe she was talking about nostalgia, which was striking a resounding chord as I sat waiting in the lobby, feeling out of place. How (*) did I get there? I would no longer be providing for the senior generation. I’m now part of it. My niece and grand-niece would be picking me up, their car loaded with desserts and salads that I had no part in preparing. Arriving at the celebration, I would eye the kitchen filled with busy folks, leave them to it and sit, casually conversing with other elders. Uneasily at ease.

If “My Generation” is uneasy with old age, we have only ourselves to blame. We’ve been in denial since the turbulent ‘60s, when The Who released their signature song. Peter Townshend, who penned the line, “Hope I die before I get old,” is now 78. Roger Daltrey, who — as one critic wrote, “sneeringly” sang it — is 79. 

“Don’t trust anyone over 30.” Jack Weinberg, whose comment went viral before there was such a thing as viral, is now 83. Weinberg has devoted his life to social and environmental activism. In an interview he observed, “I’ve done some things in my life I think are very important, and my one sentence in history turns out to be something I said off the top of my head which became completely distorted and misunderstood. But I’ve become more accepting of fate as I get older.”

The wisdom of age: to more become accepting. Even to welcome, as in the classic Welcoming Prayer, written by contemplative Mary Mrozowski: “I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment because I know it is for my healing.”

Thus I welcomed the opportunity at the end of Thanksgiving dinner to roll up my sleeves and sink my hands into hot, soapy dishwater — no longer feeling out of place, because when it’s time to clean up, there’s ample room in the kitchen for helpers of all ages.