Summertime Musing -- Aging and Depression

A rainbow brightens my spirit in Portugal

I have been back in the United States for a very busy six weeks after a wonderful European trip that included biking in Portugal and a visit with my aunt and uncle in the south of France.  After returning, my husband and I flew directly to Southern California to celebrate my daughter’s graduation.  We are very proud of her.  At the age of 28 she is completing a PhD in civil engineering.  She is a hydrologist who specializes in global groundwater.   We then returned to our home in the Pacific Northwest, to complete our house remodels and train hard for a 204-mile bike ride from Seattle to Portland.  We completed this ride along with approximately 10,000 others last weekend and the final house remodels are just about done.  Now, I am taking a moment to reflect.

When I was 28, I could scarcely imagine having the self-confidence my daughter has.  At that time, and at various times throughout my life, I have struggled with depression and feelings of worthlessness.  When I think about this life long condition rationally it is ridiculous.  I am a very functional person.  But of course, feelings of depression and even elation have little rationality by definition.  Back when I was a young woman, I lacked in self-confidence.  In retrospect that was quite typical of young women of my generation who were not encouraged to have meaningful careers – let alone in science or engineering.  In addition to my concerns about being able to support myself in a male dominated field, as a single woman, I worried that I was incapable of living my life alone.  To make matters worse I knew I wanted to be a mother.  Not that I lacked for lovers during my twenties – just that none of the men I met seemed like husband or father-of-my-child material.  I planned how to live my life as a single career woman – even coming up with a scheme to have a child and be a single mom!  Remember this was long before artificial insemination existed. 

I didn’t end up facing life alone, since soon thereafter I met the supportive man I married.  That was 34 years ago and we are still happily married.  But curiously, even after all these years and the joy of two wonderful children, a good career and a delightful, extended group of family and friends, I still suffer from intermittent bouts of depression.  I am more experienced at recognizing the early symptoms of depression, and knowing how to behave – perhaps as a result of help I received over the years from mental health professionals.  Nevertheless, when a wave of sadness washes over me, at that moment, I still feel almost helpless…as if I was once again the 15-year-old girl sitting in her bedroom in Philadelphia wondering how to face the next day. 

In all honesty, I am usually happy.  But, here and there, feelings of loneliness and emptiness engulf me.  Once present, these feelings won't leave me. I don’t think I am alone in having feelings of sadness and loneliness.  I think many people have these feelings.  I try to remind myself that I am healthy and very much loved by my husband and family.  But none of this matters when I feel the deep sadness of the world surround me.  I feel as if I should be able to shake the dark mantle but at times I can’t.  So I sit with it.  I try to behave as if I wasn’t sad.  I listen to music.  I read a good book.  I eat healthy food.  I get exercise – perhaps I go for a walk or a bike ride or to my gym. I visit with my family and friends.  I wait the sadness out.

Earlier this year, when I was skiing in Park City, I went to see Judy Collins in concert.  She is ten years older than I am and a gifted singer – her voice rings like a bell even at the age of seventy-five.  I didn’t know until recently that she suffered for years from depression.  This knowledge gave me a connection and even more affection for her.  She has written many songs but the one that speaks about how to manage sadness is a favorite, the Song for Judith.  I will repeat the chorus here:

Open the door and come on in

I'm so glad to see you, my friend

You're like a rainbow, coming around the bend

And when I see you happy

Well, it sets my heart free

I'd like to be as good a friend to you, as you are to me

(Judy Collins - Song For Judith (Open The Door) Lyrics | MetroLyrics)

This chorus encapsulates how I feel about my husband, my children, my friends and my siblings.  They have seen me through many a difficult time.  Sometimes they didn’t even know I was down in the dumps since just having them come in the door brightened my mood.  I love the idea of a rainbow coming around the bend.  When we were biking in Portugal, on the worst, most rainy day, after we were safely in our pousada and warm and dry, we ventured out for a walk.  The sky was clearing and we crossed the big praça and there in front of us, shining over the old church was a beautiful rainbow!  It immediately brightened my spirit. 

