Breaking down decluttering into smaller bite size pieces

I am drawn, as are many of my friends at this stage in our lives, to declutter and release things that no longer nourish or serve a purpose. Traveling light seems to be a goal that we reach as we age. Getting ready for the last trip of all, which allows no luggage. 

When I think about how much stuff I have, it can overwhelm me. And it has for quite some time. Not only do I have a house that I have lived in for over 20 years, but I also have things that were my mother’s, and things that used to belong to an ex that he no longer wanted. And a garage to also help with hanging on.

Yikes.

What happens to me when I get overwhelmed with something is that I tend to freeze and avoid the whole thing. That has not been helpful in the goal of decluttering, to say the least. 

It’s time. Because I notice that the clutter around me is also reflected in my mind. When I let go of something, I literally feel lighter and clearer. 

How about, I ask myself, if I do one small thing at a time? The inner critic, always ready to chime in, laughs and belittles the idea. What will one thing do, she asks? Do you realize how much you have to get rid of? You need to just do it all. Just hunker down and keep going until you get it all done.

Not possible. At least not for me.

Especially when I get to things like the box with the old photos in it. What do I do with these, I wonder? Photos that hold memories for me but mean nothing to anyone else. I don’t have any family that I keep in regular contact with that would have any interest in any of these snapshots of my life. 

I look at the photos one last time, decide which I can really let go of (most of them, actually) and put them in the box for the garbage collectors. How many times have I really looked at these photos over the years? Hardly any. And yet, I have hung onto them. Hung onto pieces of my past. Pieces that I can remember fondly, but that I don’t really need souvenirs from. 

Next, the closets. Filled with clothes that I either do not wear anymore, since retired, or that no longer fit and that I need to admit will probably never fit. And if I did get to the point that they fit, would I really want to wear most of them anyway? No. Slowly, I put them (the ones that are still in good or even new condition) into the donation bag. Hopefully someone can use them. 

Once I have done that, I now look in the closets as I walk by and see if there may be one more piece that I can add to the pile. There usually is. Into the pile it goes. Even if it’s one shirt at a time, it’s better than none. Slowly, I can begin to see the closets lightening up. (Maybe that will help motivate me to lighten up myself, physically? One can hope. That’s the one thing that I hope to keep growing in this stage of life….my sense of humor. It becomes more vital as we age, yes?)

 I look around at my furniture. Mostly I live in one room, and, of course, my bedroom. Do I really need all these pieces of furniture? Do I need the china cabinet type thing that stores things inside it that I no longer use? So I begin to lighten up what is inside this cabinet, and think about when and where to let go of the piece itself. I don’t need it. And the open space would be lovely.

I am thinking about, at some point, moving into a retirement community. That would also involve a lot of downsizing. I might as well start now, yes? 

I am grateful for all that I have had in my life thus far. And am grateful for each new day and for waking up each morning. 

What brings me joy has nothing to do with most of the things around me. What brings me joy is my writing, my painting. My connection with friends. My walks in nature. My volunteering with the elephants at the zoo. My solitude and rich inner life, quiet and with space around me. Space that I can breathe in. 

The rest? The rest I can begin to let go of. I don’t need most of these things. They get in the way sometimes, and clutter my mind and spirit. 

And at this stage of life, my spirit wants to be free and have space to breathe and tell me who she is, who she has always been. 

Space to express my voice, both in the written word and on the canvas. Space to breathe in the vastness of the earth and its amazing creatures. Space to enjoy those around me and the love that we share. 

Space for memories, not stuff. 

Space for life and living it.

Plans with yourself are just as important as those with others.

Ah, the benefits that I am continuing to discover on my aging journey.

During my past, as an introvert, I would struggle to come up with reasons to not attend something social if I didn’t feel like it.

I am not saying that we should never be social. We need each other, we need our communities and friends. I am grateful for them all.

However, in the past, if I had made any kind of plan for what to do for the day, alone, plans that felt important and like something that I really wanted and needed to do for myself, those plans never felt as valid as if I had made plans with someone else. If anyone called and invited me to do something else with them or with a group, and they asked if I had any plans, I thought that the honest answer was no. No, I didn’t have any plans. 

