My dermatologist retired, I didn’t even know about it, and I’m sad.

Our modern society has streamlined a lot of things, made them more efficient. Especially in the healthcare system. I see this in the HMO medical care system where I am a member.

I always tell people that you need to know how to work the medical system and if you do, then you can get your needs better met. You almost must be your own primary care doctor.

I have learned how to do this fairly well.

And yet, things with my HMO can catch me by surprise. Is it because I am older, and I still expect things that may not be the standard anymore these days? Perhaps.

Is it because, even though I have a variety of specialists, that I still form relationships with them as I try to see the same doctor through the years?

So, when I called to make an appt with my dermatologist that I have been going to for years, I was saddened to find that he had retired. Glad for him, certainly. But sad for me. 

It was a time that I was looking for his reassurance. I have a spot on my skin that we have been watching through the years for any changes that might be of concern. I recently looked at it and thought perhaps that I saw some changes, but I’m not sure. I wanted to see this doctor, who has seen this spot for a long time, to get some answers. He would know if there was anything to worry about. He had history with me and with my spot. 

And now he is gone. 

And there is, I must admit, some sadness inside me that I didn’t get to say goodbye. That there was no notice given to what may have been his regular group of patients so that they would know that he was leaving and could then deal with this in whatever way that worked for them. 

I would have liked that. I saw photos of his children on the wall of his office. I watched these photos reflect them as they grew up, from small children to now young women making their way out into the world. This doctor and I would talk about how quickly time passes by. 

I trusted him with what felt like very vulnerable appointments. Baring myself to get my skin checked, moles checked. We were growing older together. He was familiar and comfortable for me to go and see.

Now I will make an appointment with a new doctor. And start all over again. 

I didn’t get to tell this now retired doctor that he made a difference for me. That he made something that is uncomfortable for me more bearable because of who he was and how he was with me. That he created a safe enough space for me where I could be vulnerable. 

I find myself reflecting on our society and how perhaps we don’t have the same goodbyes that we used to have. We don’t seem to always make space for the many feelings involved, both in forming and then having to end relationships. To honor and allow space for grief in all its forms and sizes. 

I can hear the voices within me telling me that I am being silly and sentimental. He was only my dermatologist. 

But he was someone who was a constant in my life that is now gone, that I didn’t get to have a ritual goodbye with. That I didn’t get to thank for all years of kindness and service. The years of brief moments of sharing our lives in the office. Brief snapshots in time. 

I think that goodbyes are important. I think that each goodbye, especially at my age, reminds me of all the goodbyes, both past and yet to come. I am noticing them more these days. I want to attend to them properly. 

Perhaps my reaction has to do with seeing many more goodbyes these days, as I continue this path of aging. Goodbyes become more familiar than hellos now. Endings become more noticed, more poignant, as I contemplate my own eventual ending.

Perhaps some of my reactions are about my own fear of slipping away one day and no one noticing. Not being able to say goodbye. Not being able to hear what connections with me may have meant to some others, what I may have meant. 

These days, more than ever, I appreciate the tender connections between humans that we all need and that can keep us going, especially on our worst days. 

An abrupt ending can catch me off guard. It can make me feel as if the connection was all in my head. Why was there not even a letter sent to all of his patients? It could even have been a form letter from the department informing any who might be interested in knowing about his leaving.

I want to honor that part of me that felt a connection and trust with another human being who had chosen a life of service and caring, whose dedication and warmth I got to feel, whose sense of humor I came to appreciate.

This experience helped me realize that I don’t want to underestimate the importance of any connections that I may have made in my own life. To understand that I may have had a bigger impact on someone than I realize. I want to leave space for any words or feelings that may need to be expressed. 

I want to pay attention to things that I need to say before I leave. Are there feelings and words inside me that need to come out? 

I think that this is one purpose that my writing serves. It helps me to let those feelings, thoughts, and words out, as well as to perhaps help another feel a bit less alone on this path of aging and life. 

