Read, sign, and share the petition to urge the Federal Government to improve senior housing, because SURVIVAL IS NOT ENOUGH. https://change.org/ImproveSeniorHousing
Write Letters to the Editors of your local newspapers promoting the message and the petition.
I’ve been on antidepressants on and off during most of my adult life. They would keep from getting too negative, but they never really helped me feel much better.
That’s because most prescribed antidepressants are “serotonin agonists”. Serotonin is one of the chemicals produced by the brain’s neurotransmitters that calms anxiety and keeps you from feeling negative and defeatist. A “serotonin agonist” is a substance that mimics the serotonin that your synapses are releasing to add to their effectiveness in instances when they have slowed down. (That is only a layperson’s simplistic description; I am not a doctor or scientist, but I’ve done a lot of reading about the process; a visual example is at the end of this post.)
It seems to me that, just as bodily functions cease to operate at maximum efficiency as we get older (and so we take statins and blood pressure meds etc.), the functions of the brain also slow down as we age. I posit that the lack of enough serotonin available to the aged brain can be the cause of so much of the depression we see in the elderly.
Now, not being depressed is not the same as feeling content and happy. I have discovered, for my purposes, that there is a pill for that.
One of the other chemicals produced by the brain’s neurotransmitters is dopamine, which plays a role in motivation and reward-seeking behavior. And that’s the happy pill: a “dopamine agonist” that helps the neurotransmitters and synapses create the dopamine necessary to have a positive effect on mood.
Now, why aren’t both serotonin agonists and dopamine agonists prescribed together? Actually, only recently, prescriptions like Abilify, which only partially deal with dopamine, are available. But they didn’t really work for me.
So now I take one serotonin agonist and one dopamine agonist.
And now I’m writing more, launched a national petition to improve senior housing, just organized a Drum Circle at my senior center, and took on a project to write an interview of the author of Turning: The Magic and Mystery of More Days
As promised, here’s a visual of how neurotransmitters work, using dopamine as an example:
I’m sending out Letters to the Editor and OpEd pieces promoting the petition to whatever publications I think might accept them. Please feel free to send your own Letter to the Editor to your own local newspaper. Meanwhile, inspired by “…they paved paradise and put in a parking lot…” from Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi.
Under a dark moon,
she hunts the land for what
she cannot leave behind:
the scent of marigold
crushed on skin;
the fragile grace
of seedling maples;
the soft acceptance
of lambs ear leaves —
all lost to the dark,
to a place too ruined
for digging.
Tirelessly, she wrestles
the ghosts she has come
to free from the hold
of reluctant stone,
from the evil spell
binding the earth once
worked with the patient
need of her hands.
Held by the moment,
I breathe deeply
the sharp-scented air,
search for signs
of moon in the sky,
pray to find
what has been lost
from her night
and from my own.
Actually DO look up “Don’t Look Up”, which is a movie currently streaming on Netflix.
It’s not your usual disaster movie, although it is about a meteor the size of Mount Everest hurtling toward Earth on a collision course.
I decided to watch it for the unexpected and notable cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Meryl Streep, Jennifer Lawrence, Cate Blanchette, Jonah Hill, Tyler Perry, Ariana Grande, Ron Perlman, and other recognizable actors. One recognizable character was a take-off on Elon Musk.
I didn’t know what to expect from a “disaster” movie, and I’m not sharing any spoilers. Suffice it to say, the acting was superb and the message, well, you’ll get it loud and clear and real. I think that reviewers who didn’t like it missed the satirical point.
I’ve been searching to find out who might be the oldest continuing personal blogger in the U.S. Not a blogger who hawks services or products or is any kind of influencer. Rather, a female blogger who posts about her life and times. My search has yielded no information. I have been blogging since 2001, starting at kalilily.blogspot.com. Is there any woman out there older than I (84) doing the same thing?
Back in December of 2001, I blogged about why I started to blog. It’s worth reprising here:
So, there are some discussions going these days on about the purpose and value of weblogs. Oddly enough, the other night at my bi-monthly group meeting, I mentioned that I had begun a weblog, and I was asked to explain what that was and why I was doing it, and why I just wasn’t keeping a journal. As I’ve said, I’ve unsuccessfully tried keeping journals before and I write so much slower than I think that I got frustrated and quit. I can type almost as fast as I think (I got used to doing that at the job from which I retired last year, which involved mostly whipping out quick documents for others to share and claim as their own.) So, it’s easier to do it on the computer. And why don’t I just keep a journal on disk, I was asked. The truth is, I admitted, is that I’m used to writing for an audience. And I like having an audience. Even my poems are usually written with an audience (sometimes of one) in mind. It’s why I ballroom dance. I’m a performer at heart. I need ways to say to the world: this is who I am. Look at me. Pay attention. It seems to me that that’s at the heart of why everyone else who keeps a blog does so. In a world where we all have to live up to expectations and assume roles for survival purposes (our own and others) — caregiver, mother, employee, citizen — it’s so satisfying to have a place where one can BE who one is. Or in some cases, where one can BE who one wants to BE. It really doesn’t matter. We can create who we want to be or be creative with who we are. Either way, one has an identity, a voice. In a way, it’s kind of a new art form — or at least it can evolve in some cases into such. How cool is that!