To be honest, I may have lied in my past, making up some excuse if I really did not want to go to a particular function. But I never felt like I had good enough reason to decline anything unless I already had plans. Plans with someone else. There was always a twinge of guilt for saying no for what I thought was no good reason.

What a way to refer to myself! 

With aging, I have come to a deeper appreciation of time, of each moment. I now can feel the truth that there is a limit to the number of moments that I have left. And I want to be more intentional as to how I spend the remaining moments of this precious life that I have been given. 

So, the answer to others’ questions of whether I have plans or not is yes, I do have plans. I have plans for and with myself. And that’s valid enough reason. I now know that it’s just as important to keep commitments to myself as I believe that it is to keep commitments with others.

I am not referring to easy kind of free-flowing plans that I sometimes make that are open to change. Accepting an invitation might be the best thing to do in those moments. Opportunities to connect when that feels like it might be a good thing to do. 

And there are times when I know that I need to do whatever it is that I have planned, and to do it by myself. That I need that time with me to center, to quiet myself, to get grounded, to hear my voice inside and what it is saying to me and what it may tell me that I need. To hear what has been going on inside me lately. To listen. Quietly. To my own truth. 

An added benefit of this is that I am then able to be much more present when I am with others. Because I have filled myself. 

So yes, today, I have plans. With a dear close friend. With me. And I am looking forward to catching up. Being quiet and listening and hearing. Breathing into the stillness. Breathing into myself. 

Seeing all that we are, have been, and the stories that our faces contain

I am always fascinated while looking at the painting by Sergi Cadenas that portrays a woman aging . When you slowly walk from one side of this painting to the other, you see the aging process in this woman’s face. The young girl that she was, the woman that she became, the elder that she grew into. Not only is this a brilliant piece of work, but also such a metaphor for how we can begin to see each other more deeply. And ourselves. 

I now, when I look at older people, begin to better see many of the different faces that might have been theirs when they were younger. Perhaps it takes elder eyes to be able to see all that is contained in a face. Maybe I have now grown into those eyes that can see more deeply. A lifetime of experiences, of joy, of pain, of a life lived. 

I look at the face of an older woman and can catch glimpses of the young girl that she was once, the young woman that she grew into, and the now elder keeper of wisdom that I see in front of me. Oh, the stories that she can tell me. I want to hear her stories. I want someone to hear my stories too.

I look at the older gentleman who is a regular at the coffee shop that I frequent. Still a striking figure, I can see the muscles that worked a lifetime, the broad shoulders that carried so much. The face that turned heads. The walk that belies a lifetime of hard work and experience, burdens, and the passage of time. 

When I look in the mirror, it is sometimes a shock to look at the changes that growing older brings. I don’t feel the same age that I see reflected in the image before me. The inside doesn’t seem to age at the same pace as the outside does. 

Walking from one side of life to another, as with the painting, time takes a toll. And invisibility can often come at the end of the walk. 

Yet there is so much to see. So much to hear about. So much to feel about the stories contained in each face, each set of eyes. 

I think that there may, at times, be fear when looking at an elder’s face with its lines, wrinkles, and spots. A knowledge that we will arrive at such a face ourselves, if we are lucky enough to live that long. An awareness that we are looking at a future version of ourselves. A bowing down to the reality of our skin losing its youthful glow and elasticity, our bodies losing their firm curves and tight skin, our eyes losing their clear vision, our ears not hearing as well, our steps becoming more measured and careful.

It’s not easy to face this (no pun intended). Yet it is the truth of our humanity, our life cycle, our present and future. 

Yet another stark reminder of the reality of mortality. The final version of the portrait of who we are, have been, and will become. 

So what can we do with this knowledge about life, about aging, about decline? About wrinkles, sagging skin, and the life cycle ending?

It is what our lives are. Perhaps we can learn how to use this knowledge, these lessons, this vision of our life, to better live each moment along the way. To embrace each prism in our own individual portrait that reflects who we are right then, with the knowledge that more change is coming with each step that we take.

And seeing all the faces, realizing that they are us, can this help teach us about living? Finally taking in the knowledge that beginnings always lead to endings, can we embrace the time between?

Have you read the Zen story about the man traveling across a field who encountered a tiger? 

