NINETY-FIVE

Given the theme of this gathering, we might say a bit about being 95.

I haven’t tried it long. So far, it’s much like 94, about which I know a lot. It’s sometimes okay, mostly good, although there are days when talking about it is more comfortable than living it.

There are some serious things to say about it. I’ll say two.

First, context is essential. Being 95 is not about one person. A human relationship is a balance - - - of responsibilities, of values, of aspirations. Even of just plain fun. For years, Ruth and I have enjoyed such a balance (even though the weight has leaned often a bit more towards her). Now, as one of us slows, greater burdens shift increasingly to the other. The stress falls on both, and at least equally on the one who is not 95.

I repeat: being 95 is not about one person.

Second, let’s think for a moment about being 95.

Of the many metaphors for life’s journey, one of the most familiar is to hike a mountain. Since I’m partial to mountains, let’s take this one. It’s a metaphoric mountain we all climb; we’ve just started at different times.

I’m up now from lowland deciduous forest - - - maple and beech and oak and ash - - - through transitional stands of pine, past hemlock and fir and spruce, beyond the last dwarf conifers, wind-stunted. Above tree-line, out on open rock.

The view from here is good. For each of us, the view is different, shaped and colored by events along our trail as we ascend. What I see looks very much like what I see before me here. Close family and friends. Welcoming, reassuring, sustaining. The best view.

But towards the top, our metaphorical mountain is more complex. It’s a windy place, and gusty. A place of sudden change, of sometime storm, of sun and shadow. A place of emotion and spirit, of introspection and reflection. Not a simple place.

For this we need - - - a Poet.

Often now my mind turns to what Alfred Lord Tennyson writes about Ulysses. Just two short phrases; some of you may remember.

It’s been twenty years since that fateful voyage back to Ithaca from Troy. Ulysses calls a reunion of his shipmates from those days. All come who can. He rejoices to see them.

But Ulysses is a practical man. That’s how he made it home. He looks at his former shipmates gathered in his feasting hall, and what does he see? Some balding heads, some plumpness around the middle, a gimpy leg or two. He sizes all this up, and then he speaks to them:

"We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven. But what we are, we are. Tho’ much is taken, much abides."

This pretty well sums it up. Much is surely taken --- I fight it daily and I lose, or sometimes win delay. And surely also much abides --- I count it daily.

Back up on that windy metaphoric mountain, there’s a post with a "95". Behind it slightly is another, "89". Ahead of us the rock still rises, and the path with it, until the prospect softens in the gentle mists that cling around the summits of high peaks. Ruth and I are near the posts. We are grateful for the lives we’ve lived, especially for these later years when our lives have tracked together.. We are grateful for the gift of the lives that have touched ours.

We share - - - each of us - - - a portion of the strength that still abides.

And we continue on our way.

Craig Mathews
October 19, 2024