Even with myself.

I notice, when I stop to look at myself and things that I do now, having entered the land of elderhood, that I no longer dance. Not even when alone, which I used to do when the music moved me.

To be honest, I don’t listen to music much these days. I seem to prefer silence more often. But I also wonder if that has become a habit and that I may not tune into when my soul may need a bit of music or movement.

I used to love to dance. 

I took hula classes for several years, and loved it. Not the Hollywood shimmery glitzy hula, but the hula that is a sacred dance and prayer. A connection to the earth and the universe. A merging of bodies with the divine. A movement to the music of the sacred. 

What I also appreciated about hula is that one didn’t need a partner. We did group dances and performances, which were great fun. But hula was a dance that you did that spoke to you and to whomever the dance might have been dedicated to. To move your body in rhythms that synced with the dance of life. Your hands mimic nature, paying tribute to water, trees, goddesses of volcanoes, the goddesses within each of us. Maybe even the volcanoes within each of us.

I also used to love ballroom dance. My fiancé and I took ballroom dance lessons in preparation for our wedding. It was such fun. We stopped the lessons after we were married. Too bad, I now think. Maybe dancing that way would have helped us remember how to dance with each other in other ways. In the ways of growing intimacy and loving familiarity. With a steady partner. Our marriage lasted 12 years, with the last year being separated. I feel sad about that, but also realize that we did what we could at the time. He remarried a year after our divorce, now having danced with someone else for all these years. I wish him well.

I have had several relationships since my marriage. I appreciate them all. But dancing has never really been a part of any of those to any major degree. Maybe that was part of the problem.

I write, I paint, I sit in silence. I work on allowing life and all the feelings to move through me. 

I hike and walk in the sacred redwoods. I sit by the water. 

All these are done in silence, usually. And I appreciate them all. 

I try to move my body with exercise, belonging to a local gym that has become like a family to me. I appreciate that and the chance to move and work my body. And I notice that I am not one of those who listens to music while exercising. I enjoy the gym, (especially when I am done!) It is something that I do that is good for my body and good for me. 

But it is not dance. 

Dancing is, it seems to me, a way of celebrating our bodies and lives. A prayer and song sung with our bodies. An ode to joy and life and our wonderful bodies that allow us to experience this magical, albeit sometimes painful, life. 

I have a young friend whose wedding I was able to attend several years ago. Her father had difficulty moving, was in a wheelchair. And yet, he was determined to have that dance with his daughter at her wedding. And he did. With tears all around. Wobbly, needing support to stand, but moving in time to the music and celebrating this marriage of his lovely daughter. With dance. 

Have you seen someone in a wheelchair on the dance floor moving their chair in time to the music? The call to dance is deep within. It calls to us in whatever way that we can respond. 

Dancing exists for itself, for its own purpose. For its own expression. 

Dancing simply is.

When did I stop? I didn’t even really notice. It simply gradually faded away and out of my life. 

Perhaps it took other parts of me with it. The part that was called to move with joy just because. The part that listened to something that my body and soul may have needed, a special kind of movement and rhythm. The part that heard the music and answered. The part that didn’t need a logical reason to do something. The part that was moved by something that is not easily named. The part that could hear the calling of the sirens of the divine. The part that wants me to remember my body and honor it. The part that celebrates life in a physical way that does not need words. 

Maybe it’s time to reclaim those parts of me.

Perhaps the dance that I would be called to now may be slower, may have more movements that include sadness and bittersweetness in addition to the joy, but movements, nonetheless.

Maybe the dance could now help me express, in another way, my continuing participation in this precious gift of life. 

As I find myself coming home to different parts of me on this journey of aging, perhaps dance can be included in that. 

Maybe there are some things that I can try.

I can put some music on and try to see if there is dance left within me.

 I can take a class in some kind of dance that can help me remember. Help my body remember. Speak to that part of my soul. Call that part of me to come back. Welcome that piece of me that I have forgotten, neglected, let go of prematurely. 

 I can stop in the redwoods and hold my arms up to them, to their majesty, and allow my body to express what they stir in my heart and spirit. A gesture of dance, a sacred dance of recognition, relationship, and connection. 

 I can play some music and stand up, even simply sway in time to it. Allowing my body to hear and feel the music in its own unique way.

 I can even walk, when the spirit strikes me, with a spring in my step. A joy in movement. A lifeforce asserting itself.

As elders, sometimes we can be objects of laughter or even ridicule when we dance. Or we are seen with attitudes of condescension and called cute. If we dare to move our hips in sensual ways (we are still alive, after all), there can be smiles and mild laughter at this. We were younger when sensuality and sexuality were perhaps more validated. But it is within us still. We are still here and alive in these human bodies, these sensual containers for our spirits. 

Have we learned to shut down those parts of ourselves in response to this ridicule and condescension? Have we internalized those judgments and stopped this dance that lies within us still, perhaps buried but there, nonetheless. 

Have you watched some of the YouTube videos of young children called to dance and move to the music? I smile when I see them, and think of all the dance within them that is yet to be.

Can we do that for elders? Smile and see the dance that is still within them/us? All the dance that has been there? And what might still be there, needing to be expressed and enjoyed and celebrated? Life still being itself. Life still expressing itself. 

Can we do that for ourselves? Acknowledge the dance that is still a part of us? The movement, sensuality, grace, joy of life that are still so very much there? 

Will you join me on the dance floor? 

Come, take my hand. 

An entire conversation was held without a word spoken.

I saw someone on my walk in the redwoods yesterday. She is of my family, my tribe. I have never met her. And we did not speak one word.