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him. Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away at the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!(Translated by Paul Reps (Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, New York: Anchor/Doubleday, 1958, pages 22–23).

What a metaphor for life, yes? We know the end will come. Do we fret about this ? Or do we grab the pleasure and lusciousness that is in front of us and enjoy it while we are able? Do we see and eat the strawberry and the gift of its ripeness and delight? Even sweeter as we know that we are close to the end of our life. 

When our time comes to face those tigers, will we choose to live fully until we must let go? Can we embrace who we were, are, and will become? Can we reach and taste the strawberry of this moment in time? Can we taste its exquisiteness with the knowledge of its ending? Can we embrace now?

So here I am. Looking at this moment in time of my own portrait. Taking a deep breath.

Today I am going to my volunteer shift at the zoo. Observing the elephants. Saying goodbye to one of our elephants, Donna, who is going to be transported to an elephant sanctuary soon so that she can be with other female elephants her age. She recently lost her close elephant friend at the zoo, Lisa, who became old, ill, and was euthanized. Donna, and all of us who work with these majestic creatures, are still deeply in grief. So I will go and spend time with Donna while she is still with us. 

I think I’ll stop at the Farmers Market on the way home. And buy some strawberries. 

Nostalgia for special dates, acknowledging losses and grief.

I recently commemorated what would have been my 46th wedding anniversary. We were married for 12 years (separated for the last year of that) and then divorced 34 years ago. 34 years. It doesn’t seem that long ago in some ways, and yet seems like a lifetime ago in many other ways. 

We married with dreams of a lifetime together. Both still with a lot of growing up to do. Growing that we somehow could not synchronize enough. 

I feel sad about that. Grateful for the time that we had. Grateful that we are in contact with affection toward each other now. Grateful for lessons learned. And sad that we couldn’t make it work, while realizing that we needed to do what we did to keep growing. 

I feel that loss of the dreams of my marriage. Grief. Gratitude. Poignancy. Bittersweetness.

I have been in several relationships since then. Again, I feel grateful for each of them. Each with its own special gifts and qualities. And lessons.

It seems that I needed to be alone. And at age 70, I have finally realized that. I needed to be alone to really figure out who I was separate from any primary relationship. Who I am as a human being and as a woman. What matters to me. I had not been able to figure that out in a relationship. I gave myself away too easily, focused on the other, and tried to become what I thought that I should be. And that hurt both me and my partner at the time. 

And now here I am. Living alone. Intentionally. 

I am open to a relationship if it happens, and now come to it in a very different way. As myself. With my own voice. 

And I am ok if a relationship is not in my future. I have friends and a small social network, and that works for me. 

 I have a lot of solitude. That works for me too. 

Even when I come home from social functions, I eagerly get home to the quiet solitude of my house. To hear myself better. To come home to myself inside as well as to my house. The home of Self. The home of my unique voice that I need to hear and listen to. 

This time of life brings all loss into more focus for me. 

I have lost people that I cared about. They no longer walk this earth, no longer can sit and have coffee and talk with me, no longer here to hold that piece of me and my history.

I have lost pets. Companions that got deep into my heart. Unconditional love and acceptance. A quiet nuzzle when needed, a comforting purr to soothe the pain. 

I have lost my former definitions of myself. 

My career. No longer calling myself a social worker. 

Myself as what is thought of as a productive member of society. Part of the workers going back to work each Monday. Part of that piece of humanity, that dance.

Myself as a daughter, now visiting and honoring my parents at the mausoleum. 

My sexuality. No longer recognized as a sexual being by society. Now at 70, becoming more invisible in that area. I feel sad about losing that part, yet also some relief. So many ideals and pressure to look certain ways now gone. 

My flexibility. Now needing to stretch more simply to keep moving and functioning. Thinking about certain movements before doing them. Wondering how important that item that I just dropped onto the floor really is right now. 

Talking with my neighbor, who is also 70, about the importance of doing floor recovery exercises. Practicing, in different locations, how to get up off the floor in case of a fall, whether there is a piece of furniture to hold onto or not. 

Letting go becomes a major focus as well these days. 

I look around my house and see all the things that I have accumulated through the years, and feel the need to let go of many of them. Figuring out their next best home. Lightening the load for further travels, until the final trip. 

