On My Mind: Becoming an elder

When a colleague recently suggested we go together to an “elders retreat” in Arizona, I started contemplating what being an elder might mean. The people I think of as elders — my parents, my godfather, some of my grandparents, teachers, older friends, and colleagues — are those who offered me wisdom, time, and kindness, expecting little in return. 

Now nearly 70, I’m surprised to find that I’m increasingly hopeful about becoming more like those elders who gave so much to me. Maybe, I thought, my friend’s retreat might help me continue moving in this direction. I signed up. 

At the end of October, I joined a group of 13 people at a small, remote Buddhist retreat center in a valley embraced by mountains strewn with gigantic boulders. My cohorts ranged in age from 59 to 83. The 83-year-old, one of two guides, had a mind as youthful and alive as that of anyone I’ve met. 

In preparation for the retreat, I’d read a book called “Soulcraft” by Bill Plotkin, who had trained both of our guides at the Animas Valley Institute, which offers guided immersions into the mysteries of nature and psyche in Colorado. Plotkin writes that soul exploration is often painful, and sometimes accompanied or precipitated by loneliness, loss, and life crises. All indigenous cultures have rituals and tools to explore our souls and help us transition from one stage of life to another — drumming, mind-altering plant medicine, solo journeys into the wilderness, fasting, holotropic breathing, chanting, prayer, meditation, and more. These rituals are often performed in nature, to enhance the soul’s connection with the natural world. Modern Western cultures have largely abandoned such rituals in exchange for the pursuit of material acquisitions, power, prestige, and youthfulness. Plotkin suggests that our Western communities would be better served by finding our own ways to explore our souls, and that such exploration is a prerequisite to achieving elderhood (as opposed to just growing older). 

At the retreat, our days started at 7 am with an hourlong guided meditation. At 8 am, we had breakfast and discussed our dreams from the previous night. Then we met outdoors and learned about such topics as the importance of ceremonies, grief, the meaning of becoming an elder, and preparation for our own deaths. After that, we went off alone into the desert for three hours to commune with nature and contemplate our souls or themes of the day. Because many cultures view sharing stories as an important role for elders, we followed our solo sessions by telling the group about our individual experiences. After dinner, we drummed together in the dark, paired off to stargaze, or, one evening, had in-depth discussions with an elder of the Chiricahua Apache tribe that had once inhabited the land where we were visiting. 

Being thrown together with a dozen strangers for a week is, in itself, powerful. But for me, the retreat’s most transformative moments were those I spent alone. The center had a room shrouded in complete darkness. Most of the center’s residents spent five days alone in the dark. I spent one afternoon there, moving around entirely by feel. I’d expected to be bored, and possibly to sleep, but neither happened. As this was on a day when we’d discussed grief, I found myself talking out loud, visiting my life’s losses. This brought up intense emotions. Such feelings are an important part of understanding one’s soul. 

Becoming an elder, our instructors asserted, involves acknowledging the losses, traumas, and disappointments of our lives, grieving them and finding our way to an open heart toward others and the world. We need to do what one of our guides called an “apprenticeship in grief and gratitude.” Grief, I realized, involves joy as well as sorrow, because what we’ve lost and are grieving is always something we have loved, or at least hoped to love (hence something that may have brought us joy). Francis Weller’s “gates of grief” (bit.ly/Weller_WildEdge) include the awareness that everything we love will be lost, that there were times in our lives when we needed but did not receive love, and that some hoped-for possibilities will remain unfulfilled. 

In many cultures, rituals that herald life transitions often involve confronting death. Our guides suggested creating a “death lodge” — a place in the wilderness where we could imagine our deaths and any conversations with friends and family, alive and dead, that we might want to have before leaving this life. I found a good spot for this, and just as I lay down and was about to close my eyes, I heard shrieking from the other side of a small hill. A large black raven appeared, its wings whooshing right over my head, and then it disappeared back over the knoll. I hadn’t previously seen much life in the desert at all, no less a raven. The Western rationalist in me tells me that the symbol of death appearing just as I was beginning to contemplate death was just coincidence. But was it? Certainly, there are forces in the universe that we don’t begin to understand.

One of the most important experiences I had during one of my outdoor solos was a ceremony I created on a mountainside between two boulders — one warm and in the light, the other cold and shaded. During the ceremony, I went through a list of resentments that I have carried for years. With each, I acknowledged my part in the events that caused my resentful feelings and came to a kinder understanding of what had created my grudges. Leaning into the light, I released a wisp of grass into the wind for each one. Afterward, amazingly, I felt resentment-free. 

What a relief. Research suggests that forgiveness of ourselves and others makes us happier. And other studies show that people over 65 are on average happier, have more positive emotions, and are more satisfied with their social networks. We seem to have an easier time accepting things that we cannot control, and as a result, are more open to accepting ourselves and others just as we are.

Cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker has suggested that our culture overinvests in denying death by overemphasizing youth, productivity, and distraction from grief, and that doing so can obscure self-knowledge and leave little room for spirituality, communal involvement, and compassion for ourselves and others. As we age, we can enrich our lives by making room for grief, focusing on what and whom we cherish, and exploring our inner selves. In doing so, we find that things that once seemed paramount (money, prestige, constant productivity, being included in social events) fade in importance, and we naturally become more open to love, kindness, and compassion — the cornerstones of elderhood.

Dr. Charles Silberstein is a psychiatrist on staff at Martha’s Vineyard Hospital and at Island Counseling Center, where he is the medical director. He is board-certified in general, addiction, and geriatric psychiatry. He writes regularly about issues Islanders have with mental health.

Laura D. Roosevelt is a poet, journalist, and editor who writes regularly for Bluedot Living and other local publications.