I was going on a much-needed walk in one of my favorite sanctuaries, the cathedral of redwoods in a park that I love. I go there to sustain and nourish my soul, to connect with the trees and nature all around me. Although I live alone and have much opportunity for solitude, there is something very different and sacred in solitude among these majestic and ancient beings, these tall redwoods. They give me peace and comfort. They speak to me of the passage of time, of things that have come and have gone. Of my life doing the same. Of the importance of paying attention to this moment, right here and right now. Of peace and connectedness. Of belonging to this earth and its plants and creatures. 

The deeper into the forest that I walked, the more peaceful I felt. More connected. And more detached from things that really do not matter in the grand scheme of things.

I stopped for a few moments, as I do frequently, to look up and all around me. To take it all in. To breathe it all in. To listen to the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves. Or as I call it, the sound of God whispering. 

I heard music. Not something that I often hear on these walks, as all seem to know that silence is indicated in this sacred space.

This music was one of my favorites. It was close to the sound of a Native American flute, playing beautifully haunting and sacred notes out to the Universe. I looked around.

There was an elder woman, and she was playing what looked like a clarinet, but was different. Possibly an instrument of a different culture, I thought, that I was unfamiliar with. She faced the trees and played her music to them and to anyone around that it called to.

She was not within speaking distance. But she was within feeling distance, within heart distance. 

Her music called to me. I felt drawn in and simply stood there and listened. My spirit drank this in. A melody that quieted, calmed, and yet stirred things inside me that can sometimes go dormant when I get distracted and lost along my path of life. 

When she stopped playing for a bit, she looked my way and waved. I waved back to her.

And then, to let her know what her music meant to me, I touched my heart and smiled.

She immediately touched her own heart in response.

That was a deep conversation held between two strangers (no longer strangers) without one word needing to be spoken between us. We connected and let each other know that our hearts connected in those moments, that I thanked her for her gift, and that she acknowledged this in response. Heart to heart. 

I was moved to tears. I had been feeling so alone that morning and the day before, and this was such a gift to me. I did not need to speak to her at that moment. I did not need to diminish the intensity and purity of that moment in time, that gift of souls connecting for a moment, seeing and acknowledging each other.

I felt, and feel, such gratitude. Two elders expressing what words often cannot. Sharing the feelings that come up. Seeing how each of us received a gift from each other today. Being deeply together in that moment in time, that moment of eternity. 

As I continue this path of elderhood, I begin to realize more and more the importance of these special, seemingly random moments. These gifts that can go unnoticed if we do not take the time to stop, listen, and be present. To what is around us. To whom is around us. To whom may be on the same section of the path right then that we can share genuine connection with. To all the gifts that each day may bring. 

Life is not easy. And there are beautiful moments of grace along the way. 

I am grateful for those. They help me keep walking, especially when there may be a rough patch on the road. 

I remind myself to stop, pay attention, listen to what music may be around me if I only stop to hear it. Grace and miracles are in these moments. Gifts are in these moments. Life is in these moments. 

These words from Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese, touch my soul.

Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese, is stunningly beautiful. And one phrase keeps coming back to me. The soft animal of your body. 

How easy it is for me to forget the basic truth and existence of this part of me. This soft, breathing, living part of me. 

My own internalized ageism tries to tell me that I no longer have the needs that I used to have, that it is too late, that it is over. But that’s not true. I still have those parts of me. 

Including the part that longs for touch. 

I live alone. And I love my solitude, most of the time. 

 I have no pets at this time, still recovering from the loss of several pets that came too quickly and all within a very short period. 

The touch of animals can be soothing and help heal what we need. Some of us, perhaps especially elders living alone, don’t have the opportunity for much human touch in our day-to-day lives. Our animal bodies can respond to other animal bodies. Touching and acknowledging the life within, the lives intertwined. The lives connecting to each other through this magical, sacred sense of touch. 

Yes, I hug wherever and whenever possible, with those friends where this is accepted as part of who we are to each other. I feel the love and connection. 

It does not fill that deep need within for the longing of my soft animal body to be held, to be comforted with that holding. The need to have my cheek lightly stroked. To have a hand resting on my shoulder, letting me know that someone hears me, sees me, reaches out to me. 

I go to a hairdresser and get my head massaged as she washes it. This is lovely. 

I pet animals that I meet on the street, with their human’s permission. And they melt into my touch and I into their fur and wagging tails and bodies. This is lovely.

I wash my sheets and slip into them at the end of the day, feeling comforted. Even more so with flannel sheets in the winter months. Getting under the covers in my bed when nothing else seems to work, and wrapping myself tightly with the covers, feeling held. (I have tried weighted blankets. They can initially feel comforting, but for me don’t work in the long run.)

I sometimes get pedicures, although not regularly. It’s not something that has been a routine part of my life. And there is something about the overworked staff talking to each other that can feel like they don’t see me or feel my presence, but only do their tasks efficiently. Occasionally I have had a special worker who seems to pay attention in a different way, makes eye contact frequently, acknowledges our connection in those moments. That is a gift. 

I take a long hot shower and feel the warmth on my skin, a comfort before I slip into bed. 

I can feel sunlight on my skin, the breeze touching me. I am included in nature and touched by her. I am grateful.

I place my hands on the trees on my walks in the redwoods and feel a depth of connection that is hard to put into words. These sacred ancient beings standing steadfast and with so many stories that they could tell. We are together at that moment in time. 

I feel the sensuality of my skin and body come up at sometimes random times, triggered by things that I may not have been conscious of. It is a delightful feeling to sense this aliveness still within me, and bittersweet in that I often feel as if this piece of my life is over with. I don’t know that for sure, but as a 70-year-old woman, the odds suggest this could be true. 

I am grateful for all the touch I have and have had in my life. 

And my warm and soft animal body still hungers for more.

