REACHING NINETY

Ninety is a big number, so close to one hundred. I never expected to reach this advanced age. I guess I thought 75 would be my lifespan, the year 2,000 a nice round number. That years I made a photographic autobiography.

So now, reaching ninety, how does it feel? a friend asked. It means some reassessment, some musing on what this long life has meant to me or to anyone else. I can't speak for others--my family, friends, former students.

I can speak for myself.  I know that I now have an acute Buddhist sense of transience, of the major importance of each day, each hour, often each minute. Live aware of the importance of each day, hour and minute, and live the best possible way that I can. Extreme mindfulness. Of course my body doesn't do at this age what it used to do. But I am walking still, not sitting in a wheelchair. I still enjoy life, good friends and food, nature. I still have fun.

I also know that it's imperative that I tell friends and family, those I care about, how much they mean to me, have meant to me. I am now doing this. I said, for example, to Paul Wood, that I could never forget how he helped me craft The Scent of Sake and Sugar and Smoke, or the imaginative poetry class he taught, when he thanked me for remembering him. He helped me follow my correct path. I know this is what I'm here on the planet to do: tell the stories of the voiceless, the subjugated. He was one of my most significant teachers. Some people remember grade school teachers. I don't, and of high school teachers I remember only Miss Glenn, who taught journalism, and Miss Denzel, choir director. University teachers I recall with varying degrees of gratitude.

And of gratitude, it is something I feel strongly at 90 because I have been so blessed, so lucky, during my long odyssey. I recall that Al Lagunero once said to me that he feels gratitude constantly. I think I do too, though maybe not as consciously or consistently as Al does. More of this later.

At 90, I'm also more aware of things of the spirit, that mysterious realm. Many examples have impressed me acutely: being unable to get out of bed one day in London though I was perfectly healthy. It turned out to be the day my mother died in Minnesota; the Easter morning when a dove walked into my Maui apartment as my friend Sue died; my two unexpected out-of-body experiences; or hearing Zsuzi's voice call me while swimming a few days after she died.

One evening sitting in bed with a yet unopened book in my hand, I had a sudden epiphany: it came to me that time and death are gifts, because if we had limitless time nothing we do would have the poignance or meaning they have given limited time.
Awareness suddenly of our mortality always causes people who recover from a near death illness to say, "Now I know what's important."

I must say that I have been so blessed, so lucky beyond luck, that I feel I must acknowledge my gratitude further. Too many examples come to mind to mention them all. In India I had the help of Col.G.S. Dhillon during my research in north central India on the Rani of Jhansi, research I could not have done without him. He was one of three national heroes tried for treason by the British for fighting for independence.

Or being offered a fellowship age 82 to the Institute of Southeast Asia Studies in Singapore simply by asking Director Kesavapany if he knew where I might find funding to research the Rani of Jhansi Regiment of the Indian National Army. Then being given research and translating assistance by a Malay-speaking Indian woman who also had me hosted by her daughter and five teen-age grandchildren in a town in Malaysia.

Or yesterday when I fell on the moving walkway in the Kahului Airport and was immediately picked up by a strong man behind me and never broke a bone!

Are these examples part of some unseen master plan protecting me, or simply plain luck? Psychics always tell me I have spirit guides, that we all have spirit guides who help us on our way. In any case, I am always grateful.

March 16, 2016