Elder Bloomer

A new way to look at what it means to be a late bloomer. 

You may have heard the term late bloomer. This refers to someone who comes into their beauty and fullness a bit later than average. 

How about elder blooming? 

There is so much talked about in terms of aging and the declines that come with it. I do not mean to discount any of the changes in both functioning and appearance that aging brings. Quite the opposite. I am acutely aware of these changes, especially since recently turning 70. 

I am aware of the passage of time. I am aware of the road before me being much shorter than the road behind me. I am so much more aware of the reality of mortality. I realize, on a much more visceral level, that I have an expiration date. An end to this life as I know it. An end to attachments that I have. An end to me. 

It’s not easy to wrap my brain around these ideas and feelings, but here they are. They are real, and I feel them, write about them, breathe into them and go about living and appreciating each day that I am graced enough to wake up.

I think about where to live, whether a retirement community might be a good option. It’s tiring to take care of a house all by yourself. And as I continue to age, I’m not sure that living completely alone is the best thing. 

I have no children or family that I am close to, so I need to make plans for a chosen family to continue to grow old with. To share this path. To hold each other’s hands and hearts on this final leg of the journey.

What has surprised me about my own aging, however, are the other changes that I have seen and felt since my retirement three years ago. 

Some of my friends struggle with retirement and what to do with themselves, how to define what their purpose is now, since they are no longer a part of what we call productive members of society. 

Yet, here I am. Feeling more at home with myself than ever before. Feeling more in tune with my soul and spirit. More at home in this life and this body than ever before, even though I see and feel it changing and slowly declining before me. 

I have always loved to write, but work took over my life in my younger days. I don’t regret my career as a social worker, and hope that I was able to touch some lives in a positive way. But I didn’t have the energy or time to spend writing. 

Now I do. And it is as if that part of me has come back to life and is excited and eager to express everything that it has been longing to say for a very long time. I write about what my current life experience is. The experience of an aging woman. I find that I have much to say about that. 

Writing helps me to process and make some sense of this process of being a human being. It helps me to name things in order to work with them. To better feel them and learn from them. To more fully live. To share with others as we try to sort this all out together.

 I am thrilled to now be writing online and to be seen, heard, and responded to by those who read what I write. To have others resonate with things that I write. To get feedback that my writing sometimes helps others feel less alone. This makes me feel so very grateful. 

I have always loved to draw. Again, I really did not have the time to devote to this when working full time. Now I do. I was able to take a few adult evening classes while still working to learn some basic techniques, and now I paint regularly. I have joined an art association and even participate in art shows. I have submitted pieces of work to online exhibits and have had several accepted and published. My art appeals to some people, and I have even sold some pieces. Again, I am grateful. My work touches something in them. 

How interesting, this time of life. To let go of work and how I have defined myself for so long, like by my career. I had no children, so motherhood was not something that I could also define myself by. But, I also think that women tend to be maternal in many ways to others. This was also part of who I saw myself as. A caregiver. Sometimes putting others first, at times to the extent of forgetting myself and my own needs, or certainly not putting those first. Not anymore. 

These days I have a lot of quiet time, which I thrive in. 

I can hear myself more clearly. I can take time to simply be. I can ask what it is that I need in each moment. I can still give to others, which I do, from my heart. And I can know when it is not healthy for me to keep giving to someone, when I need to set a boundary. Knowing when I may need to let someone go from my life, wishing them well, but realizing that I need to let them go for my own health. 

I can choose my friends more carefully. I finally can see that I don’t have to strive to have others like me, and that I don’t have to like everyone. I can wish others well, and choose to not have them in my life. I have choices.

I can be still and quiet when I need to. I can know when I have had enough of social interaction for a day and take myself home. I can sit and do nothing, letting my mind take me where it will. I can get up in the mornings, have my coffee and spend time with the birds and squirrels who have come to know that their breakfast of roasted peanuts will be served every morning. This brings me joy, and that is reason enough. Doing nothing has been highly underrated. 

I can spend more time volunteering at the zoo. Spending time with animals feels healing for me these days. Being in their quiet presence and watching them living their lives is meditative to me. They teach me about living and being in the moment. 

I can choose. I can breathe. I can stop what I felt that I could not stop before. And I can be. 

It’s so interesting to feel as if I am blooming the most now at this later stage of my life. It’s bittersweet and wonderful. It is a sacred gift. 

I am so very grateful for each moment, for each day, for each thing that I get to do that is a true choice from inside me. For finally being able to come home to myself.