It is a hunger that I have tried at times to feed with food. That serves only to numb things for a while but does not really help the need beneath the want for very long. 

So, here I sit in my soft animal body. Acknowledging its wants, its needs, its hunger for touch. It’s ok, I tell it. I am here. I know how you feel. And I am here. I allow the feelings to simply be and flood through me. It is a form of touch, if you will, to hear and see and validate myself and whatever is going on inside me at the time. 

I think that perhaps we may have a need for hug parlors. Not massage parlors. I am very particular about massages and often don’t feel comfortable with the level of touch, pressure, and false intimacy that can be triggered there for me. I often don’t feel safe enough. I am glad for those that can make use of this. I am not one of those. 

But a hug parlor? Now I could possibly get into that. 

A place to go to simply be held for a while, allowing feelings to come. Tears would be ok and would not frighten anyone away. Tears are the feelings finally coming to the surface and being acknowledged. Tears are my soft animal body shivering with relief and comfort at a touch that feels safe and loving. 

We inhabit these soft animal bodies for a short period of time. How lovely they can be. To feel everything that they allow us to feel.

And as we age, we may not be able to fill the needs of these bodies as easily as we did in our youth. 

Perhaps our aging bodies can scare those who would rather not see what the future holds for them, if they are lucky enough to live long lives.

Perhaps there is a false idea that elders don’t have the same needs that we did when younger. The needs may have shifted form, but the need is still there. 

My body may be less firm, less strong, more wrinkled, saggy and less attractive in society’s eyes. But it is still my soft animal body. It still has warmth and softness and aliveness within. It still breathes and hungers and desires. It is still alive. I am still alive. 

So, I will go for a walk today in the trees, feel their bark, and listen to the wind whispering through their leaves. I will breathe in the connection.

I will go and get my hair cut this morning. And feel the kind hands on my head and scalp, and allow the comfort of that to seep within me.

I will wrap myself in a blanket and hold myself quietly, acknowledging my needs and feelings. Breathing compassion and understanding into myself.

And I will intentionally love and cherish this soft warm animal body that is mine for such a brief time. 

And he sang one of my favorite songs.

A 92-year-old docent at the zoo where I volunteer recently sang to me, and I was mesmerized. 

This gentleman, who I will refer to as John, has been volunteering at the local zoo for 30 years, mainly at the elephant exhibit (which is where I also have been volunteering for over 10 years.)

He told me he had been an actor in his career, and traces of that were still apparent in his speech. I could see the performer that he had been, and still was. 

I ask him about his life. He seems eager to talk. 

He lost his wife, as well as one of his four children, years ago. The deep grief is still there. I can see it in his eyes when he tells me about them. I can hear it in his voice. I reflect to him how painful those losses must have been for him. He responds with his voice, his eyes, and his very being. 

And there is so much more to him. 

I had heard from other volunteers, as he is famous among all the volunteers there, that John also sings. I asked him about his singing.

To my complete delight, he immediately broke into a beautiful version of one of my favorite songs ever. Although the sound of Louis Armstrong’s unique and wonderful voice will always be one of my timeless memories of this song, I now have another version to add to the list. John’s version. 

What a Wonderful World

(composed by Bob Thiele and George David Weiss) 

I see trees of green, red roses too, I see them bloom, for me and you..and I think to myself…What a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white, the bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself…What a wonderful world. 

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky, are also on the faces of people walking by. I see friends shaking hands, saying “How do you do?” They’re really saying “I love you.”

I hear babies cry. I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know. And I think to myself…What a wonderful world. Oh yeah, what a wonderful world. 

Can you imagine the feeling and emotions coming from a 92-year-old man singing this song? He sang from his heart, from his years of wisdom and years of living life in this world. It’s apparent that he still has the love of life inside of him and still sees the amazing beauty all around him. It’s not that he has not struggled, or felt pain, or deep loss. It’s not that he is not so befuddled by some of the things going on in our world today. We talk about all of that. He shakes his head and says he just cannot understand it all. 

And here he is at the zoo. Almost every day. 

He still is in awe of our elephants. He loves to tell people about them, shouting out “Would you like to know something about elephants?” as people come up to the exhibit. Most people respond with a resounding “Absolutely!” 

And, delighted, he begins his speech. A well practiced speech. Full of laughter and anecdotes. Like the true story about the little boy, who upon seeing our well endowed male elephant, shouted out “Look at the baby elephant’s trunk coming out of that elephant!” Laughter all around, the deepest from John himself. 

His song was such a heartfelt tribute to this wonderful world. He was singing his truth, wisdom, and wonder. Gifting me with one of the best concerts that I have been to. Gracing me with the love and joy of life that still radiates from him.

He talks openly about aging. He laughingly tells people that although he may not look 92 from the neck up (he doesn’t at all), if they were to see him from the neck down, that would be another story. More laughter, with him leading the chorus. 

He talks about his skin, and how must be careful as it tears so easily. He wears long sleeves all the time to protect his arms, is glad that he doesn’t ever really feel too hot with those long sleeves, even when the temperature rises.

 He compares his own now more fragile skin to the sensitive skin of the elephants that he so loves. 

Elephants don’t wear long sleeves, but they do throw mud and dirt on their skin to protect it. He relates to this. I relate as well, surprised these days upon noticing the occasional deep purple bruise on my arms and having no idea or memory of where I got that. My skin is thinner, more sensitive. 

As is my heart more sensitive to all that is around me. As I also sense is true for John’s heart. 

I have his song in my head and in my heart now, with his voice and face. And that magical moment that came out of nowhere. Because I asked about his singing. 

What might we learn from others, further ahead on the path than we might be now, if we only ask? What delightful gifts might we be given? What surprises might come our way if we only stop, ask, and listen?