A couple of months ago, my senior center brought in a teacher of African Drumming, so I took the six Friday course, and loved it. He is back for four weeks now in October, and I can’t wait.
My daughter came and recorded the last session he gave so that I could practice at home. She said that I was the best one there, but, after all, many of the folks who were drumming barely had the strength to get a sound out of their drums, and their sense of the African rhythms was as weak as their hands.
I think my experience ballroom dancing helped a great deal to hone my sense of rhythm and my ability to improvise.
This new series starts this Friday, and I am psyched. I even made a t-shirt with an image with djembe drums.
I remember a little boy
with a heavy brow
framing a careful gaze.
I don’t remember
where I lost him.
Maybe
it was at that fuel pump,
where I absentmindedly
drove off, only to see him,
in hindsight, running
down the road after me,
crying. Both of us
crying.
Maybe
it was during that
black and white
winter night, when
the only light was
moon on snow,
and I left him, alone
powerless, not knowing
that the dark house
would overtake him.
Maybe
I didn’t really lose him.
Maybe
it shouldn’t matter.
What matters is that
I still dream about
a little boy with
a heavy brow
and a dark gaze,
who is always reaching,
reeling, and running.
Well, this might throw a glitch in our national petition for improved senior housing! What might happen is that the Feds might say it’s a state responsibility, but we all know that few states are as liberal as Massachusetts. Here’s what the MA legislation says, according to Mass.gov:
On Aug. 6, 2024 Governor Maura Healey signed the Affordable Homes Act into law. The historic legislation authorizes $5.16 billion in spending over the next five years along with nearly 50 policy initiatives to counter rising housing costs caused by high demand and limited supply.
The bill includes unprecedented authorizations in modernizing the state’s public housing system, boosts programs that support first-time homebuyers and homeownership, and resources to build more housing for low to moderate-income residents. It also includes many policy changes that will unlock housing production in our state, such as allowing accessory dwelling units, support for the conversion of vacant commercial space to housing and support for sustainable and green housing initiatives.
Gov. Healey believes Massachusetts can build more homes and build them faster, and the Affordable Homes Act, filed in October 2023, is how we will accomplish our mission.
The Executive Office of Housing and Livable Communities is now working on the implementation of the Affordable Homes Act. More information will be released in the coming weeks and months regarding key policy initiatives.
This is pretty much what our national petition is asking for on a national level. I wonder what this will all mean for our effort.
A version in poetry, in contrast to the prose version. This is a good example of how my poetry comes from a much deeper and more honest place than my prose.
Charm School
They sent me to Charm School
that graduation summer.
Each day I dressed for Park Avenue:
black high heels and gartered hose,
dress hemmed below my pristine knees.
Even white gloves, the eternal symbol
of lady-like correctness.
They sent me to Charm School
to smooth my ragged edges,
remove me from the music
and the bad boys who played it
and give me the face that they
wanted to show the world.
And I went, my last concession.
The sent me to Charm School,
where I learned to sit with ankles,
(not knees) crossed, hands cupped
demurely in a lap that never opened.
They amended my eyebrows, hair,
tried to dislodge my unpleasant
speech, bearing, attitude.
They send me to Charm School.
And the one thing I remember
is how Loretta Young could open
a door into crowded room and
gracefully turn her back
on her eager audience.
They sent me to Charm School,
but their bright fantasies and
those charming illusions,
could not defuse the dark fire
that fuels my recalcitrant soul.
While I’m waiting for the signatures on the Improve Senior Housing petition to reach 100, I’m poking around in my old poetry. This from pre-Covid:
The Senior Center Singer
Hair white as winter,
face aligned with 91 years:
Seconds slow to match her
shambling gait secured
with sturdy black cane
and orthopedic shoes
as she moves to the mic
in the room’s easy silence.
As the soft piano tones,
her eyes glow like summer
mornings, bright and vital;
the plains of her face revive
as the clear soprano of her voice
reclaims the joys of Summertime,
recalls when living was easy
and babies hushed to the touch
of her melancholy lullaby.