 I am surprised at the intensity of my own reaction, I must admit, to this doctor retiring. Perhaps this is a testament to all that we experience so quickly in our lives these days and how we don’t often allow enough space or room for all the feelings that we have. 

So, I am allowing some space here. 

I would thank this doctor for his kindness and presence through the years. I would thank him for helping to make me feel more comfortable as I sometimes stood naked in front of him with my aging body, my shame and embarrassment slowly dissipating with his professional, matter of fact, and kind demeanor. 

I would thank him for having been a part of my life, however small and brief those moments were. They meant something to me. He meant something to me. 

I would wish him well as he continues his own path of aging. As he retires and now redefines himself in the world. As he walks along his path which will no longer intersect with mine. 

I want to remember to honor others and the connections we have made. To not discount that those connections may be deeper to them than I perhaps realize. To realize that I might have made even a small difference in someone’s life with something as simple as a smile and hello.

I want to remember to say things that I feel right then and there as much as possible, because you never know when this may be the last time that you see someone, for whatever reason. 

I want to remember to never underestimate the power of kindness and acknowledging that. In others and me. In all relationships. 

Maybe I made a difference in the woman who I smiled at in the grocery store today. Maybe I made a difference in the day of the familiar clerk who I stopped and talked with and whose name I make sure to remember and use. Maybe my talking with the check-out clerk at the store and sharing a resource with her about a shared issue will make a difference for her. 

Perhaps you are more important to those that you have contact with than you realize. Consider the possibility that they would feel some sadness if you weren’t around anymore. 

It’s not just family that we can be important to. There may be others who you may have touched more than you are aware of. Others who felt your kindness and caring and appreciated it, and looked forward to seeing you again. 

You might have made more of a difference than you realized. 

And I’m about to turn 71!

I am about ready to turn 71 in April and am still trying to settle into having turned 70. 

What is it about that number? 

70 is a number that cannot be denied as old. As aging. As now being an elder.

I don’t feel 70, whatever that means. When I look in the mirror, though, I see a different face than the one that I see reflected in my internal mirror. I am still at times a bit shocked. Who is that? When did she take over my face and body? I don’t remember that happening. 

My 50s felt like I was still vibrant and youngish. My 60s still felt somewhat that way as well, although a bit further along the road than my 50s. 

But 70… Seventy! 7 decades. Friends dying around me more frequently. More funerals than weddings these days. Now being old enough to be someone’s grandmother rather than their mother. Not having had children of my own, this idea of being old enough to be a grandmother still can come as a bit of a shock to me. 

70. Years ago when I thought about 70, I thought that was really old.

It’s old, yes, but somehow, I don’t feel really old. Well, maybe sometimes I get more of a glimpse of that these days. When I get up after sitting for a while, when I wake up and the speed (or lack thereof) with which I initially move around. My taking naps in front of the tv whether I intended to or not.

I am creakier, stiffer, slower in some cases, unable to do things automatically without thinking about them like I did before (how badly do I need that item that I just dropped onto the floor?). 

I forget things, misplace things, sometimes confuse things (like recently thinking that a zoom class started at noon rather than 11 and showing up at the very end of the class). 

Rereading a book as if I never read it before.

I dress for comfort, especially with my shoes. Fashion has become a non-thing for me. I admire those who still make wonderful fashion statements as elders. They look wonderful. That’s not me. I just make sure that everything that needs to be covered is covered before I leave the house. 

I decide where to hike based on whether there are restrooms along the way on the hike. Priorities change. 

I now have pill boxes to help me remember if I took everything that I was supposed to on that day. Some of them are supplements, but some are meds that need to be taken daily, like blood pressure and cholesterol meds. 

I see a very different weight on the scale these days when I rarely get on the dreaded thing. Numbers from my past shall not be seen again, even if I am able to lose some pounds.

They measured my height not too long ago at the doctor’s office. I can’t seem to lose pounds, but I have managed to lose 1.5 inches. What?!!