And what gifts might we also have to share that we may not realize the preciousness of? What things might we discount about ourselves and our own life experiences that others might want to hear and cherish?

John volunteers at the zoo 6 days a week. He talks about not wanting to stay home and do nothing, when he could be at the zoo, sharing knowledge and community. He has a purpose. He is needed, and feels significant. He is seen and heard. And enjoyed. And he is even still able to drive himself there. 

I will always hear his song in my heart. And I will forever be inspired by him as I continue my own path of aging. 

I turned 70 this year, and that has felt significant to me. And here is this lovely man who is 22 years ahead of me on the path. The years that I am now aware of will go by in the blink of an eye. Time seems to pass so much more quickly these days. 

Let’s take time to listen to each other along the way. There is, amid all the pain and suffering in our world, much beauty still to enjoy and appreciate and stand in awe of. Including in each other. Let’s hear each other’s stories and enjoy each other’s heart-songs. 

What a wonderful world….. oh, yeah. 

Early morning solitude has its own ache….and gifts.

I’m up at 3am again. Two nights in a row now. 

Although I mostly sleep quite well, when I do wake up, it seems to be around 3am. There is something about that hour.

The world is silent. Palpable silence. Silence that I can feel deep inside my soul.

So many feelings. Loneliness, but not the kind of loneliness that being around another human can fill. It’s deeper than that.

Quietness that mimics, in my mind, the quiet that we will all come to when our time on earth is done.

I think about that more these days, now being an elder.

It is a quiet that I must honor. Noise cannot help. Music cannot help. I must hear the silence. I must hear what is inside of me.

It can be painful sometimes. 

I wander around my home, looking at all the familiar possessions and yet they all somehow feel strangely alien and apart from me. I have come to a time of life of beginning to let go of things, passing them along to others who may also find them precious for a while. 

I make myself a hot drink. Something about a hot cup of coffee or tea in my hands can be soothing. Sometimes. 

Not this time.

I feel an ache in my throat and tears behind my eyes. I feel a deep aloneness. So deep that it feels as if it has no bottom. An abyss.

I cannot focus on reading. I don’t want to distract myself with my phone, or tv, although there are times when I use those to ease the depth of some of the feelings. I believe in feeling all the feelings, that they are a gift of being human and being alive. But I must admit, there are times that the gift feels a bit too raw. A bit too overwhelming.

 I breathe.

I want comfort, but there is none that I can find that works at this moment. So into this abyss I allow myself to go, feeling my way. 

It’s like a cave. Caves are not my favorite. I can get a bit claustrophobic. But into it I go. 

I sometimes have a vision of a cave appear when I visualize an internal spiritual journey in my mind. A journey to my core. This cave always has a fire burning deep inside of it. There are always animals around that fire, sitting as if they have been waiting for me.

These feel like spirit animals. Animals that call to different parts of my soul. Animals that may have something to teach or tell me.

There is always a bear. This feels important, although I don’t always understand or have words for it. I even created a painting of a bear a while ago. Her eyes have depth to them. They see into me. They see my rawness and sit with it. And encourage me to do the same. Encourage me not to run. Remind me that even though I am now an elder, there is wildness still within me. 

The ache in my throat grows. The tears come closer to the surface. Tears of love lost. Tears of life past. Tears of deep aloneness. Tears of still inhabiting, for however much longer I may be blessed to have, this very human body that we are loaned for such a brief time. Tears that sting, and cleanse. 

Right now, they just hurt. 

I feel sad. Sad for the pain in my life that I have experienced. Sad for the separation from others that I sometimes feel. Sad for the awareness of mortality. Sad for all those that I have lost, that have died. Sad for what I didn’t do or say. Sad that I cannot reach out and touch them, talk with them, be once again by them, if only for a moment. 

I feel their presence around and within me. I welcome their spirits. I talk with them, in my heart. 

The tears flow more freely now. They need to come. I cannot contain them any longer. 

I am here. At 3am. Alive. Alone. 

I know that this too shall pass. So, let me be here in it while I can. 

The pain of our world is also something that I feel more deeply inside of me these days. The pain of the earth and the world. The suffering. Climate change and extinction of species. Wars and everything that they bring. Innocent lives lost before they can even begin. Leaders that focus on more on power than on humanity and caring for those that they lead.

I ache. Ache even to hear the chain saws that our entire neighborhood has been hearing for the past several weeks as the preparations for another winter are made and trees that may fall are cut down now to prevent possible injury and damage. I talk to the trees by my home, empathizing for the pain of losing some of their family. I know they feel it. If I feel it, how much more must their roots feel the pain of life cut down?

It seems that I feel everything more deeply as I continue on this path of aging. A bittersweet gift.

There is also the exquisite beauty in this life that cannot be stilled, even in the midst of all of this pain.

The sunrises. The sunsets. The forests, oceans, animals, life all around us in so many forms if we stop and look. Beauty that takes my breath away. Awe inspiring. 

Babies are being born and growing. New life to carry on. Hope for the future. 

Acts of kindness that I see every day. Love expressed simply because. 

Elders are still sharing their wisdom to whomever may listen. Still participating in this very precious life while they can. 

The earth is still splendid, even with all that we have done to her. 

I love this time of the morning, even in the struggles. I can hear the voice within. In all of its beauty and raw pain. In all its awareness of mortality, aging, and time passing more quickly as the years go by. Awareness of this exquisite gift of being alive. Feeling deep, sacred gratitude. 

 But sometimes it takes a bit of time. Sometimes I must sit in the dark and wait for the light. And listen to the quiet of 3am and all that it has to tell me. And breathe into it all, while I still can. 