I see how I need to embrace all of these feelings, the loss, the sadness, the grief. And to let go of what I need to let go of. 

And in acknowledging and accepting the pain and losses, I then feel the opening in me to what is here now in front of me. The poignancy of each moment. The appreciation of life still here, with a much deeper awareness that there will be an end to it. 

I find that I must embrace and feel the bitter in the bittersweet. The sadness as well as the joy. The poignancy of memories of what might have been, of what was, of what will no longer be. 

 I work to allow myself to feel the sadness, the grief, the losses and immerse myself in them. This, for me, then opens me up to feel the sweetness of life. The joy, the connections, the moments of pure bliss, awe, and wonder. It’s all part of the same package. 

So, I feel sad today. And it’s ok. 

I’m still here. Still here to feel it all. Still alive. Still inhaling and exhaling. 

And still in wonder of it all. 

Breaking tasks into bite sizes to reduce the feeling of overwhelm.

I find, in this aging process, that I can get more easily overwhelmed by tasks. Especially if too many come at me at once. I can freeze and do nothing. Not helpful.

How to work with this, I wondered. 

So, I choose one thing that I can do in the moment. And let myself feel some accomplishment from that. Make the first call. Write a new list. Gather the first of the pile of documents that I need for whatever company now needs them (insurance companies, as of late, for me).

Breathe.

 Pick one thing. It doesn’t have to be the perfect or best thing. Just pick any one thing. It’s a start. It can get the momentum going again. 

And stop the chatter in my head about how many more steps there are to go and how much more there is to do. Yes, this is true. And beating myself up repetitiously with this information is not helpful.

So I make the phone call. Tell the company that the item that I ordered does not work for me. See what can be done. That wasn’t so hard, was it? This is what I ask myself, trying to break it down, trying to get started, trying to get the wheels turning again. 

Breathe.

I write the list. So many things on it. 

And I can space those things out over days and weeks, manually writing them into a calendar (yes, I still use a paper calendar so I can easily see the days, weeks, and months in my hand and adjust things as needed). 

I write the email responding to yet another piece of information needed from me. I take the photo of whatever item they need and attach and send it with the email. Mission accomplished until they ask for the next piece of whatever they need.

I can work on decluttering one drawer, one closet. 

Breathe.

Slowly walking through my anxiety and doing small steps. I begin to feel a bit less anxious. 

I tell myself that I am still capable of handling the details of my life, even if more slowly. I think that this is a fear that gets triggered whenever I find myself struggling with anything. Fear of decline. Fear of not being as capable. Fear of losing my independence. Fear of losing myself as I know her. 

Breathe. 

It’s ok. I’m still ok. 

I may have to move more slowly, breathe my way through things a bit more slowly. It’s ok. 

This isn’t a race. Or if it is, it isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon. 

Maybe I can think about looking at aging that way as well?

Think about today and where I am right now, without catastrophizing about future numbers and possible declines coming my way. Does worrying about them help? I don’t think so.

Maybe I can live life one day, one hour, one breath at a time. Rather than trying to figure out the grand meaning, purpose, and scheme of my entire life up to now and all that is still coming.

Maybe I can simply breathe and be in the moment. Isn’t that all that we really have in the end? This moment, right here, right now?

It has taken me this long to find my way home. And that’s ok.

We each have our own story of finding our way back to who we were meant to be. It can take a lifetime. 

I am an only child born to immigrant Sicilian/Italian parents. I have come to understand on a much deeper level all that they went through to create the lives that they did, and to give me what they could. I am so very grateful.

They were human. So, of course, there were issues that I have needed to work through in my life. 

An only child, I learned that my safe place was in my room, where I could hear myself think. I did not share my childhood experience with siblings, so my story has no co-authors and no one to research the facts with. And my safe place is still in solitude. 

But my story is not really about facts. It’s about feelings. My feelings. Feelings that I have finally come to accept, to stop judging, and to learn from. 

Overprotected, I didn’t learn how to properly set boundaries for myself. Boundaries were set solidly and rigidly for me. My parents were trying to protect me, I know. But once free, I trusted too easily and openly, without being able to always discern friend from foe. 