My skin doesn’t bounce back like it used to. When I do manage to lose a bit of weight, I see something different these days. My skin seems to want to keep the space open for the weight, should it return.

Going out to dinner with a friend who is younger than I. She talks about having looked around the room to see if there were any possible available men. That idea never even occurred to me. That ship has sailed. And mostly, I am comfortable with that and with my own company. 

Having reading glasses in every room and now in every purse. Because I can’t read the small print without them. Being excited when I find tiny little reading glasses that can fit into tiny little purses. The small joys. 

Regular hearing aid appointments.

Knees that talk to me when once they were silent and taken for granted. My body now has its own symphony of creaks and clicks. 

Stopping when hiking up a hill to catch my breath. Monitoring my breathing and heart rate. 

Reminding myself to keep moving regularly throughout the day. This was not something that I even had to think about when younger, when I moved about naturally all day long. 

Trying to figure out what might be important to tell the doctor and what are simply symptoms of aging. I have never been here before, so it’s all new. 

Early dinner, early bedtime. Home by dark, usually. Some of this is because the crime rate has gone up where I live, but I also suspect that wouldn’t have had such an effect on me years ago. 

Not liking to drive at night anymore.

Getting ads about funeral arrangements and such, not so much about fun vacations.

Being invisible to others, especially men. No longer holding any interest for them. No longer seen. No longer desired. 

But there are other things that I notice too.

Slowing down more to notice the things that I took for granted and that now hold such beauty for me. Birds taking a bath in my back yard. Friends greeting each other with open arms. Smiles from the staff at the cafe, or at the grocery store. Cafe owners asking me where I have been if they haven’t seen me for a while.

Not sweating the small stuff. Things that used to upset me are not important anymore. I speak my mind and then move on. I sometimes make the decision to wish a person well, but no longer have them in my life. I get to make that choice.

Not caring if everyone likes or approves of me. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Cherishing time with friends with the realization that each moment is precious, and that the next moment is not guaranteed. 

Gratitude and appreciation for things that I didn’t pay as much attention to before. Waking up in the morning. Smiles and friends. Laughter. The beauty of nature still fills me with awe. 

Gratitude for the love that I have had in my life. The lessons learned. The pain felt helped me grow and get to where I am today. 

Gratitude for my body and what it still does for me, even if more slowly and somewhat less gracefully than it did before. Going to the gym to remain as functional as I can. Different goals these days.

Realizing that I have an expiration date. It is a much more real and sobering knowledge now. Allowing that knowledge to inform my decisions and actions more. Learning to be more present to each precious moment. Acknowledging the gift of being alive. 

The warmth of the sun on my skin. The embrace of a friend. The sound of the rain on the rooftop. The wag of the tail of a dog going by that wants to say hello. 

The joy on people’s faces at the zoo where I volunteer. The child in each of us never really goes away and can still be delighted and amazed. 

The kindness of a stranger on the street.

The delight of a spontaneous conversation with someone I just met. The connection in that moment that may only happen that once and that can be delightful and nourishing. 

My morning cup of coffee as I sit and look at the trees around me, appreciating the morning light.

The art that can still come through me now that I finally have time to paint. Taking in the wonder that I have no idea where a painting that I completed really came from. Awe at the power greater than us that speaks through us. 

The words that can flow through me as I write. And seeing that others can at times resonate to some of the things that I write. Connections through written words. My soul expresses itself through those words. Finally. 

Wisdom earned at realizing what a gift this life is, with all its bittersweetness. What a joy to be alive. Yet to feel sorrow is also to feel aliveness. It’s all part of the journey. Some of it is more painful. Some of it is joyful beyond description. All of it precious. 

Coming home to myself, finally. It has taken some time, and I am so grateful to have arrived. And to still be here, still alive. 

Ready or not, 71… here I come. 

Realizing, finally, that my center of gravity has been inside me all along.

I have searched my entire life to find my center, my balance. 

When I was younger, and for most of my life, I have looked for external ways to center myself, to get that elusive sense of balance and wholeness. Trying to find that core deep within me reflected back to me from others. It never worked.

