pontificate 2: to speak or express opinions in a pompous or dogmatic way - merriam-webster.com
I had one of those interesting wonder-if moments after my post on quieting down. I wondered if conversational fatigue is a natural part of this path through and beyond middle age. After all, middle age is as much about attitudinal change and gaining perspective as it is about chronology. Doesn’t some part of the getting of wisdom involve developing a certain laissez-faire equanimity about a lot of things that seemed overwhelmingly important when we were younger? Perhaps, I thought, everyone quiets down as they age.
Ha!
Just circumstantial evidence supports the opposite. The very afternoon of my musing, I ran into Liz, the 80-year-old antithesis of my theory. I share a 90-minute, parking-lot conversation with Liz about once a month. Liz was a next-door neighbor when I was growing up in Seattle. She moved to this area after her daughter bought a property not far from us (one of those small-world serendipities.)
A contemporary of my parents, Liz is one of those people who NEVER stops talking (as is her daughter I’ve discovered). At this point in her life, Liz’s monologue is rife with a long thread of what’s-wrong-withs – what’s wrong with the world, the country, our small town, the internet and all associated technologies; and on down to her favorite subjects – what’s wrong with her children and grandchildren.
I do have to give Liz this much – she is a colorful and somewhat gifted orator with a well-developed (if consistently judgmental) sense of humor. She was a cocktail waitress in her formative years – back in the day when all cocktail waitresses wore – well, not much. Her bawdy, occasionally-profane tales boost my tolerance of her stream of complaints. With time and a change in my own perspective, she’s evolved from just a gossiping busy-body into something of a tolerable character. I like characters. (I’ve been told I am one.) When I run into her, unless there is something truly pressing, I give her my time and my ear. We always end our conversation with her invitation for me to come by for tea. I haven’t so far. I guess I’m not quite that tolerant.
I have to admit that for us quiet types, effusive blabberers can be a conversational boon – all we have to do is listen and nod occasionally and “conversation” takes care of itself. And although Liz is an extreme, she is certainly an excellent reminder that not everyone values quiet serenity as a life goal. (In fact, a little googling leads me to suspect quieting down as a function of aging is rare – just another behavior on the list of hermit idiosyncrasies.)
But back to Liz. As entertaining as Liz can be, I always feel a little sad when we part after a conversation. I always think I should take the time for tea; after all, it won’t be too long before we won’t be meeting in parking lots anymore. I’m saddened that she’s entered what’s probably the last chapter of her life so dissatisfied with the way things have turned out. I’m saddened that, given the very peripheral nature of our friendship, she confides in me as much as she does. Perhaps I’m the only safe forum she has for her complaints.
Perhaps she’s lonely. Her judgmentalism may have set her up for that. I certainly would not want to be one of her children – or grandchildren. It sounds like Liz tries to micro-manage her whole family, down to the smallest circumstantial details, often using financial rewards or threats as the pivot point. Many of the behaviors Liz disapproves of in her children are, in fact, part of my own routine. Liz doesn’t know that, of course. She doesn’t actually know me very well and when we talk, I don’t need to talk.
Unfortunately for Liz (and in spite of her occasional entertainment value), Liz tops my list as the kind of elder I don’t want to become: the judgmental pontificator. The source of much inter-generational divisiveness, the loudest pontificators seem quite certain that, having lived a certain number of years, what they’ve learned must surely be gospel.
I’ve got news. What you’ve learned through experience is not gospel – it’s just a chronicle of your experience within the circumstances of your life. Yes, we do learn from experience, but much of what we learn that way cannot be taught. By the time our children enter high school, most of what they learn is coming from their own experiences, not from our pontifications. Yes, they’ll still need a few more years of guidance, and parenting is really a lifetime commitment, but the rapid change of today’s world almost guarantees that many of our children’s life experiences will be very different from ours. Most of our pontifications later in life (certainly by the time our children reach 30), especially those in the realm of specific circumstantial formulas that worked for us, already don’t (or soon won’t) apply at all. Let it go. The world is not going back to the way it used to be. The happiest among us find ways to celebrate that, even participate – not continually denigrate.
There’s a word for the belief (or desperate insistence) that everyone else (including your adult children) should do things the way you always have, make the same kinds of choices you always do, and live their lives as a reflection of the way you live your life. You may think the word is caring, but it isn’t. Most often, the word that best describes those manipulative, mini-me expectations is CONCEIT.
The good news is it’s never too late to stop trying to change others, especially other adults. It’s also never too late to consider changing yourself – the one part of the equation over which you have some real control.
Share wisdom if you’re asked, but skip all the petty circumstantial stuff – what car to drive, what clothes to wear, your preference for certain neighborhoods or professional choices. The kind of wisdom to share is the stuff that holds up beyond culture, fashion and clique; the stuff they’ll need to survive the greatest changes and the direst circumstances – the health crises, natural disasters, wars and economic downturns - the inspirational stuff like courage, tolerance, love and compassion. But even that kind of wisdom is best taught by demonstration not with a diatribe of empty shoulds.
Demonstrate serenity and acceptance. Demonstrate inclusivity, not exclusivity. Overcome judgment. Demonstrate peace. Demonstrate love without circumstantial conditions and expectations. If you can train yourself to consistently prioritize and demonstrate any of those (or even a couple of them), not only will you be happier and healthier, you’ll probably mysteriously discover you’ve also overcome most of your complaints about the way things turned out. Don’t be surprised if your need to pontificate declines accordingly.
I’m not pontificating, mind you. All I really know is what works for me.
