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I am looking for a word that may not exist in the English language. “Generative” is the closest I can find to describe what I’m after, but only with a great deal of pulling and stretching. What I want is a word to express the consideration of generations other than one’s own, both older and younger. Can “generative” do all of that?

MacMillan dictionary defines generative as “capable of producing something.” Merriam Webster as “having the power of function of generating, originating, producing or reproducing.” The Free Online Dictionary as “of or relating to the production of offspring.” None of these work. A quick search on the internet turns up Generative Learning as “learning that fosters experimentation and open-mindedness,” and Generative Leadership, “the ability to evoke creativity (in people or situations)” or “providing contexts or conditions in which good things can come into being.” Nice, but not entirely what I am after.

I’ve noticed that we tend to get locked in our own generation like a gated community—gated with denial, while, as with races and cultures, there are so many more benefits to be gained by associating outside of it. One of the richest experiences each week in my life is the writing workshop I conduct at a local retirement home. The participants in the workshop turn their memories into stories, and week by week they are, in effect, writing their memoirs. I consider them some of my dearest friends, and role models on how best to age. Remember they came of age with Roosevelt, not Reagan, and are often times more liberal, more progressive, than their own children or many of today’s young.

One moment we are young and sliding down banisters. The next moment, it seems, we are reminding ourselves to hold onto the rail, not wear socks on the stairs, and take it slowly. How can it go unnoticed that life slips by speedily, and should we be so fortunate, we will all be in our nineties one day? My elderly friends tell me that “it is like being invisible, going to town, or riding a bus, people seem not to notice us.” How can we not see ourselves one day in every one of them?

Just as children enrich our lives, the aged can grace it beyond measure. One is an elixir of innocence and imagination, the other, of wisdom and acceptance. Navigating midlife, I want them both as ballast. It’s a matter of where-we-came-from and where-we-are-going, as we search for what-is-the-meaning-of life. This is our quest.

My father paraphrased it, “Life goes on until it ends.” I just think we need to be both beaming the headlights and looking out all sides, the rear view mirror and side mirror, as we travel along.

As anyone who has ever been summoned to jury duty knows, democracy takes patience. I am seated at King County Superior Court in Seattle, and our primary job, it would seem, is to sit and wait. Sit and wait all morning, breaking for coffee, dismissed for lunch, then coming back and waiting most of the afternoon as well. We are in the hundreds, seated in the Juror Assembly Room, simply waiting to be called for jury selection. Everyone was randomly selected, few are called, and among those that are, even fewer will actually serve on jury.

Everyone here is resourceful. We all brought books, laptops, or papers. The man next to me is grading his students’ essays. Before settling into my book I browse the magazines available and find a couple possible paint colors for the sky blue ceiling I want to do in our dining room. One is Benjamin Moore’s “Northern Air,” and the other, “Borrowed Light” by Farrow & Ball. It occurs to me that I might like the job of naming colors. Some of the magazines are rather dated. Finding a few recipes to save for next summer: an elderflower-wine cocktail, bruschetta with strawberries and tomatoes, and a peach galette I could make at this time of year with apples, I tore these two pages out without thinking, tucked them in my purse, and thought oh god, I’m busted. How could I have been so foolish, stealing pages in a building that must be loaded with security cameras? I waited for my arrest, but nothing happened.

Everyone is infinitely patient. Our chairs are comfortable and we are free to move about—there are refreshments and restrooms, and perhaps it was the security we passed through at the entrance to the building, but the jury duty experience is reminiscent of airports. That’s it, I am struck by the civility.

I especially find that from the air when I am flying. The impeccable maintenance of farm fields, the beauty of every city at night, and on a recent red-eye to Boston, I was even impressed by all the early commuters. The way the little cars with beaming headlights merged onto highways, keeping their space, maintaining the same speed. It all seemed to function like an ant colony. Sometimes we put all our emphasis on the number of people unemployed, but from this vantage point I saw only the number of people who were going to work, so peacefully and orderly, at such a dark and early hour. Unsung heroes all. Oftentimes we call attention to what is broken, but again, everything looked to be moving along so well. (I realize, of course, accidents happen, but in that time of observation I thought it remarkable how many do not).

Just as the world appeared so extraordinarily civilized at a distance, so too does it up close today in the Juror Assembly Room, King County Superior Court. I just want to note that.

Back in Seattle. Back in the saddle. Where the air is cold and damp, the sky has been lowered, nearly all colors erased, and I am extraordinarily happy to be home.

I have brought back from Brazil: an antique Santo for my collection, a couple little gems for a couple little girls for Christmas, a tan, but that’s fading, and an extraordinarily colorful etching I purchased in Rio. The print cost me twenty dollars, I believe, and the cost of framing it will exceed two hundred. For this reason, I only buy art I love, love, love. Oh, and I brought back what I consider Rio’s finest, music on CD’s. I have every intention to play a fusion of samba, bossa nova, and Brazilian jazz right through Christmas, and depending on how things are going, maybe well into next year.

O.K., maybe “extraordinarily happy” was a bit of a stretch. You have to remember, I grew up on Joni Mitchell and dwell fairly well in melancholy. Perhaps that’s why Seattle suits me, even in the gray half of the year. Gardeners know it as “right plant, right place.” The important thing is to plant yourself where you will thrive.

Years ago I gave the tropics a try. But when I think of what is most important to me now, namely reading, writing, and gardening, I wonder how I ever survived two years in St. Thomas. I mean, at the time there were no bookstores on island. And no Amazon. Whatever did we have to read other than books our houseguests left behind? And as for writing, well you either have to be alone or you have to be with someone who allows you your solitude. I did not have that. I went down there with a man who had something like Club Med in mind, everyday. And as for gardening, things grew of course but I do not remember anyone ever “gardening” per se. I’m not even sure it’s soil you can work with by digging, and then too, there’s no water. Things just seemed to come up where they may, I’d say.

So imagine my surprise a year or two ago when my sister in Boston called me in Seattle to inform me she was going sailing in the Caribbean on Sea Cloud II, a lovely old windjammer originally built for Marjorie Merriweather Post and her husband, Edward Hutton. The boat boasts four masts flying twenty two full sails, gourmet cuisine, and impeccable service with a crew to guest ratio of nearly one to one. Just as I was closing my eyes and feeling the breeze, dissolving into a union of perfect sea and sky, my sister added, “…it’s an educational tour.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Why, Gardens of the Caribbean,” she replied.

She might just as well have told me they were going looking for sunken treasure….