Now, further along on my journey of aging, I finally begin to understand why.

Childhood

I tried to use my parents’ centers as my own when I was a child. I tried to follow the rules, but they didn’t fit me exactly right.

Adolescence

I tried to follow my friends as I grew into adolescence. I wanted to fit in, but didn’t quite understand how to do that most of the time.

I tried to center myself on each new teacher or possible role model that I looked to for answers. Their answers were sometimes wise and felt like they were on the right track, and yet not quite there.

Young adulthood

I tried to center myself as part of a married couple. My husband and I were young, and were both trying to find our way, and ended up throwing each other off.

I tried to center myself on my career. It was something that I did, but it did not bring me home to myself and did not bring me balance.

Middle age

I tried to find new relationships to center myself on and around. We each bring our own issues into any relationship, and that makes finding a stable balance challenging. 

Elderhood

And now, retired, I have taken (and am still taking) a lot of quiet time with much solitude and space, hoping to find that elusive sense of being grounded, centered, and at home in my own being. I have felt lost at times, without any external object to try and define myself around. Lost and drifting.

Until I drifted right back to that face in the mirror. Until I drifted right back to the little girl that is still inside me, the teenager who is still there, the young and middle-aged adult, and now the elder. To all the selves that I have been. To all the selves that have always had that thread of who I am inside them. 

I realized that my core has been inside me all along. My center of gravity is, and must be, within me. 

Lessons Learned

I can be with others but cannot base who I am on them. I can relate to and connect with someone else and maintain my own values, opinions, and beliefs, without having to try to rearrange them to suit anyone else.

 I can do things that feel right, both for others and myself. I can now, retired from the work force, finally paint, and write. These things express parts of who I am but they are not my center.

My core is that sometimes small voice that tells me when something feels wrong somehow. The voice that whispers and nudges me in certain directions until I listen. The feeling that there is more inside me than I realized.

I can get energy and help from outside of me, but the center of me is still deep within. This was the me that was questioning. The me that was sad at not feeling heard. The me that didn’t realize that who I needed to be heard most from was me. The me that felt betrayed by others and who was taught to betray herself. Who wasn’t taught that I was, and am, worthy. 

The irony of it all

Isn’t it interesting that as we age and our physical balance can and often does become an issue, that emotional balance and core can be deeper and stronger than ever. 

I may now feel physically wobblier because my body is not as strong as it once was. Yet I can feel much less wobbly inside as my spirit and soul are stronger than ever. 

I find it ironic to realize what I have been looking for has been there all along, and that what threw me off balance was trying to arch and twist myself to make someone or something else my center. I had to take a step back into my own self. Stop wobbling in my definition of who I am. Stop wobbling in standing up for myself, in saying no, because I have the right. 

The core and connections

My core connects to the earth, to its plants, trees, and animals. My core is part of the earth, as I am part of her. My core, in the physical sense, is not as taut or tight (what happened to all my muscles?), but my emotional core is solid, having come through struggles and pain and having become stronger through it all. 

I now know that I am connected to a power greater than I. And I know that this connection comes from my center directly to that power without any intermediaries needed. 

Have I made mistakes? Yes. 

Do I have regrets? Yes.

 Does that negate my goodness and compassion? No.

 I can get lost at times, get distracted and have my sense of direction waiver. And I can make decisions that are not the best. But that doesn’t mean that I am defective.

 I can keep working to come home to myself. I don’t have to be perfect. The answers are inside me, even if I may not access them immediately with all the external noise that gets in the way. 

My core is that which cannot always be named but which can be felt and experienced and lived by. 

The Core Ingredients

One of my core’s ingredients is love. This love had to be fully directed to myself to then be able to be fully directed to others. To stand solidly in self-love is to then be able to reach out without losing my balance. To feel and appreciate the beauty of our foundation is to be able to build bridges from it to others. Bridges that are solid and don’t crumble when connected to another. 