Art imitates life. Value your own work. It’s a part of you.

The inner critic has been a strong presence all my life. It is well practiced and ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. It humbles me. But if I have learned anything from this journey of aging, it is resilience and patience. When triggered, I have learned to take a breath, step back, process what might have just happened. Learned to try and see my part and what may need to be adjusted. And learned to try and see what is just fine and needs to be not only left alone but valued and defended. Let me share what happened to bring on this latest epiphany. 

I have been enjoying art and painting since I retired over three years ago. I have no problem acknowledging that I am very much a beginner. I did not study art, have no degree in art and have only taken several adult evening classes to learn some basic techniques. 

I love it and I love what shows up on the canvas. It feels like it is something that comes through me, not from me. Like my writing feels at times as well.

I even joined an art association. This has pluses and minuses.

Pluses. I get to be around other artists, learn things, be able to be part of art exhibits and shows where I can be among those who display their work in public. That’s wonderful. Scary, but wonderful.

Minuses. Comparison to others. Daring to allow my art to be on the wall next to theirs. Fighting all the inner critics and voices that ask me who do I think that I am. Voices that tell me that I have no right to be there. 

I am 70 now, and I have decided that it is high time to seriously talk back to those voices and inner critics. Because time grows short. Because there is a limited time when I can paint and show those parts of myself to the world. It is me on the canvas or in the piece of art standing before me. It is like a child of mine.

 It is me in the written words on the page.

 It is me in this life, standing before you. It is me. 

And that is good enough. 

I recently submitted a three-dimensional piece to an art show, as part of the association that I belong to. It is the first time that I have tried this type of work. And I treated myself and even got this piece framed and am having a base built for it to give it a more stable foundation. The frame and foundation were not cheap. 

I have no idea how this art measures up. I only know that it is a very special piece for me. It feels like a signature piece. It feels unique. And I want to honor it. Even if only for myself. I have no illusions that I can compare to great artists, but I am also very aware of how much art is in the eye of the beholder. As is beauty, yes?

I submitted this piece to the gallery where it will be exhibited, if accepted. I still have several weeks to edit my submission in case I want to change anything, which relaxed me and gave me more permission to go ahead and begin the submission process. Part of the submission process is listing a price for each piece submitted. 

 Yesterday I received a text message from a board member of the art association who was part of reviewing all the art submitted. In their message, they asked me if I had really meant the price that I quoted for this piece. Without saying it directly, the implied question was that this must have been a mistake. To be fair, it was more than I have ever asked for any piece before. But this piece was also different than anything I had ever exhibited before. 

Oh, how the chorus within me loved that question in this text that I received. The voices in my head jumped right on board with their comments of See! I told you so. Who did you think that you were? You should be embarrassed and ashamed. Go back into hiding. Get out of the light. 

For most of my life, I have struggled with not feeling as good as, as skilled as, or good enough. I won’t go into the background of this right now, but it has been one of the major issues in my life.

And now I have reached elderhood. And I am sick and tired of giving in to these voices and messages. Of allowing others to have that much power over me. Of allowing others the right to declare what I am worth or what something that I created may be worth. 

Aging is a gift that brings responsibility with it. A responsibility to oneself to finally say ENOUGH. I am good enough. I have had enough. I deserve to be among others. I have a right to be here and to show who I am. I have a right to dare to value myself. Just because. 

And so, I wrote back and told this person that, given the cost of the frame and the base alone, that yes, this was the price that I had written. 

I hope to at some point be even stronger in my responses to questions like this and make no excuses for myself, but simply to state Yes, that is the price. Yes, I meant that. No, it was not an error. And maybe even add and how rude of you to ask me that. 

I am not there yet. I will work on that.

It makes me think about how much power I have given to others all my life. It is time to take it back. Before I no longer have the chance to do that anymore. Before I die. To dare to be seen, claim my value (if only to myself) and stand strong in that. 

Am I still struggling with this issue? Do I feel like withdrawing this piece of art or bringing the price way down? Yes, I do. 

Will I do that? 

I will think about what a fair price might be, and allow room for some flexibility. Allow that the price may need to be a bit lower and that I do not need to pass on the exorbitant cost of the framing process to the potential buyer. Will I reduce the price by as much as half? No, I will not. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t sell. It might not sell even if I significantly lower the price. The point of my art is not to sell it, although it’s a lovely gift when I do. 

It would cost me in other ways if I were to lower that price too much. In ways and costs that I am no longer willing to pay. So I will live with my discomfort and allow that price to be displayed as is, once I decide how much, if at all, I will reduce it. Will I regret daring to have a price that others may think is too high? Maybe. I don’t know. But I must try. 

How much do we all put parts of ourselves out there and not have them valued or seen or appreciated? How much do we allow others to dictate what value we put on ourselves? How much of our lives do we give away and not live fully? How much of ourselves do we not care about and treat preciously and with love out of fear of what others might think? What experts might think.

I am feeling the pain of all those years of berating and discounting myself. 

I am feeling the self-doubt. I am feeling the shame and fear.

I am feeling the anxiety and desire to run away from showing any part of myself. 

And I am still here. 

 I will show this piece and learn from this experience. 

Isn’t that the point? To show up and learn? To experience life? 

So, I encourage you all to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever your heart calls you to do. Just because. Just because you are alive, and it is in you. And you deserve to be seen and heard and valued. Especially by yourself. 

And that is priceless. 

It’s raw, powerful, deep, and authentic. Not cute. Not cranky.

Anger. Rage. Powerful. Raw. Real. 

And I have it. It is part of my being, and I am grateful.

I am 70 now. Although I choose my battles more carefully, as time becomes more precious each day, there are still times that I can be filled with righteous rage. 