I have learned that. To know what is nourishing for me and what is not. And to be able to give myself permission to let go of what does not serve me well. Not with anger or evil intentions toward others, but with blessings wished and knowledge that our paths are not best travelled together.

A child of immigrants. As a youngster, wanting to fit in and be like everyone else. Now proud of my heritage and so grateful for its many gifts to me. Italians speak the language of emotions, and I have inherited that. What a blessing. 

Growing up and not feeling seen and heard. Parents trying their best to provide and mold me into what they thought I should be. And me, much of my life, trying to mold myself to please others, to be liked, to feel worthwhile. Not realizing that the shape of me was already there, needing to be encouraged and brought out, not molded into something else.

Never feeling good enough. Being an only child, I think one feeling that I had was the attempt to be perfect, since I was the only one. And, as a child of immigrants, trying to help my parents feel more successful in this new country by making them proud. 

I failed. I was too quiet, too sensitive, loved to draw, wanted to play the piano (my father decided I should take accordion lessons instead), wanted to be a Girl Scout, go to after school activities, join groups of friends. Home rules were strict, for the most part. Come home after school, no joining any outside groups or activities. Staying home to be safe.

 I felt suffocated.

Fighting to get to go away to college, fighting for that as if my life depended on it. Because it did. I could feel the path before me that was expected if I stayed home with my parents, to become the hairdresser that they decided I should be (getting my hairdresser’s license before I even graduated from high school). Most likely getting married to get out of the house, and then maybe having a family without really knowing if that was what I wanted. 

Absolute joy and relief at finally enlisting the aid of a school counselor supporting me in wanting to go away to college and my going away to school. Even picking a major that would be best served by going away to a state college versus the local community college which my parents would have accepted. 

So many decisions were made around trying to break free from my parents’ definition of who I was. But, once free, having no clue as to who I was. 

 And finally saying no to my father, at the beginning of my second year of college, when he had decided that we were all going to move back to Italy. He had even started inquiring about colleges there. Without telling me.

That was the final call to Self that I needed. I said no. No. For the first time. That no reverberated inside me for a long time. I shook with excitement and anxiety. Now what?

 I supported myself and finished my college education without my parents’ assistance. I did it on my own. That was such a lesson on so many levels for me. I had doubted, deep inside, whether I really could take care of myself. I got a bachelor’s degree in psychology (makes sense, right?) and a master’s degree in social work. 

I became a social worker. I don’t regret that as it was a rewarding career. But I know that the choice to become a social worker had to do with being a caregiver, with taking care of others’ needs, with focusing on helping and earning my worth. 

Fast forward to dating, marriage, jobs, and still trying to figure out who I was and what my passions were. I was following what I thought was a roadmap for life. But I wasn’t sure if it was my roadmap.

I have had a good life so far and appreciate each and every step along the way. Even the painful ones. I learned the most from them, I think.

I got divorced, which makes sense since I still didn’t really have a deep sense of who I was. How could I commit to and be with anyone else if I didn’t really know who I was?

I have had many jobs in the field and have been deeply touched by the clients that I have been lucky enough to have known and worked with. They taught me so much about the resiliency of the human spirit. And the importance of truly being seen and heard, no matter what your life condition and circumstances are. 

And now I am retired, for three years. And I cannot begin to express the gift that this has been for me. 

I am lucky enough to be able to still live in my own home, still take care of myself. 

I have gone back to art. I now paint regularly, have even joined a local art association, and allow my work to be seen in their shows. 

I now write, which I have always loved to do, but never felt like I had the time or perhaps that I had anything of enough value to write about. It is another road home to me. My Self. 

I find that I am choosier about who I spend my time with, as well as how I spend my time. There are times when choosing to be alone and doing nothing is the priority. Because I need to stop and hear my soul and what it may need, what it may be asking for. 

I am coming home. To me. Finally. 

As if I have a choice!

This is the year that I turned 70. 

I am 70. I say that to myself to feel the shape of it in my mouth and the feel of it in my brain and body. It has been over two months since I turned 70, and I am still getting used to the idea of it. 

I see evidence of aging in my body. Things aren’t quite where they used to be. And things are shaped differently. With lines. And folds. And spots. Oh my.