After biking in Portugal, my sister and I and our two husbands visited my 89-year-old uncle and aunt who live in the south of France, in the foothills of the Pyrenees.  Their village is so small it doesn’t have its own bakery.  In summer, the baker from a nearby village brings his truck to the town square to deliver bread but the rest of the year you have to drive 12 kilometers to the nearest bakery.  My uncle and aunt moved to this village from London in 1985.  The village is beautiful – consisting of fifty or more ancient stone houses and a stone church set into a rocky, forested landscape.  Over the years, both my family and many other family members had the great fortune to visit them for summer holidays.

A few years ago, the village won the title of Village Fleuri – or Village in Bloom – a recognition granted to villages and towns in France that have more and better flowers than other villages but have also demonstrated respect for the environment and a value for social cohesion.  It is an honor to be named a Ville or Village Fleuri.  More than ten years ago my aunt spearheaded the village transformation into a Village Fleuri.  Even today, the village is always in bloom – geraniums, roses, lavender, endless annuals and perennials decorate stone terraces, balconies, pots and beds.

This visit was bittersweet for us.  Three weeks prior to our arrival my aunt suffered a debilitating stroke that resulted in complete left-side paralysis.  She is living temporarily in a rehabilitation center in a town almost an hour’s drive away from the village.  My uncle is predictably sad but coping magnificently.  We visited my aunt regularly during the week, reading poems, doing crossword puzzles, helping her eat – a difficult process given the paralysis.  We wheeled her outside to see the pond and ducks and recited long forgotten nursery rhymes together.  My aunt is an independent and capable woman.  She is determined to get better and return home.  My uncle and his children have plans to modify the handicap inaccessible house to accommodate my aunt’s wheel chair and to build an accessible bathroom.  Perhaps my aunt, at 89, will never walk again – but she is going to do whatever she can to return home. 

Having lived through the aging and inevitable deaths of my own and my husband’s parents, I have to quote my mother: “Old age is for the birds.”  It is hard to see my aunt and uncle, who have been an inspiration, both philosophically and intellectually to me (and many others), have to deal with the challenges that old age presents.  The good news is they have lived a wonderful life and to a ripe old age!  They are in a village where they have lived for many years and where everyone looks out for each other.  Even the mayor takes as part of his duties the monitoring of older people’s health in the village.  It is the French way.  The bad news is that they are getting even older.  Despite his age, my uncle regaled us on the way home from the clinic one day with the full history of Vichy France and President Charles De Gaulle.  His knowledge was far broader and greater than mine.  He cooked us delicious rabbit stew with bacon and onions and sat on the porch expertly finishing the difficult crossword puzzles in the London Times.   He and my aunt represent a generation that changed the world.  We can all learn a lot from them.

This generation, our parents’ generation, grew up in the Great Depression and fought World War II.  In the face of great adversity, they put their heads down and worked to make the world a better and safer place.  Soon they will all be gone and we will be poorer for their departure.  There’s a reason why Tom Brokaw called them the Greatest Generation.  They are a hard act to follow.  Perhaps with our children’s help – and a little help from their friends – we’ll figure out a better future for the world.  Along the way I hope to figure out how to deal expeditiously with any future moments of depression.  I plan to continue exercising regularly, eating healthfully, keeping my mind active, helping others and spending time with my friends.  I look forward to that figurative “…rainbow [,] coming around the bend.”

Biking in Portugal

Overlook of the town of Castelo de Vide

On Sunday May 18 I arrived at the Lisbon airport with my sister and two girlfriends.  Our guide Luiz met us with a large van.  On its roof were the four bicycles we planned to ride through the Alentejo region of Portugal.  We had arranged a 6-day biking holiday with Portugal Bike.  The plan was simple: arrive in Lisbon; drive with Luiz north and east into the heart of the Alentejo region with its beautiful white hill towns – many dating from the 13^th century.  Portugal Bike promised to provide us with carbon road bikes, six nights of accommodations in historic inns, GPS maps and the opportunity to experience the charm of rural Portugal from the vantage of a bicycle seat. 

We drove into the walled village of Marvão – our starting point – in late afternoon sunshine.  We were high up looking down onto a wild rocky plain near the Spanish border.  We checked into our first pousada – the Portuguese name for an inn.  The converted convent was set into the walls of the ancient town.  After a short break, we met with Luiz for our orientation.  We were on a self-guided bike ride.  Luiz planned to leave us after the orientation and pick us up more than 200 miles away in a few days.  While we biked, our suitcases would be transported from village to village by taxicab. 

