According to a new study from the July issue of Neurology, readers and other mentally active folks have boosted brainpower in old age.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Bookworms Have Better Brains in Old Age
mental_floss is reporting that those who have exercised their brains by reading, writing, and playing with puzzles appear to have fewer cognitive problems later in life.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Nostalgia Project
Nostalgia appears to be a pastime for the retired. My retired brother and a retired friend have both been researching their ancestors and reviewing old photographs from childhood. I have received some rear-view mirror emails from my brother, with memories of events I can scarcely recall, myself, even though we shared a childhood. How boring nostalgia once seemed to me, as I listened to the seemingly endless stories of relatives when I was a child. The hardships of grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, with their nuggets of well-earned wisdom seemed like burdens we children had to bear.
Since my retirement, I've been perusing old journals, scanning old photographs, and have even begun a genealogy project with my brother. We wanted to uncover the truth about a few unlikely ancestors and our heritage. That project has also uncovered some rather uncomfortable memories of our shared past. If nostalgia unsettles me, should I just let it go? Does reviewing one's past have any purpose whatsoever, beyond needling our youth?
Since my retirement, I've been perusing old journals, scanning old photographs, and have even begun a genealogy project with my brother. We wanted to uncover the truth about a few unlikely ancestors and our heritage. That project has also uncovered some rather uncomfortable memories of our shared past. If nostalgia unsettles me, should I just let it go? Does reviewing one's past have any purpose whatsoever, beyond needling our youth?
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Completing a Life: Thoughts on Oliver Sacks' Joy of Old Age
In the New York Times Sunday Review, Oliver Sacks writes of his upcoming 80th birthday. The piece is called "The Joy of Old Age. (No Kidding.)"
Sacks is looking forward to his next decade. For me, just beginning my retirement, such a zestful statement offers encouragement for the decades to come.
In this culture, which promotes youth and hides the aged, celebrating aging sparks an inquiry. What has the aging individual to anticipate with zest, a younger mind might ask? And Sacks answers that he's glad to be alive (or happy not to be dead, its pessimistic alternative). If that's the best that can be said, it's barely reassuring.
1. Waiting for the End
My father's father, a grandfather I could not have known since he died before my birth, succumbed suddenly from a heart attack at age 45. When the decade of his own forties commenced, my father expected to die the way one waits for a visitor, almost impatiently wondering at what hour she would arrive. From time to time, he would complain plaintively, like a child, that no one would care if he was gone. Of course the longed-for denials ensued, but he was not comforted. It took a change of scenery--to that mecca of the retired, Florida--before he abandoned his vigil for the grim reaper, and took up his life once again, regaining his youthful tennis prowess, with the trophies to prove it, well into his late sixties.
Rediscovering the passions of youth could be one way to move zestfully through our aging. Isn't that how retirement communities are sold?
Sacks is looking forward to his next decade. For me, just beginning my retirement, such a zestful statement offers encouragement for the decades to come.
In this culture, which promotes youth and hides the aged, celebrating aging sparks an inquiry. What has the aging individual to anticipate with zest, a younger mind might ask? And Sacks answers that he's glad to be alive (or happy not to be dead, its pessimistic alternative). If that's the best that can be said, it's barely reassuring.
1. Waiting for the End
My father's father, a grandfather I could not have known since he died before my birth, succumbed suddenly from a heart attack at age 45. When the decade of his own forties commenced, my father expected to die the way one waits for a visitor, almost impatiently wondering at what hour she would arrive. From time to time, he would complain plaintively, like a child, that no one would care if he was gone. Of course the longed-for denials ensued, but he was not comforted. It took a change of scenery--to that mecca of the retired, Florida--before he abandoned his vigil for the grim reaper, and took up his life once again, regaining his youthful tennis prowess, with the trophies to prove it, well into his late sixties.
Rediscovering the passions of youth could be one way to move zestfully through our aging. Isn't that how retirement communities are sold?
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