I see evidence in my mind. Like asking myself why I walked into a room. Like forgetting someone’s name, someone that I have known for some time. Like forgetting what I was just about to say. 

I see evidence in my habits. Late dinner is now anything after 5:30pm for me. When did all the other diners turn into senior citizens? 

Bedtime has become earlier and earlier. I wake up early as well. I have always been a morning person, but now really am taking that to the extremes. Looking forward to snuggling up in my bed with a good book, which I can sometimes even read for a while before falling asleep.

I see others reacting to me differently. Sometimes I feel invisible as I walk down the street. And sometimes I feel, especially once my age is said aloud, diminished somehow. Feeling seen as less than a full, thriving, productive human being. Smiles directed at me have a different feeling to them at times. Is it a slight feeling of pity that I pick up? Or kindness, but in a way that reduces me somehow? 

I feel cast aside at times by the medical profession. As if they are now lumping me into the group that is waiting to die. They see the number 70 and perhaps decide differently, I fear, how and what to treat. 

I am more keenly aware of others dying. Movie stars and music legends that I grew up with that seemed powerful and immortal. The death of Tina Turner hit me hard. I still cannot believe that she is gone. I know she was 83, but that doesn’t make a difference to that part of me inside that loved her power, strength, and determination and wanted her to be on this earth for a much longer time. And it makes me realize that I am moving consistently to the front of that line. The line that we get into the moment that we are born. 

I feel grief more deeply. It now is a constant companion to me as the losses come more frequently along this aging path. Family. Friends. Human and otherwise. Beloved pets. I now think carefully about whether to get another pet, as I either have to once again face the devastating feeling of losing them, or make sure that they will be well taken care of if I precede them in death. 

I get more ads for wrinkle creams and final arrangement plans. The mailing lists that I am now on have obviously changed. 

And I feel some of the other effects of aging. 

I see things through the eyes of an elder now. Smiling with understanding at some of the struggles that younger people around me have, yet also seeing that this too shall pass. Quickly. 

Feeling such compassion for my younger friends, who struggle with this human condition and all the feelings and emotions that come with it. Seeing them trying to figure out where to put all those feelings and what to do with them, and still be able to carry on each day. Telling them that those feelings are one of the most precious gifts that they have. Knowing that they will understand that in time, perhaps. But not yet.

Finally coming to understand that most of the things that I learned to hold against myself are the best parts of me. My sensitivity. My compassion and kindness. My vulnerability. My trusting too easily at times. My hunger for true connection, now realizing that the deepest connection that I was missing was the one to my own Self. Looking outside for what was within me all along. 

Seeing that my stubbornness was really my persistence to keep going. Determination. It helped me to make it to this age, for which I am very grateful.

Realizing how I have judged my body negatively through the years. Looking at old photos and now appreciating how I looked then. And trying to remind myself that I may feel the same way in 10 years about how my body looks now. Being compassionate for the aches and pains that show up, knowing that there may well be many more coming down the road, should I be lucky enough to live a while longer. 

Being a first generation American. My parents immigrating from Sicily, Italy and me, as a child, always wanting to fit in and not be different. Now I am so very grateful for that experience, for my deep understanding of the immigrant experience that my parents had, and hopefully being able to offer more compassion to those now struggling with this. Proud to be first generation. Proud of my heritage, and proud to be here now. To embody what those of many years ago all went through to become Americans. 

Appreciating differences among us all, and feeling free enough, finally, to be able to choose which differences that can still be included in those that I consider my friends, and those differences that make others better left alone, wished well. Realizing that they don’t have to be included as part of my life. And that’s ok.

Looking back at how much I tried to be liked and to please others. Finally realizing that the person that I need to please is me. Me and whatever my version of something greater than me is. Which also has changed over the years. To a more compassionate, loving, and wise Presence. Less judgmental and less harsh.

Being ok with making judgments and choices. Realizing that we all do this, that some of this is necessary to create boundaries and safe spaces. Judgments do not have to be negative. They can simply inform us that something or someone may not be the best for us. And that’s ok to make those choices. 

Realizing that I can forgive the past, but can also remember it so that I don’t re-injure or re-traumatize myself. It’s ok to remember if it helps me grow. I don’t have to hold grudges. I do want to hold lessons that help me thrive and take better care of myself. 