Luiz ushered us into a small sitting room in the pousada.  He pulled a bottle of ten-year-old Port and five small glasses from his duffle bag.  Laughing at our surprise, he filled the glasses and explained that no introduction to Portugal would be complete without sharing a glass of port!  We raised our glasses!  Saudé!  To your health!  It was delicious.  We sat in rapt attention.  We needed to understand our route and our equipment since soon we would be on our own.

Luiz was a font of information.  He brought out bike bags filled with inner tubes, Allen wrenches, pumps, locks and GPS systems.  He gave each of us a booklet that explained the details of each day from the length of the route, the best places to have lunch, the location of public toilets, the best sight seeing options along the way and endless other useful information.  His smiling relaxed manner put us at ease – or maybe that was the port?  No matter.  After the main information was shared, Luiz presented each of us with a Portugal Bike biking jersey and my favorite gift – a pair of green and yellow arm warmers.  At the end of the briefing he told us to take a short break and meet him on the street in front of the pousada to check out our bicycles. 

The street was very narrow, barely wide enough for a single compact vehicle to pass through.  It was paved with cobblestones that looked as if they had been placed there several hundred years previously.  We returned to our rooms and pulled out our bike shoes and helmets.  We were appropriately nervous – worried that the gear systems, pedals and bike sizes would be right.  Luiz allayed our concerns immediately.  One by one along the tiny bumpy street, Luiz adjusted pedals, seat posts and gear levers until we all felt comfortable.  We stored the bikes away in a safe place provided by the pousada, bade Luiz goodbye and agreed to meet back at the dining room at 7:30 pm.  We were tired having flown from London and New York respectively many hours before.

My sister and I decided to explore tiny Marvão.  The town was laid out in an intricate system of concentric streets that rose towards a medieval castle built on the pinnacle of the hilltop.  The sun was setting and the light was bright and clear.  We walked along old stonewalls and paths that hung on the edge of the cliff, moving up towards the castle.  Suddenly we stumbled on a formal box hedge garden, full of roses and topiary.  The formal garden was the first hint of all the gardens we would see during our trip.  The people of the Alentejo are serious gardeners.  Over the next few days we biked by hundreds of flower and vegetable gardens, filled with colorful rose bushes, bright red geraniums and delightful flowering shrubbery, endless fields of wild flowers, cork trees and olive groves, vineyards and dry golden grasses.

The days flew by as we biked from hill top town to hill top town.  Each day was punctuated by small villages set in rocky terrain and rolling countryside.  The Alentejo is famous as the marble and cork production capital of Portugal.  We cycled by large and small cork trees often in various stages of harvest – cork comes from the bark of the cork tree – skilled cork harvesters cut the bark and peel it off the tree completely.  Cork trees can be harvested about every ten years and can live more than 200 years.  Once removed from the tree, the cork is soaked in water to make it more pliable and eventually corks and strips of the soft material to be used in shoes and mats and bulletin boards are cut from the soft material.  Every little cork that you remove carefully from your wine bottle started life as the bark of a cork tree – likely a tree growing in the Alentejo! 

While every day had its charm, our first day was perhaps my personal favorite.  We set out in the morning after a substantial Portuguese breakfast of fresh fruit and cheese and scrambled eggs; café com leite and lovely flakey croissants and crusty rolls.  Just getting out of the walled town was a challenge – the streets were incredibly narrow and bumpy – each one appeared to lead into another steep narrow path.  When I stopped to ask a village woman how to get to the main road she laughed and told me in Portuguese to just go down hill!  Soon we passed under the city gate and pedalled onto smooth asphalt.  The first few kilometers were an incredibly steep downhill run – I was more concerned with whether my brakes worked than if my gears shifted smoothly.  As we descended, we biked around hairpin turns and past tiny goat farms set into the rocky hillside.  The air was fresh and clean, the roadside was filled with wildflowers – pink, purple, yellow, white, red; wild clover, vetch, scabiosa, daisies, poppies, wild roses and flowers I did not recognize – all vying for space and light.  Straw colored grass filled the fields, interspersed with large spreading cork trees and occasional white oaks.

