{"id":14284,"date":"2015-11-22T09:23:36","date_gmt":"2015-11-22T14:23:36","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katrinakenison.com\/?p=14284"},"modified":"2015-11-22T09:23:36","modified_gmt":"2015-11-22T14:23:36","slug":"dear-older-my-best-apple-cake-and-the-beauty-of-lying-fallow","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/katrinakenison.com\/new\/dear-older-my-best-apple-cake-and-the-beauty-of-lying-fallow\/","title":{"rendered":"dear old(er): my best apple cake and the beauty of lying fallow"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"IMG_7589\"<\/p>\n

This is the fourth in a series of letters between me and my friend, author Margaret Roach<\/a>, on the challenges (and joys!) of aging. I\u2019m Old (just 56) and she\u2019s Older (by 5 years). And since we\u2019re surely not the only ones buying wrinkle creams, we decided to share our exchange with you, too. Be sure to read Margaret\u2019s letter to me here<\/a>. \u00a0(Our earlier letters are here<\/a>.)<\/em><\/p>\n

D<\/span>ear Margaret (my oldER<\/em> friend),<\/p>\n

There is something about these shorter days and longer, darker, colder nights. I\u2019m wondering if you\u2019re feeling it, too: the urge to hunker, to shut off the computer and read print on a page instead of a screen, to sip hot tea from a mug, to dress in layers of soft, comfy clothes, fashion be damned.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m turning lights on in my kitchen most days by three in the afternoon. And although I\u2019m able now to drive my car, the truth is I\u2019d rather be inside, cozied up on the loveseat with some pillows under my knees and my new favorite book in my lap. The impulse to stay put, safe and warm at home, is as strong as any pull to be out and about shopping for groceries or visiting friends.<\/p>\n

This place I\u2019m in now \u2013 mostly homebound, healing from one hip replacement and preparing my mind and body for another in a few short weeks \u2013 is definitely an in-between kind of territory, what a psychologist might call a \u201climinal space.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve always loved that word, liminal<\/em>, so evocative and poetic. But I looked it up just now to make sure I\u2019m using it correctly. Turns out, it derives from the Latin word limens<\/em>, which means threshold \u2013 and it refers quite specifically to a discomfiting time of ambiguity, of not knowing, of disorientation.<\/p>\n

So, yes! Liminal it is. And holing up at home here between surgeries, I do feel as if I\u2019m being taken apart and put back together again, physically and spiritually. No wonder I feel so bare and vulnerable, so uncertain of the future and so hesitant to make any firm plans \u2013 even for next week. My body is busy with its cellular healing, but I seem to be doing some quiet, private, emotional work as well, absorbing the recent loss of my beloved friend, of my own worn-out body parts, and even of my old way of being in the world.<\/p>\n

Before you can begin something new, you have to end what used to be. Before you can become a different kind of person, you must let go of the old identity. Before you can learn a new way of doing things, you have to unlearn the old way.<\/em><\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0 ~<\/strong>\u00a0William Bridges<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The active, busy, middle-aged life I took for granted just a short time ago is over. No more long runs at dawn. No more scampering up and down the stairs countless times a day. No more teaching yoga, bending over to pick things up off the floor, sitting cross-legged on my meditation cushion, or hurrying across a busy intersection. No more getting in and out of a car without a thought as to how my legs are bending.<\/p>\n

I may do these things again in the future. But my new post-op life has yet to begin. Right now, I\u2019m wearing white knee-high compression stockings and having my blood drawn every few days and taking very slow, very short walks as far as the next door neighbor’s house.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_7553\"A<\/span>lthough I do daydream a bit, trying to envision what it\u2019ll be like to be pain-free and mobile once again, there remain some rather daunting challenges between my current perch on the couch and where I hope to end up six months from now: hiking and vacuuming and bike riding and forward bending.<\/p>\n

In the meantime, here I am. On pause. Living in my body as a question rather than as a statement. Waiting and wondering what may be possible and where my new sense of purpose will come from. And asking that unsettling, age-old question that always bubbles up when I\u2019m not really sure what I\u2019m supposed to be doing: Now what?<\/em><\/p>\n

As usual, I turn to wise writers in search of answers. A quick inquiry into liminal spaces yields this from theologian Richard Rohr, who reassures me that no one<\/em> enjoys these awkward times of waiting and not knowing \u2013 but that they are always essential to growth.<\/p>\n

It is when you have left the tried and true, but have not yet been able to replace it with anything else. It is when you are finally out of the way. It is when you are between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer. If you are not trained in how to hold anxiety, how to live with ambiguity, how to entrust and wait, you will run away. . . (you\u2019ll do) anything to escape this terrible cloud of not knowing. ~Richard Rohr<\/strong><\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Hmmm. Okay. I get it. In fact, I felt the same way when I left my publishing career for motherhood, and again when my two sons left home and I suddenly found myself out of a job, wondering if I\u2019d ever feel needed or useful or fully engaged in life again. The \u201cfertile void\u201d of the newly empty nest was dark and uncomfortable but in time I found my way through it \u2013 or rather, I wrote my way through it and gave birth to a book.<\/p>\n

