The Last Gift of Time

"Women, I believe, search for fellow beings who have faced similar struggles, conveyed them in ways a reader can transform into her own life, confirmed desires the reader had hardly acknowledged - desires that now seem possible.  Women catch courage from the women whose lives and writings they read and women call the bearer of that courage friend."

~ Carolyn Heilbrun

The Last Gift of Time:Life Beyond Sixty

I have been fortunate to acquire a few such friends along the way, often by accident - Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Tristine Rainer, Judith Cameron, Natalie Goldberg.  Heilbrun is the most recent; somehow I missed her until recently when The Last Gift of Time was lent to me by a friend to whom I'd shared my interest in reading about aging. This book, she said, was a must to read, a classic, a favorite of hers and of her mother before her. I wasn't 20 pages into the book when I knew I wanted my own copy. 

Although I am close in age to the age at which Heilbrun wrote the book, I did not identify easily with her at the outset, the particulars of our lives being quite different.  Heilbrun was a distinguished author and critic, a professor at Colombia for over 30 years, a single child of upper class Jewish parents, a mother and grandmother, well-traveled, well-known.  And I - the eldest daughter of working class Sicilian-Americans, a Mid-westerner at heart, educator, small business owner, no children - in so many ways, an ordinary woman. 

As the book unfolded, however, as Heilbrun shared her insights and opinions about men, marriage, memory, time, mortality, I felt I'd come across a kindred spirit.  When she described her despair over the state of our society, I became her hallelujah choir.  When she declared a woman could be a feminist without hating men, I knew I'd found another friend (Heilbrun calls such a friend "unmet").  And when she asserted that to remain vital beyond sixty, one needs to pursue an undertaking that "requires strong effort and the evidence of growing proficiency", I knew this to be another one of those right books at the right time that I cherish.

What sealed my conviction that I'd found another friend was the sense of recognition when I discovered that Heilbrun had written a mystery series under the pseudonym of Amanda Cross, a series I had devoured years ago.  And the sense of loss and sadness when I learned that Heilbrun had committed suicide only seven years after the publication of The Last Gift of Time.

I recognize that some younger readers may find this book to be dated; after all, it was written over 20 years ago.  But I hope they will explore it anyway, if only to appreciate the challenges and contributions of feminists of Heilbrun's era.  And to get a taste of her writing style.  Crisp, clear, intelligent, uncompromising, with an irreverence I found particularly appealing.  

My copy arrived in the mail yesterday.  I intend to reread it soon, to take more time to savor the writing, to reflect more carefully, to appreciate that I came upon this gift, now that I am beyond sixty.

I Recommend....

"My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” 

                                                                                                                       Dr. Seuss     

In the last years of my mother's life, she often said that it seemed she was reading the Sunday paper every day, so quickly was time passing by.  I'm not quite at that point yet, but the quick passage of time has been brought home to me repeatedly in recent months...my 74th birthday, my "baby" brother's 70th, our 32nd wedding anniversary. the 40th birthday of a young man I would have sworn was only 25.  And returning to this blog to discover I haven't posted in almost a year to the day!

I have been reading, honestly!  In fact, two or three books some weeks.  Mystery, historical narrative, psychology, e-books, paperbacks.   Book club selections, books I've enjoyed, books I haven't finished - but none that I've felt compelled to share until recently.  None that I couldn't wait to recommend to friend, family, even strangers, until recently.

Therefore, after a longer hiatus than I had planned, here are four books that I have been recommending, even extolling whenever and wherever I've had the opportunity.

Flourish by Martin E. P. Seligman    NF c2013

Seligman, considered by some as the father of Positive Psychology, has continued his work on resiliency, learned optimism and most recently, what he refers to as well-being.  A champion of learning from what works and from healthy practices rather than illness and disease, Seligman combines research and application and presents his findings here with clarity and - optimism.

I almost cheered when I read that Seligman "detests" the word happiness because it's become so overused as to become meaningless...the way I also have come to feel about the word "deserve".

Focusing on well-being and its five pillars of positive emotion, engagement, positive relationship, meaning and accomplishment, Seligman asserts, is what makes for the good life.  And he supports his assertions with academic studies as well as anecdotal stories.

Levels of Life by Julian Barnes

Julian Barnes is one of a handful of authors whose books I order without reading  reviews or even knowing anything about the content of the book..  I have never been disappointed.  Clever writing, a quirky sense of humor, interesting insights into the human condition, challenging questions.  I love the way he writes, but even more, I love the way he thinks - and provokes my thinking.