Of course, I let minor things go, as it is not worth fighting all the battles all the time. Wisdom can teach us which battles to choose.

There is much in the world that I feel rage about. 

Governments that seem to forget that they are working for the people.

 Battles and wars that senselessly take precious lives. 

Shootings in schools. Young innocent lives lost that never got a chance to live. Families with wounds that may never heal. 

Homelessness. Hunger. Poverty. Loss of basic human rights. Cruelty to each other, to animals, to the earth. 

The earth is slowly being destroyed. Its creatures are becoming extinct. Climate disasters are happening worldwide.

 The loss of a sense of safety in the world. Violent crime rising everywhere. Having to be constantly vigilant of who may be around us wherever we go. 

And there are more personal times when anger flares. Times when a line has been crossed. Times that I need to let it be known that I am still very much here, engaged in life, full of passion and intensity. And I will not be treated disrespectfully. I will not allow violations of my dignity. Not from others, and not from myself. Not speaking up when I need to can be a way of disrespecting myself. 

I can understand someone having a bad day, or having so much going on at the time that they may behave less than kindly. But I do not have to be the one to make those excuses for anyone. If they let me know what is going on, I can soften. I don’t have to take care of others before they even let me know what’s going on with them.

We have a gut reaction that tells us that something that may have just happened is not ok. Boundaries need to be drawn. We need to let others know that whatever just occurred somehow violated something inside of us and brought our inner fire to the surface. 

That fire burns no less brightly in elderhood.

As elders, our anger can at times be portrayed as less than somehow. It can be referred to as cranky, irritable, cute. 

That enrages me. 

I am, for the most part, a quiet and calm person. So, when I get angry and let it be known, it can get noticed. Sometimes in my youth my rare expressions of anger would make people take a step back. My power became evident. My line in the sand was drawn. A surprise from this normally quiet and calm person. 

Do not assume that what you see on the surface is all that there is. 

Do not assume that about a quiet person. 

Do not assume that about a woman. 

And do not assume that about an elder. 

Indeed, if anything, we are more familiar with our emotions, having lived with them longer. And hopefully we are wiser as to where and when to express them. I will not waste my intensity where it is not heard or seen.

 And I will not mute my rage to make others more comfortable. I will not sit quietly when something is not right with me. Especially when someone has hurt me or someone that I care about in a way that was unnecessary.

Sometimes people laugh when I get angry, try to diminish my reaction, tell me to lighten up, ask me if I cannot take a joke. 

My response to all that? No, I can’t take a joke. Not when it is at my own expense.

Hostile teasing is hostile. 

Passive aggressive is aggressive. 

If anything, indirect attacks can be more confusing, more subtle, leaving us with a feeling that something wasn’t quite right, although sometimes we may not be able to name it in the moment. 

That’s ok. We can name it when we become aware and clearer about it. It takes practice. It takes tuning into yourself. It takes standing up for yourself. It takes paying attention to that feeling in your gut that is letting you know that something is not right, that something bothered you. 

Honoring my anger doesn’t mean that I will go out and intentionally hurt anyone or run screaming down the street (although I must admit there are times when running screaming down the street seems to be the most authentic response to some of the insanity in this world these days and all the craziness that comes toward us.)

Honoring my anger means that I am done being treated as less than. I am done being discounted and cast aside. 

I am done being constantly interrupted when I speak. I am done not being heard in meetings or groups as much as men may be heard, and now, at times, as much as those younger than I, may be heard. 

A quieter, softer voice is still powerful and can have much to say. My voice, as well as my rage, does not have to be loud to be powerful. 

I am done with not being paid attention to at the doctor’s office.

I am done being categorized and not listened to when I walk into the mechanic’s shop.

I am done being treated as a lesser human being, as one who is not vibrantly living life, but rather categorized as one who may be merely waiting to die. 

We are all going to die. I may be ahead of others, but we are all in that line. And, while I am here on this earth, I still have things to say, life to live, feelings to express. My soul to acknowledge and my spirit to let shine.

Can we begin to really hear the experience in the voice of an elder? The wisdom? The lessons learned from years lived. The lessons that we can share with others to perhaps help ease the road ahead with some tips that might be useful. Can we hear their anger and what it might have to teach us? What it is trying to get us to pay attention to? That it exists for a reason and deserves to be heard and acknowledged. 

Perhaps if we get better at acknowledging and naming our dark side, the feelings that can often be categorized (wrongly so, in my opinion) as being negative and less than, then maybe we won’t have to act those feelings out. Maybe we can name them, respect them, listen to what they might be telling us that we need. And move on. 

I know that not everyone will choose to hear me. That’s ok. And I can also choose whom to have in my life. Whom to include. Whom to share this precious soul with, as I also listen to their voice and their feelings from deep inside. 

I feel kindness deeply. I feel compassion deeply. I feel love deeply. I feel sadness and grief deeply. 

 I feel rage deeply. All are embers from the same fire burning within. If I try and ignore and dampen one, I dampen them all. And I then dampen my life, and my one chance to be authentically all that I can be. 

Does that lion in the photo above look like it would dampen itself? 

I don’t think so.

Deciding which paintings to show, realizing we all make this choice every day.

I am so grateful, at this point in my life, to be able to paint and to even be part of some art shows, ever since I joined an art association. An upcoming art show that we have scheduled made me think about how we all exhibit our paintings, parts of ourselves, to the world every day. And how we choose what we want to have seen. 

Do I have voices within that compare my work to these other artists, artists who have education, experience, and more time having painted compared to me, a relative beginner? Indeed I do. Lots of voices. 