Listening to that gut feeling that I ignored for so long or judged as bad. Realizing that there is wisdom in me that sometimes cannot be named, but is there and needs to be listened to. It is a guide from somewhere deep inside me. A place that sometimes has no words, but speaks eloquently, nonetheless.

Yes, I am 70. Grateful. A bit in shock. And oh, so grateful to be here, to still be learning, to breathe in each moment and all that is around me. To finally feel like I have come home to mySelf. The Self that I was meant to be all along. Still learning the lessons that I need to learn. Still feeling every bit of it. Pain and joy. Happy and sad. Bitter and sweet. Life and the eventual reality of death. 

But, for now, I am still here. Still alive. Still learning. 70 and thriving. So, big 70, here I am. Bring it on. 

Writing online and showing my art …letting myself be seen. Finally.

Author’s photo

I have intentionally put myself in the background in my life, shying away from the spotlight, trying to keep from being seen too much.

I can go into detail about the reasons for this, mostly from my childhood. No blame, simply that we are humans raised by humans, so we all have issues that we carry into our lives. I found that I felt safer trying to blend into the background as much as I could. Not easy to do for an only child, let me tell you. I learned to be quiet and out of harm’s way. Or so I thought, anyway.

Here I am now at 70 years of age. I think it’s time to let go of hiding myself. I have been writing online for a while now, and even though I still feel that bit of anxiety when I hit the submit button, I hit it anyway. And I am thrilled to get responses from readers who are in some way touched by my writing, who relate to what I have to say. 

I joined an art association and have participated in their annual art show twice now. Again, that rush of anxiety as I try not to compare myself to the other artists there who have degrees in art, whose work I find beautiful. 

I have always loved to draw and was able to take some beginning adult evening classes in painting, toward the end of my working career, to learn some basic techniques. But I don’t have any degree in art. I have not studied formally. And yet, there are people who are drawn to my work. Who stand in front of one of my paintings and smile, who even seek me out sometimes to comment. What a gift.

I post my paintings on my Instagram account and am get delighted to get likes. 

And now, my editor from Crow’s Feet at Medium Publications ( thank you! Michele Cambardella) has suggested that I include some of my artwork online in my posts. To expose both parts of me simultaneously to an audience seems to somehow break another barrier. I don’t have all the words for what this stirs up in me yet, but it seems to be something about letting more of myself be seen at once. By people that I don’t know. This is so against the rules that I have imposed upon myself for all these years. 

And I say to myself, why not? If not now, when?

So, this is my painting of Lisa, an elephant that I have known, as a volunteer at our local zoo, for 10 years. An elephant who developed some painful conditions as she aged that were not able to be helped, despite all the treatments that the zoo valiantly tried which even included stem cell treatment. 

She was recently euthanized. We are all deeply grieving the loss of her. Including her very close elephant friend, Donna, who will soon be moved to an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee so that she can be among other female elephants. We only had two female elephants at the zoo, and Donna and Lisa were best buddies, sleeping together every night. So Donna, along with the rest of us, is grieving. 

Female elephants need to be with other female elephants. So, we will send Donna to this beautiful sanctuary. We will miss her and are in the process of saying goodbye to her. Another loss, although this one, I think, will be a good move for Donna. I am hoping that she makes new friends and lives out the rest of her life peacefully.

This painting of mine was done with many tears throughout the entire process. A portrait of love and grief. A tribute to a friend who I felt the kind of connection with that goes deeper than words. A life-to-life connection. One being witnessing another, breathing in the same space, together on this earth for this moment in time. 

I find yet another lesson in living life. Daring to be oneself, as Lisa so very much was. She was feisty and let her feelings be known. If she didn’t like something, she had no problems picking up a log and throwing it in the direction of whatever, or whoever, it was that was displeasing her. She once, when one of the zookeepers was blowing bubbles as part of a celebration, inhaled a trunkful of water and completely drenched him, much to the delight of the guests who were there. He wasn’t even in the elephant exhibit, mind you, but close enough to irritate her. Good for her!