Actually, I\u2019m relieved to be reminded that this \u201ccloud of not knowing\u201d is an inevitable part of transformation \u2013 even if the only transformation I can see right now is my own self growing older. And it helps to be reminded that the way to rise to this challenge is to soften into it. To be still and listen carefully, to be a bit more open to what the universe seems to be handing me at this moment. Yet another gentle nudge, perhaps, to stop trying so hard to do<\/em> more, and to \u201clet be\u201d instead?<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not so much that we\u2019re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear\u2026it\u2019s like being between trapezes. It\u2019s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There\u2019s nothing to hold on to.\u00a0~<\/em><\/strong>Andre Gide<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I\u2019m thinking of you too here, my friend. Seems to me we are both guilty of filling our days with lots of \u201cto-dos,\u201d only to wonder as the sun goes down what in fact we\u2019ve actually done. We both tend to be hard on ourselves \u2013 whether its because new projects aren\u2019t falling neatly into place or because our bellies and our chins aren\u2019t as firm as they once were or because we seem to need nine hours of sleep these days instead of seven.<\/p>\n

Well, maybe it\u2019s time for both of us to embrace this in-between territory. Neither of us can call ourselves middle-aged, but we can\u2019t claim crone status, either. We\u2019re each really good at filling our days with busyness, but we aren\u2019t quite sure of our own next steps. We aren\u2019t who we used to be a few short years ago when we first met (each of us shepherding new memoirs into the world), but we\u2019re not quite clear on who we\u2019re becoming or what we\u2019re meant to be doing next.<\/p>\n

\"FullSizeRender-1\"S<\/span>o maybe we take our cues from nature. There is a difficult discipline to finding ease and beauty in these stark days of November. Autumn is over, but winter has yet to begin. The outdoor chores are finished (I did not get the last of my own bulbs in the ground, but so be it), yet we are still a ways off from snow boots and driveways to shovel. See the parallels? In my own garden, one tiny black-eyed Susan, poking up between the paving stones, seems determined to defy the season. But otherwise, the beds are barren, silent, still. And yet, as gardeners we both know there\u2019s all sorts of work going on beneath the surface. Lying fallow is different from doing nothing.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_7598\"T<\/span>o lie fallow is a gift. But we don\u2019t really know how to do it. November, it seems to me, is a perfect time to practice a kind of contemplative intimacy with the unknown. Acceptance, yes. Surrender, even? Yes, although surrender isn\u2019t the same as just hiding under the bedclothes\u00a0and giving in.<\/p>\n

Lying fallow is not about stagnating, it\u2019s about making a friend of silence, being where we are, feeling everything, and beginning to listen more carefully to the voice of the heart. It\u2019s about trusting that the old story is already being transformed into a new story, and that growth and healing and regeneration will always happen if we\u2019re patient. Perhaps that quality of humble, willing \u201chere-ness\u201d is what we can cultivate together.<\/p>\n

\"IMG_7582\"W<\/span>ith that in mind, here\u2019s a glimpse of my day. Making my way\u00a0slowly down the hallway in the early morning, I stop to notice the light. I marvel at a glowing door, at golden shadows dancing before me on the stairs. Stepping outside to watch the birds at the feeder,\u00a0I\u00a0feel the cold morning air on my skin\u00a0and\u00a0greet the place we live. \u00a0My husband, doing most of my chores these days, puts dishes away, tidies the kitchen after breakfast, helps me with my shoes and socks. \u00a0Once he’s gone to work, the empty hours stretch\u00a0before me. I answer email and write some checks, a thank you card, a note. \u00a0I peel apples, grate nutmeg into a bowl of flour, stir batter and, slide a cake into the oven. \u00a0The sun pours in and the kitchen fills with good smells. I stand on my yoga mat and do some half sun-salutations, bending only partway over, breathing deeply, a beginner again as I learn to work with this new, untested version of my body. I write for a while and water the plants and talk with a friend who stops by to say hello. At dusk I lie on the couch, legs elevated, and reach for Mary Oliver\u2019s luminous new book of love poems, Felicity<\/a><\/strong>, allowing her words to land in my heart.<\/p>\n

No, I’d never been to this country<\/em>
\nbefore. No, I didn’t know where the roads<\/em>
\nwould lead me. No, I didn’t intend to<\/em>
\nturn back.<\/em><\/p>\n

And it hits me: when I offer myself this kind of faith in myself, the berating, questioning voice becomes a more compassionate one. When I give myself permission to be with what is, each moment becomes precious. Any fruitfulness \u2013 whether it be this letter to you or a cake cooling on the counter \u2013 arises from this surrendered openness. It is a rare joy to allow a day to have its way with me. So here\u2019s to liminal time and to not knowing and to this brief season of lying fallow. We can find life right here, rich and fertile, hidden between chapters. \u00a0(And we can eat well, too!)<\/p>\n

xoxo
\nyour slow-moving friend<\/p>\n

\n

the only apple cake recipe you’ll ever need<\/span><\/h3>\n

I found this cake\u00a0on the wonderful (and highly addictive Food52 site<\/strong><\/a>) and have tweaked it a bit over the course of many bakings. \u00a0Here’s my version:<\/p>\n