My Story: Learning a New Language

I’m not talking about trying to keep my mind sharp—and avoid dementia—by learning Chinese. I tried that once, and it didn’t work.

But every day, it seems, I encounter new words or phrases that are unfamiliar. I spent my life working as a writer and editor and thought I knew language better than most people. I know the difference between reign and rein, between palate and palette. But then I encountered “woke,” “meme,” “influencer” and other words that weren’t in my vocabulary.

Because these words have become omnipresent in this culture, I’ve learned what they mean, although I don’t understand how “woke” is different from someone becoming “awakened” to the injustices in our society. I have an idea what “meme” means, although I couldn’t give you a thorough definition, only an example: the phrase, “OK, Boomer,” has become a meme, and it’s not a nice thing to say about baby boomers.

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Stories of Resilience: David

David celebrated his 80th birthday by taking a 2-mile hike alone in the mountains and then hitched a ride back to his car. He had no trouble finding someone who would give him a lift. When he was in his 70s, he had decided to adopt an attitude of being open to everyone he encountered.  It was part of his Buddhist philosophy of believing in his fellow human beings’ basic goodness. When we hiked together, I was always surprised how oncoming hikers would smile broadly at us, because it rarely happened when I hiked alone. But some goodness emanated from David, and people responded in kind.

I met David in his late 70s, when he started a network of meditation study groups here in Boulder. He attended weekly spiritual lectures by well-known teachers but saw the need for more interaction among spiritual practitioners. When I look back at his life, I can see the pattern of wanting to help others and bring people together.

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My Story: Don’t Call Me Sweetie

In the space of one week, three store clerks called me “sweetie” or “sweetheart.” As in “What can I get you, sweetheart?” or, in the case of the young hair stylist, “How do you like your hair cut, sweetie?”

My initial reaction was ambivalent, but mostly horrified. “Sweetheart” is an affectionate term and one that, when I was younger, I enjoyed hearing from waitresses in rural towns while driving through Nebraska. But in hip Boulder, that’s not the norm. Was I emanating some kind of helpless vibe? Was it the broad-brimmed embroidered hat that perhaps seemed old-fashioned, that framed my face to look endearing (not an adjective most people would apply to me), especially now that I’m wearing glasses?

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