I still show up. And still dare to hang my paintings alongside theirs. If not now, when? I am 70. Time is growing shorter. It’s time to be who I am. And that doesn’t have to be perfect. What a relief to finally begin to feel the truth of that deep inside me.

 I have a part of me that talks back to those negative, cautious voices now. Calms them. And keeps on showing up.

So, I need to submit three of my art pieces for this show. I need to choose. 

I have one piece that I am extremely excited to submit. It’s a three dimensional piece. My first piece like this ever. It’s an elephant that I painted onto a palm frond. A palm frond that I found while walking up to the elephant barn on my way to my volunteer shift at the local zoo. It felt like a message, as the frond looked exactly like an elephant. At least it did to me. Volunteering with the elephants for the past 10 years, I tend to see elephant shapes in everything, but this one’s shape was amazing. 

Now I must choose two other pieces to submit for this show. And it is interesting to notice what can be involved in this process. How does one make that choice? How do you choose which part of you to expose any one day or at any particular function? 

Aging brings a lot of experience with it. More parts of ourselves that we come to know. How do we choose which part to show when, where, and to whom? 

What does each painting say about me, I wonder? Will people like them?

 What part of me do I let out for others to see? What do I keep for only certain friends? What do I keep for myself? And all of those are legitimate choices. 

If I ask others about the paintings, everyone will have a different opinion. Art is such an individual thing. 

Perhaps, also, others may respond to different parts of us based on who they are and what they may need from us or feel at any given moment. Relationships are such an individual thing too. 

I realize that we tell on ourselves in many ways. I tell who I am by how I walk, whether I make eye contact, who I reach out to, whether I say hello to others, and in so many other ways. We think we are not seen, but we are.

And yet, there are parts of ourselves that we are perhaps more careful with. I think about the parts of me that I am less afraid to show, the parts that I may feel better about, for whatever reason. But there is more to me. I have more paintings in my inner gallery. 

 I still have the young girl within, the one who can giggle and who delights in life. I may choose who to show her to, in case she might not be treated as I would wish her to be.

I have the sexual being still within. As an elder, I am careful who to show her to, as not all reactions are positive or accepting. I know that this part of me is still very much alive, but at times those younger than I may be shocked, even somewhat disgusted, or feel the need to make this part of me less somehow or even cute. I assure you; my feelings are not cute. If anything, they are deepened and enriched by time and experience, by love felt, pain and loss felt, passion sometimes awakened that reminds me of all that is still very much within me.

I have the angry part. The righteous rage. And this, too, can be discounted as cute or cranky. Oh, when I am angry, it’s way beyond cranky. I show her when and where she will be heard, or when I am ready to fight to have her heard. It takes energy. I choose my battles more carefully these days. Time is precious. As a friend of mine says, “Pick which hill to die on.”

I have the elder within, who is now more visible to the world. Not the old lady, mind you, but the elder keeper of wisdom. I am clear about what labels I will accept and about those that do not fit. 

I have the woman who takes care of her house, hires people to help, has been independent for years. Still competent, even if getting tired of managing it all sometimes. I will not allow her to be discounted. 

I have the fearful part. What will aging bring? Will I keep my senses about me? What will my health be? I am careful about who I talk to about this as well, in case they see that as all there is to me. I need to be able to talk about my fears without being seen and categorized as being only those fears. There is more to me than that. 

These are some of the paintings in my gallery within. 

And when I decide to show them, they will be hanging out there for all to see. Some people will stop to look more deeply at particular pieces. Some will walk by with barely a glance. So, before I put them out there, I need to be ready to stand in my own strength. 

Whatever others’ reaction, it is my painting on the wall. And that painting has a right to be there. 

I have a right to be here. 

 It is me in front of them, in my paintings, in my voice both written and verbal, and in my body. 

Here I am. My own precious, unique work of art.

As are we all. 

Daring to let our vibrancy show as elders.

I have been recuperating this week from an art show that our local art association puts on annually. Recuperating from the intense labor and time that goes into putting on an art show. Recuperating from what a show can stir up inside me. 

I exhibited some of my paintings, which is always such a vulnerable feeling. As an artist friend of mine once said about showing your work, “That’s your ass hanging up on the wall!” Just what it feels like, I must say.

I didn’t really get into painting much during my time working, and am grateful to be able now, having retired over three years ago, to spend time on my passions of writing and painting. 

As I looked at my exhibit, and looked at some of the others, I noticed that my colors seemed much brighter and more intense. I felt a bit of uncertainty about this. I already feel like such a beginner next to these other artists, most of who have been doing art for much longer than I and have studied much more than I, who have only having taken several adult evening art classes. 

Their paintings were beautiful, I thought, with subtle colors for the most part, skillfully blended and flowing. And here were mine, standing out boldly. Were they too much? Too bright? Not subtle enough? Not sophisticated enough?

 I always loved that saying that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Was I being a fool showing my work? Was it too much? Was I too much? This is a question that I have asked myself for most of my life. 

 As I walked around and helped with the various booths that we had going on, I found myself very aware of when people might be walking by my paintings, might be stopping to look. 

I noticed, with pleasure, that several children seemed to linger longer at my paintings, especially the paintings of animals, which is one of my favorite subjects. It made them smile, which made me smile. 

We had a slow turnout that day. There were several other festivals going on in the area on the same day and they may have drawn more crowds. Especially Oktoberfest. It’s hard to compete with beer, sausages, and music.

I was amazed once again, as I am each time, how very vulnerable showing art can be. Then again, I have felt that vulnerability most of my life about showing my true self. I have spent much time trying to please or mold myself to what I thought that others needed or wanted me to be. 

Now, as I have entered the sacred realm of elderhood, I find that I am becoming much more comfortable being who I am, stating what I think, disagreeing when I feel the need to, and not caring nearly as much about what others may think. 