So maybe, just maybe, I can learn from Lisa. I can let myself show what I feel, not be afraid to show when something irritates me, not be afraid to be myself. Grab a trunkful of water and spray someone down when needed. Throw a log in their direction. Rumble and trumpet. Let my size and strength show. 

Maybe I can be who I am. Claim my own version of beauty. Wrinkles, saggy skin, glorious larger body and all. 

I can write. I can paint. And let myself be heard and seen. There will be time enough to be buried and hidden. But not now.

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. 

Feeling one’s travels in time.

Feeling my age? What does that really mean? Yet we use this term frequently. I catch myself saying that I don’t feel like 70. How would I know? I have never been 70 before. Maybe this is what 70 feels like.

What are we referring to, actually? 

At times I think that it may be the internalized image that we have of whatever age we are thinking about. I remember, when I was younger, what I thought the age 70 looked like. It was old. Now I question how much I added to that image from my own internalized ageism.

I am working on listening to my own version of 70. My own feelings about where I am in life, this age that I have been lucky enough to get to, and how I am doing right this moment. Easier said than done at times.

There is another part of feeling my age. I notice that I don’t jump out of bed as I did before. Never had a second thought about that before. Now checking how the joints are doing and what I need to move first, then second, and well, you get the idea.

I now think about how to step into my slacks. And to make sure that I am close to a piece of furniture in case I need assistance with my balance. When did that sneak up on me?

I look at my hands, seeing the age reflected there. I have never been the type to get manicures. I use my hands way too much for that, and use them for messy things like painting. Now I see the veins being more prominent. I remember looking at my mother’s beautiful hands as she aged. I see the wrinkles and crepiness. I laugh at the creams they advertise that will supposedly remove crepiness. I’d have to take a long bath in that cream, probably every hour. 

There are external messages that also contribute to feeling my age. Standing next to a young woman that I volunteer for (she is the primary zookeeper at the zoo where I volunteer). Hearing the teasing and flirtation from some men coming toward her and feeling completely invisible next to her. I remember when those comments would come toward me, and I took them for granted. When did that happen? 

Walking down the street and feeling more invisible. There can be pros and cons to this, but it is still a bittersweet experience.

Helping other members of the art association that I belong to hang some art, and watching the younger members quickly jump in to step up on the ladder before I can get there. Feeling some relief at that.

Watching myself walk more slowly down any hill, not as sure of myself as before. Aware that falls can come easily and before you even know what’s happening. 

Forgetting why I walked into a room, or what I was just about to say. And at my age, now wondering if this is a beginning sign of the dreaded D word. Dementia. Is this the beginning of it? What is normal aging? None of this feels very normal to me. 

Feeling my age emotionally. I am closer to the end, whenever that may be. These days I go to retirement parties and funerals, not so many weddings and baby showers. 

Feeling the need to declutter and travel lighter. Feeling the need to plan for my final arrangements. What an interesting way to put it, final arrangements. Planning your own funeral, burial, and who to give what to if they want it. 

Thinking about whether to get another pet. I am older, and I would need to make arrangements should the pet outlive me. And do I have it in me, if the pet dies first, to handle another loss that felt so devastating? The loss of a pet is the loss of a piece of your heart. And it goes on and on, at least for me.

Feeling my age. For me, this seems to include feeling everything more acutely. Being more sensitive to all that is around me. The earth, its creatures.

 Thin-skinned now seems to refer to more than just the skin covering me. As it bruises and tears more easily, so does my spirit when I feel the pain of anything around me. But this bruise of my spirit is a bruise that does not weaken me, but rather strengthens me to feel it all, to be able to contain it all, and to offer more empathy, understanding, and compassion. To feel all of life fully. Dark and light. Bitter and sweet. And to be wiser, at my age, to know that one must feel it all in order to live fully and passionately. 

Feeling my age? Oh, yes. In so very many ways. Some I seemed to grow into consciously. Some caught me, and still do, by surprise. 

I am grateful, albeit wistfully at times. 

I am grateful to have lived long enough to reach this stage of life with its lessons. I am grateful to still be breathing and be on this earth. I am grateful for all the poignant, achingly beautiful aspects of ageing and of life. 

Feeling my age. Oh yes. Wrinkles and sagging and slowing down…oh my. And wisdom and humor and gratitude. Oh yes.