DRUNK ON GRATITUDE JUICE
Meditation Re-entry, Nick Cave—An Unlikely Advice Columnist, Kibitzing Is A Salve for the Soul, & A Highlight from Moby Dick
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” - Albert Einstein
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If you’re a subscriber to In With The Old, you’ve probably figured out that this Substack is a pro-aging space. I’m inspired by my peers and older adults who are making the most of the time they have left on this planet. I hope that by sharing stories, links, and musings, I’m able to shine a positive light on the benefits of growing older. If you know anyone who might get a kick out of these posts, please feel free to forward this on or re-stack.
GRATITUDE JUICE
Thursday, after a five or six-week break, I rejoined my Zoom meditation group led by the Irish meditation guide, Tony Brady. Our session focused on gratitude and the wonderment of life itself. He talked about the remarkable existence of the universe and our good fortune to be part of it. This proved to be a very well-timed injection of Zen because a construction crew has been banging away at the wall behind my desk. Miraculously, I have yet to run screaming from the building. I guess I’m still drunk on gratitude juice and happy to be alive.
Before I logged on to meditate, I felt a bit crispy and worn out from what has been a busy week. Jared and I returned from a road trip on Monday, and on Tuesday morning, I ran out to get bagels because I’d committed to hosting a get together in our yard. I was tired from our travels and overwhelmed by the prospect of pulling together a brunch party. Part of me wanted to cancel, but I couldn’t let down our guest-of-honor—a friend I will call Norma.
Norma is nearly 80-years-old. She was close with my dearly departed nonagenarian neighbor/friend, Tina. During the pandemic, I gave Norma a call to check in. It took her a few minutes to recognize my name and she revealed that she’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Norma spent a lot of time next door at Tina’s house over the years and she missed seeing the neighbors, she said. So in March, I invited Norma, her daughter, and a few neighbors over for a get together.
When Norma arrived, it was clear her diagnosis had taken a toll. She’d always been a petite person, but she’d grown quite frail, and her smile revealed a missing upper tooth. Still, she lit up with excitement at the sight of each guest and remained engaged and sanguine throughout the brunch. Before she left, she said, “This has been one of the greatest days of my life. Can I come back again?”
Naturally I said, “Of course!” and this past Tuesday was our brunch sequel. Though prepping for company had stressed me out, it was great fun to kibitz with this group of friends and neighbors. Norma loved socializing too and recalled conversations from our previous meet up. She said that visiting with us helped jog her memory, thus proving that social connection can truly make a difference in our health and wellness. I was glad I’d rallied to pull the brunch together and it was a good reminder that being of service is often a win/win situation.
AN OLDER AND WISER NICK CAVE
Speaking of being of service, Nick Cave—the 65-year-old Australian singer-songwriter, poet, author, screenwriter and “occasional actor,” who made a name for himself as the front man for the ‘70s post-punk band, The Birthday Party, and later became a goth icon with his band Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds—has added advice columnist to his impressive resume.
I showed up late to the Nick Cave appreciation party. In 1998, I heard his beautiful ballad, “Into My Arms,” during a scene in the quirky/excellent movie, The Zero Effect. Afterwards, I purchased the movie’s soundtrack and played that song over and over again, usually with tears welling in my eyes. That was the extent of my exposure to the artist, apart from hearing an occasional song on the radio. Then, six years ago, my friend, Leigh scored some cheap tickets to see Cave live and invited me along.
At 6’2, with a bony frame and jet-black mane, Nick Cave cuts an imposing figure. He loomed over the crowd that night like a vampiric preacher in a three-piece black suit sans shirt. His deep voice thundered through the speakers as he strutted across the stage, one hand clamped around the mic, and the other fist punching the sky.
I shot the video above (and the one at the top of this post) at the show and the reverence of the audience still impresses me. Nobody shoved a phone in Cave’s face to get a close up, and when he chopped at the air to quiet the clapping, a hush came over the crowd. I’ve seen a lot of performers in my day, across all genres of music, but in terms of enthralling, captivating, and mesmerizing live performances, Nick Cave ranks up there with the best.
To be clear, I’m no Nick Cave expert. I haven’t spent time steeped in his oeuvre. I do, however, subscribe to his advice column/newsletter, The Red Hand Files, and I’m always moved by his thoughtful, heartfelt, and eloquent responses to strangers’ letters. The types of questions he receives run the gamut, though many are written by people suffering from trauma, loss, and grief. Cave, whose teenage son accidentally fell to his death from a cliff’s edge in 2015, and last year, his older son died (cause undisclosed), knows and understands the vast depths of grief and pain. An artist who rose to fame spewing rage and notorious for drug-addled antics, Cave has said that tragedy changed him. In a response to a fan who wrote, “When did you become a Hallmark hippie? Where’s the rage?”