I now know the importance of embracing the darkness as well as the light, so that when darkness from the world or others comes my way, I will not be thrown off center. I know how to contain that darkness and hold it when and where necessary. And I know that I am more than that darkness.

I will be solid in appreciating this self inside of me, realizing that any comparison to others is unnecessary and does not make sense. We each have our own core of beauty and light. We need not compare. 

My GPS has finally been repaired and can be allowed to turn back around toward me. I can appreciate each connection and all the love that I have been lucky enough to experience along the way without having to give away the power of my own center, soul, and Self. I can claim my right to co-exist with others. Not more, not less. With the right to take up my own space, on a solid foundation and in balance, finally. 

Joy and pain, always housemates in my soul. 

I have struggled in my past with trying to figure out who I am, sorting out my feelings and trying to make sense of it all. All of it jumbled up inside me. Not all fitting neatly together. Feelings at odds with each other. I couldn’t quite figure out which category I might fit into. And I felt defective somehow because of all of this.

Ah, the gifts of aging. I don’t have to fit into any category. 

I can have all the feelings, sometimes even at the same time.

I can be happy-sad, angry-grieving, irritated-amused, fearful-angry, anxious-determined, and many more.

It’s all ok.

Which means that I am ok.

Actually, I am much more than ok. I can finally say that and own it. I feel it all, and it all is a gift. Not to say that it all feels like a gift at that moment in time. But it is, nonetheless, a gift. I am alive. I get to feel things. I get to experience the range of emotions and experiences that this journey of being human brings with it. 

What an absolute delight and sorrow it is to be alive. 

And now, approaching the end of the road with much less of the road ahead of me than behind me, I can truly begin to appreciate it all more deeply. That seems to be part of being human, too. Realizing the worth of something as we get closer to no longer having it. 

I feel sad at the losses I have had. And grateful to have had these beings, two-legged and four-legged alike, in my life. 

I feel joy at sunrises and sunsets, with more poignant joy-grief at sunsets. I resonate more with sunsets these days.

I feel anger. And I feel gratitude for the parts of me that I can finally allow to speak up and say when something is not ok. I find it easier to say that I do not accept that behavior, or I do not accept those words toward me. Having swallowed so much for so long, it is a relief to stop. To set a boundary. To believe in my right to say no more. I can appreciate my anger. 

I feel rage at the pain, suffering, and injustice in this world, and grateful for the empathy to feel that. And for the ability to help in any small way that I can. With my actions, with my vote. 

I feel loneliness, and can also smile at the sweet remembrances of loves that I have been graced enough to have in my life. Smiles that others may not understand, but I know. I remember. I am grateful.

I feel wistful about life gone by. Regrets at what I could have perhaps done better. And I also feel compassion for having done what I knew how to do at the time. Self-forgiveness is a challenge for me, and one that I continue to work on. It does not help to continue to punish myself. I can try to do better. Or at the very least do no more harm. 

I can be angry and not have to cause harm to anyone. I can be sad and not have to cause harm to myself. 

I can be frustrated and live to see the resolution of things, or at least live to see another day.

I can feel love, and not have to be close to what or who it is that I feel that love for. I don’t have to possess, and can still love deeply. Maybe even more deeply. 

I am finally realizing, accepting, and even embracing all the different feelings inside me. The bittersweetness of life is reflected in my soul. I am all of it, sometimes all at the same time. And it is all ok. Finally. 

I know, but it doesn’t always help me to hear that in my moment of deep grief.

 A friend of mine told me that she was on her way to a memorial for the husband of someone that she knew. She looked at me and said, “But he was in his 90’s, so you know.”

As if the grief should be less, somehow. As if the pain of losing a 70-year marriage would not be as excruciating. 

It’s hard to know what to say when someone loses someone dear to them. Words fail us, yes? And yet, we try, in our compassion and wanting to express our caring. We try. We may even ask how old the person was, as if to then know how much grief would be expected or appropriate. 

There are things that I have said to those in grief, and then, when on the receiving end, I realize (at least to me) that those same words don’t feel soothing or comforting at all.