So when my brother called to suggest Levels of Life, I immediately downloaded it and read it in an afternoon - it's a short read.  This time, I was glad to have a heads up about the structure of the book, divided into three sections that didn't come together until the final section - and the nature of the last section, the powerful, deeply personal and pain-full essay, "The Loss of Depth", in which Barnes shares his five year journey in "the tropic of grief", following the death of his wife from a brain tumor.

This book is not for the faint of heart.  Barnes' pain is palpable, and he is unflinchingly honest - whether he admits to contemplating suicide or describes the reactions of others, some helpful, and others not.  (I winced when I recognized some of my own inadequate, unhelpful responses to loved ones traveling this terrain.) He doesn't seek to reassure or instruct.  No sidebars about research on grief, no details that might evoke sympathy. 

In the Independent from the U.K., the reviewer concluded with this paragraph: " "Every love story is a potential grief story," writes Barnes early on.  Anyone who has loved and lost can't fail to be moved by this devastating book."  I would add that anyone who has been bewildered, uncomfortable or impatient with the grief of another, as I admittedly have, can't fail to be enlightened by this intimate and courageous essay. It may well be that ultimately this latter contribution may be the most significant.


If you want to know more about the book in its entirety,  I found this review to be particularly well done...
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/9951130/Julian-Barnes-Levels-of-Life-review.html  

A Room of One's Own

I have room of my own, a wonderful room.  Though small in square footage, it has 14 ft. ceilings and a bay of windows that look out to distant foothills that turn copper at the break of dawn.  There is a wall of book cases, home to the books that have helped shape my opinions and world view and many I have yet to read. Curios and collections gathered over decades could tell a tale or two.  On the walls, artwork that reflects my aesthetic tastes and the most recent addition, my own graphite drawing, the first which I am satisfied (no, proud) enough to display.  Tucked away in niches, whimsical creatures - gnomes and angels, fanciful women, and a balancing toy Santa who makes me smile so easily that he has earned a dedicated year-round home.

Scattered about are bowls of pens and colored pencils, baskets filled with notebooks, journals and magazines.  Candles and candy jars, pillows and afghans.  And being the holidays, rope lights, a tiny flocked tree, a bouquet of ornaments.  In short, this is a room where I come to contemplate, create, and celebrate.

In one corner is my favorite chair, teal leather with an ottoman, where, nestled among pillows, an afghan across my lap, I retired this afternoon to nurse a bruised and inflamed knee, and for some inexplicable reason to reread A Room of One's Own, the book that initiated the creation of my own space some 30 years ago.

Virginia Woolf died the year I was born, she was only 59 years old. This little gem of only 118 pages, now a classic in many Women's Studies programs and lit courses, was first published in l929.  The essay is based on lectures she gave at Cambridge on the subject of women and fiction, expanded for this book.

Not only can I not explain why I picked it up this afternoon, I can't recall why I originally bought it.  I suspect the title aroused my curiosity.  I certainly did not aspire to becoming a writer.  I do recall being taken with her eloquent style, the beautiful descriptions, the clarity of her logic, the persuasiveness of her arguments.  Setting out to consider why there were so few female authors of prose or poetry, faced with conflicting historical reasons (many asserting women lacked the character, imagination or ability), Woolf came to the conclusion that to create, particularly to write enduring literature, one must have a fixed income and a "room of one's own" - both historically the principal privilege of men.

At that first reading, I had the fixed income, but not a room of my own, not a dedicated space for reflection and creative pursuits, had never had one, never considered it, even during the years when I was single.  Obviously, reading it again in this room has been a personal affirmation, a celebration. But it has also been affirming on a deeper level.  For even as I read, I could look up and see several books on my shelves with the names of female authors.  I could recall hours of pleasure and inspiration this past year thanks to Julia Cameron, P. D. James, Candace Millard, Marilyn Robinson, Donna Leon and Annie Dillard, to name a few. Couldn't help but wonder what Woolf would make of Hilary Mantel winning England's prestigious Book Award for 2012, the first person to win the award twice.

But lest this all makes A Room of One's Own seem irrelevant, one only has to take note that many women still do not have adequate fixed incomes, let alone rooms of their own.  That a young girl could be brutally attacked for simply wanting to be educated.  That there are those, even in this country, who would reverse the progress that women have made.

A Room of Own's One remains relevant, inspiring, and beautifully written.