Cave responded:
When my son died, I was faced with an actual devastation, and with no real effort of my own that posture of disgust toward the world began to wobble and collapse underneath me. I started to understand the precarious and vulnerable position of the world. I started to fret for it. Worry about it. I felt a sudden, urgent need to, at the very least, extend a hand in some way to assist it – this terrible, beautiful world – instead of merely vilifying it, and sitting in judgement of it.
Recently, several fans sent pissy letters to Cave about his decision to attend King Charles’ coronation. One person said, “What would the young Nick Cave think of that?”
I love his response so much and appreciate that the older, more mature Nick Cave is unapologetically embracing his softer side and choosing to use his powers for good. Let’s hope he inspires his readers to do the same.
I am not a monarchist, nor am I a royalist, nor am I an ardent republican for that matter; what I am also not is so spectacularly incurious about the world and the way it works, so ideologically captured, so damn grouchy, as to refuse an invitation to what will more than likely be the most important historical event in the UK of our age. Not just the most important, but the strangest, the weirdest.
I once met the late Queen at an event at Buckingham Palace for ‘Aspirational Australians living in the UK’ (or something like that). It was a mostly awkward affair, but the Queen herself, dressed in a salmon coloured twin-set, seemed almost extraterrestrial and was the most charismatic woman I have ever met. Maybe it was the lighting, but she actually glowed. As I told my mother – who was the same age as the Queen and, like the Queen, died in her nineties – about that day, her old eyes filled with tears. When I watched the Queen’s funeral on the television last year I found, to my bafflement, that I was weeping myself as the coffin was stripped of the crown, orb and sceptre and lowered through the floor of St. George’s Chapel. I guess what I am trying to say is that, beyond the interminable but necessary debates about the abolition of the monarchy, I hold an inexplicable emotional attachment to the Royals – the strangeness of them, the deeply eccentric nature of the whole affair that so perfectly reflects the unique weirdness of Britain itself. I’m just drawn to that kind of thing – the bizarre, the uncanny, the stupefyingly spectacular, the awe-inspiring.
And as for what the young Nick Cave would have thought – well, the young Nick Cave was, in all due respect to the young Nick Cave, young, and like many young people, mostly demented, so I’m a little cautious around using him as a benchmark for what I should or should not do. He was cute though, I’ll give him that. Deranged, but cute.
So, with all that in mind, I am looking forward to going the Coronation. I think I’ll wear a suit.
Love, Nick
To read a recent interview with Cave, check out this one; Nick Cave on the Fragility of Life from March 2023 in The New Yorker.
THAT’S ME!
Some of you may have read my post about my Great Aunt Bobbe who used to sign her letters, “The Marvelous, Talented, Brilliant Etc. . . Aunt.” I wrote about wanting to work my way up to her level of chutzpah and at my Tuesday brunch, I seized the opportunity. As the party was winding down, Norma grew tired and had a moment of confusion. She said to me, “How is your friend? She worked in movies and does writing. She’s absolutely brilliant. I think her name is Hil-something?”
“That’s me! I’m the brilliant one!” I said and laughed. She laughed too and reiterated her belief in my brilliance. If only Aunt Bobbe had been there to witness the scene, she would’ve been so tickled.
Later, I offered to package up some food for Norma and said, “I’ll make you a plate.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “I wish you wouldn’t. I prefer being a person.” 😂
Good one, Norma!
A SECOND FLOWERING OF YOUTH
Jared is taking a course called Space and Place in the 19th Century Novel, so, on our road trip up north, we listened to half of the tome, ergo, TEN HOURS of Moby Dick by Herman Melville. As you may know or perhaps have guessed, the book contains a slew of ponderous passages about whaling—a subject that is very hard to stomach for this vegetarian/animal lover. I know it’s considered a “Great American Novel,” and all that, but me thinks Herman could’ve killed a few darlings and/or benefitted from a cut-throat editor. That said, I found a lot of the prose entertaining, evocative, and lyrical. I particularly loved his description of the character Father Mapple pasted below. May we all reach that “hardy winter of old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering of youth . . .”
That’s all for this week! Thanks for liking, commenting, sharing, restacking, and all that jazz. I’m grateful for your support.
You ARE the brilliant one! These dispatches never fail to entertain and amuse and sometimes they even enlighten. Thank you!