The Flor da Rosa Pousada

Groin Vault Ceilings

That night we rode into a small town, Flor de Rosa and stayed in a 14^th century monastery that was recently converted into a luxiorious pousada.  The fortified monastery was set at the edge of a small village.   Its stark white spaces and high groin vaulted ceilings reminded us of its past as a place of contemplative worship.

We stopped in small towns along the way to eat ham and cheese sandwiches and to warm ourselves with hot coffee and milk.  The weather in May is not warm and we appreciated the opportunity to warm our fingers around the small china cups.  On the second day, just as our sandwiches were prepared and we had made ourselves comfortable on the terrace, the first of several rain storms hit.  The accomodating gentleman who owned the café came to the door and cranked the canopy over the open terrace.  Regardless, we locked up our bikes and went inside to enjoy our meal in the cozy café.  That afternoon and the next day it rained continuously.  We were freezing as we cycled through windy fields and cold driving rain.  We stopped in a small sports store the morning of the third day to buy a warm vest for one of us.  My friend was so cold as we left the pousada in a hail and rain storm, we knew she needed more clothing.  Both the second and third days we arrived at spendid medieval pousadas soaked to the bone, tired and hungry.  The inn keepers welcomed us and helped stow our bikes.  We peeled off our wet shorts and shirts and brought feeling back into our frozen feet with lovely warm showers.  My best advice for biking in Portugal in May is to bring extra warm waterproof bike clothes.  While the landscape is beautiful, the weather can be unsettled and wild.

The Temple of Diana in Évora

Each of the pousadas we stayed in had its own appeal – the pink and black marble floors and the Roman Temple in Évora, the brick groin vaulted ceilings in Flor da Rosa, the inner courtyards with fountains and orange trees, wide open stair cases decorated with old tapestries in Estremoz, old frescoes and 15^th and 16^th century paintings covering the walls of long hallways in each inn, the ancient farm implements and large olive jars in Arraiolos.  We drank wonderful regional wine and enjoyed the traditional Alentejo cuisine – Caldo de Peixe; black pork cooked in fragrant bread; coriander and tomato soup with poached eggs; sardine paste;  red peppers and salty nuts – everything was delicious.  We saw exquisite blue and white picture tiles on the walls of building and particularly at the Vila Viçosa train station – these traditional tiles are called azulejos.  At the old closed train station the azulejos explained the history and economy of the region.  We rode down narrow streets so small we wondered if our bikes would fit.  We held our breath as we cycled up slippery steep cobblestones.  We crossed languid rivers and climbed up hilly plains.  We rode alone, we rode together, we composed haikus to bolster our spirits when the rain blew sideways. 

On the last evening we pulled out our strappy summer dresses and wore them to dinner.  We toasted a wonderful trip.  We loved the ride.  We loved the friendly people, the old churches, the cobblestone streets, the cork trees and the wildflowers.  We especially loved the historic pousadas.  Portugal has reason to be proud of its architecture and its history.  We never once got lost.  And amazingly, we didn’t have a single flat tire which was just as well since none of us had any confidence in our ability to successfully manage the tiny little pumps!  We think we might go back to Portugal and bike again next year.  It is lovely.

Spring Boats, Blooms and Books

Britain's men beat UW Husky Crew

Early May is wet and gorgeous in Seattle.  The green landscape is washed in soft colors.  Everything is in bloom.  Even some of the weeds look good.  They haven’t had time to grow up yet.  Of course, it is raining most of the time so you need your umbrella and rain boots.  Last Saturday was no exception.  It was the opening of the Boating Season along the Montlake Cut and the 140^th running of the Kentucky Derby.  I got up early and started weeding and pruning the overhanging bushes along my street before 9 am.  A few rainsqualls blew over me but passed by rapidly.  By 11 am I was sitting on the banks of the Montlake Cut, right at the University of Washington, watching the Huskies row against Great Britain in the Windermere Cup.  It was perhaps the most exciting rowing race I have seen in the thirty something years I have watched the UW crew.  Each year, the Windermere Cup pits the UW men and women’s teams against an international team.