This got me thinking. Could I apply this new attitude to my artwork? Might I even learn to appreciate the colors and brightness that I seem drawn to paint? Realize that it’s ok to paint in my style, and not try to compare myself to others? 

Maybe I can finally allow myself to unmute my vivid colors. 

And maybe I can unmute in other ways where I may express myself more vividly than others. Like my intensity, my sensitivity, my personality. Perhaps now is the time to finally, fully, step into me. Step into who I have tried to mute, dampen, soften, hide, or push into the background for all these years. Maybe I can now let the child inside me paint brightly and enjoy it simply as it is. 

Art is such an individual thing, yes? Different people are drawn to different artists and different forms and expressions. Maybe I don’t have to worry about that anymore, don’t have to be afraid to paint my colors, speak my voice, write my soul, and be myself. My Self. 

And maybe I can age in vibrant color as well. While I am still breathing, let my colors flow and glow, even if only for me. Because I am finally beginning to realize that doing something just for me is good enough. 

My colors are one expression of who I am. One that I can learn to appreciate. 

Isn’t it about time we let those parts of ourselves be free? If not now, when?

 So, I will paint and live my elderhood in vivid, bold color. 

Care to join me?

The graceful hands of an elder ballerina, with Alzheimer’s and in a wheelchair, whose music and dance would not be denied.

I watched a video again today, one that went viral a while ago. One that I will never forget. The video about the elder ballerina in a wheelchair, taken over by Alzheimer’s. But not completely.

Several version of her name were given. Marta Gonzales, Marta Gonzales Saldana, and Marta Cinta. She was born in Madrid, lived in Cuba, danced in New York. If you have not seen this video, I encourage you to look it up on YouTube. Plug in elder ballerina or ballerina with Alzheimer’s and you will find it.

 Have Kleenex ready when you watch it. 

I imagine that younger people may see something quite different if they watch this poignant video. Are their smiles one of pity? 

My smile was one of awe at seeing who was still inside of her at that moment caught on camera, that part of her that dementia and age had not been able to completely claim.

It was so moving to watch her face transform as her hands moved gracefully to Swan Lake, having their own memory of what to do, of what to express, of the grace and of the music and the story of the dance. Her face expressing what she could no longer use words or her feet and body for. But, oh, those hands and arms fluttering like wings. The magic was still there. I was mesmerized, watching the music transport her back in time, back to who she used to be and still had within her. 

She was sitting there in her wheelchair, being encouraged by the young man speaking to her. She began to move slightly as the music started, but then she sat still again. He gently took her hand and kissed her like the diva that she was, that he still honored. He kissed her hand, and the dance within her came back to life. 

I watched and was enchanted, able to see her grace and beauty that time and life did not steal. Feeling the music. Turning into that swan before my eyes. I forgot she was in a wheelchair, as she was transported back in time and to the world that she used to live in, for those moments when she could hear the music of her past. 

 I felt the metaphor in this poignantly beautiful ballet before my eyes. We all have that spirit and music and our own dance within us. Who we were in our youth. When we could move and express ourselves differently than we now do. When we were seen and appreciated by others in a different way. When the spotlight showed beauty and grace for all to admire.

And here we are, now elders. No longer seen. Certainly not seen as who and how we were. Yet, those parts are within us still.

How do we validate and acknowledge and honor those parts of ourselves as best as we can? How can we express what we still can? How can we encourage our spirit to still dance and move when it can? Our voices to sing? Our hands to move, write, paint, to express what they will? How can we remember the whole of ourselves as we watch this body of ours change, age, and decline?

Perhaps others cannot see this part of us, understandably. But the real tragedy would be to forget this ourselves. To put these parts completely to rest and bury them before we are buried ourselves. Even a beautiful elder woman with dementia was gently coaxed to remember and to still allow that part of her to live, even if for a brief moment.

Who were you? What kind of child were you? Curious? Playful? Dancing? Singing? Drawing? Running for the sheer joy of it? Laughing? Joking? Touching? Happy in groups? More comfortable being solitary? What did you love to talk about? What were your dreams? What has your story been up to now? Not to live in the past, but to remember the total of who you have been, so as to allow all of it to still be alive within you. 

Aging has its own dance, yes? Moving more slowly, watching our bodies change and be unable to do things that we could do before, and having to find new steps to this dance. Steps that we can handle now. Steps that we may have to think about more, so as to keep our balance. Some steps that become memories only. And sometimes those are gone as well. 

Although we may feel as if our bodies betray us, we also can feel the life force still inside of us, even as the outer shell perhaps may not be able to express it in the same way. 

We have dance left within us still. We have music inside us. We can still respond with rapture to this music. 

We have laughter inside us. We have love still there to give. We are still capable of feeling it all, perhaps even more now that we are aware of the brevity of life in a much more visceral way. 

Yes, we cannot deny mortality in the same way as we may have in our youth. We see evidence of it in the mirror. We see it as we look down at our bodies. We feel it in our changing brains. Although we can work to be the best we can be, there is no denying that there will be an end, and that we are much closer to it these days. 

The music is coming to an end. But not yet. Not while we are still here. Not while we can remember, or have someone or something help us remember it, feel it, embrace it, dance to it however we can. The ballet is not over yet. Not yet. Let’s see the dance in ourselves. Let’s listen to the music still there. Let’s help each other remember what is still there. Hold the memories for each other as we make more. As we participate in this final movement. The beautiful finale. 

Let’s gently take each other’s hands. And help each other to remember. Help each other to still be all that we have been, are now, and can yet be. The choreographer has not finished with us yet. Indeed, perhaps the most beautiful music is yet to come. Saving the best for last.