  

Most years, the outstanding UW teams win with no problem.  But not this year.  The women’s race was neck and neck but our Husky women pulled ahead to win in the last 100 yards.  No such luck for the Husky men. 

The men’s race was a toss up until right before the finish line.  

The powerful Brits won by only a couple of strokes.  

We spectators sat in the rain and cheered for everyone!  The athletes deserved our cheers.  This year’s Windermere Cup races were a grand showing of the venerable sport of rowing which owes much to Great Britain.  Hail Britannia!!

Later I returned home and ate British Bangers to celebrate the win while I watched the Kentucky Derby.  Boat races and horse races have coincided for me on the first Saturday of May ever since I moved to Seattle.  It is a great day to celebrate two sports that trace their history back to the 19^th century – long before football and basketball dominated the airwaves.   

Yesterday I had lunch with my friend Martha and toured her beautiful garden.  She has been working on it for many years and her efforts show.  There are multiple mature shrubs and trees; perennial herbs and grasses that make the spaces in her garden flow seamlessly and gracefully together.  I wonder if a reluctant gardener like me could ever make our garden even a little bit as pretty as hers.  I don’t know the names of all her plants but they were all in bloom – some I had never seen before – one she called Pieris Japonica – it was covered with masses of tiny white bells that looked as if a fairy had crafted them out of translucent paper.  There were blooming spireas, viburnums, rhododendrons, and an enormous Japanese maple that was simply grand.  She had maidenhair ferns clustered in the shadows along a woodland path that bordered a small slope covered in hydrangeas.  The whole garden space was extraordinary…sort of a Japanese Zen garden complete with large rocks covered with moss and falling water.  The sense of tranquility continued into the house where all the walls are floor to ceiling windows that beg you to look or go outside.  She has spent years completing a total remodel of her house.   It is very sparse and peaceful – not full of the brick-a-brac that fills all the surfaces in our house. 

Martha’s spare spaces made me think about all the stuff in my house.  While I feel friendly towards my stuff… I know I need to get rid of some of it.  But where do I start?  A few weeks ago I sorted through hundreds of books in my basement and recycled many to Goodwill.  But there are so many left that I don’t want to get rid of.  Should I throw away the ones that belonged to Jeff’s grandfather…it seems a sacrilege to recycle a book that he gave and inscribed lovingly to his bride, my husband’s grandmother, in 1914.  But where does one keep all of these things?  In the end at my parents’ house, when we cleaned it out after they died, we recycled thousands of books to the Salvation Army although each of us kept a few. 

Books, books, books

I grew up in a house that put a special value on books, especially classical books.  Years ago I could never have imagined recycling even one book.  On the contrary, my habit was to feel inadequate that I owned too few books.  I felt as if it implied, no proved, that I didn’t read enough books.  Of course that was before the Internet was invented.  Now it is difficult to have the same emotions about every book.  When I need information I turn to my computer, not to my library.  I don’t need my World Books or encyclopedias anymore.  I can find more current and likely more accurate information on line.  So what do I do with all the books that crowd my house?  And it isn’t just books, it is pictures, photographs, knick-knacks from our years of travel, clothes that date back thirty years. 

Martha’s house was an inspiration…with its stark restful spaces.  Perhaps we long for what we don’t have.  I remember Martha once telling me, years ago when she was in the middle of her long remodel (is there any other kind?) that she envied my home with all its pictures on the walls and mementoes filling the shelves.  Now I envy her spare style.  She told me that a mutual friend came and helped her weed out her wardrobe the day before.  One disadvantage of staying the same size – both Martha and I kept off the 10 pounds every 10 years by just continuing to exercise and eat healthy food – is that you still fit into clothes that went out of style years ago.  We laughed about that.  But we also lamented that most of the clothes available for women over 60 are all loose and shapeless with elastic waists.  We don’t have a solution but we both find ourselves wearing jeans and exercise clothes most days of the week.  We don’t want to wear clothes that are meant for our daughters’ age or that are thirty years out of date.  We hugged goodbye after a final garden tour in the rain.  One good thing about old friends is shared history.  Now that is something that cannot be replaced or recycled.  Just cherished.