They had a great life. Or they had a good long life. 

That may be true, and I feel grateful for that. But, in that moment, what that phrase can do is to shut down my expression of my grief. To tell me, in a subtle way, that I should be grateful that they were around as long as they were (I am) and imply that somehow my grief should not be as intense.

Really?

My grief is intense. My loss hurts. My pain is deep. Deep because I was blessed enough to have them in my life, to love and be loved by them for so long. I will now miss that presence and love with my very core. The length of their life does not make my pain less. I don’t want to feel as if I must tone down my grief.

I do not mean in any way to discount the intense grief of a sudden and unexpected loss, the grief of a young life taken too soon. Those are unique types of grief that can feel so very inconsolable. 

But we also don’t need to discount grief that comes with an elder who has died. Yes, it was their time. Yes, they may have been blessed with many years of life. And yes, the grief is still intense. 

I think we all struggle with intense emotions. We all struggle with what to do with grieving and that whole painful process. We are not taught the sacred art of sitting with one another in our pain, sitting beside each other, simply being in the moment together. 

A simple touch can help sometimes. Other times not. Grieving is an individual thing. It’s also something that we all share. Each person may need something different and unique to them. 

Mostly I think that we all need to be seen and heard for what we are going through in that moment. 

I still can grieve deeply even if someone lived to a good old age. 

Because someone was old doesn’t mean that I was ready to say goodbye, or that I am going to grieve any quicker or lighter. I feel what I feel. And it’s ok. It’s ok. 

I wish I had wise words that would be perfect to say to someone in their grief. I don’t. I do appreciate it when others try to reach out. I appreciate their concern and kindness. I am aware of the kind intentions behind whatever someone may say to me in the moment. And I express my gratitude for that.

And I appreciate it when someone can simply be with me, to acknowledge my grief, and to not feel compelled to say anything that they think might be comforting. Because in that moment, for me, there is no comfort to be had. There is only the deep pain of loss, of grieving, which takes its own time, has its own path, and will not be directed, diminished, or rushed.

When we lose someone, at the moment it can feel like it was never enough time with them. We don’t need to add any rules or diminish our feelings and sadness. They are gone. And we are grieving. It’s ok.

Maybe we can also learn to give that to ourselves, to realize that grief will run its course. We don’t have to judge ourselves or meet any expectations of the length of time or how much we grieve. We can learn to accept whatever feelings come up, give ourselves the time that we need, give ourselves permission to be who we are and feel what we feel.

We can learn to sit with pain, to sit with our own discomfort and feelings of powerlessness. We are powerless, and we can hold each other’s hands, hold each other’s grief, hold each other’s hearts. We can let others know that we are there beside them in this great mystery and unknown. In this ending and goodbye, with this hole in our hearts that feels as if it will never be filled again. We don’t have to know what the perfect thing to say is. There is no perfect thing to say. There is only the moment, only the grief. Only the shared experience of being human, of being mortal, of endings.

There are many forms of love

I have enjoyed many Valentine’s days. Sweetheart celebrations, romantic love, sweet togetherness. They were all special to me.

But they are not the first memories that come up for me these days.

It was Valentine’s Day several years ago, and my partner at the time took me out for a lovely dinner at a local restaurant. I appreciated his gift and gesture, even though part of me knew that this relationship would not last in the long run. I just knew, in that place in my gut, the truth. And it was ok. I appreciate the moments and times that we had.

But back to the story. 

The restaurant, where you can usually breathe and have room to enjoy each other’s company, had put a lot more tables in their space to accommodate all the couples that wanted to dine there that evening. The tables were so close to each other that we began to joke with our neighbors at the tables close to us about sampling each other’s plates, as we could simply reach across the tables. 

The poor waiters, I thought. How can they possibly take care of everyone?

It turns out that they couldn’t. Not really, given the sheer number of guests and the little space for them to maneuver themselves around in. 

Some of the guests became irritated, impatient with the service. 

I made sure to make eye contact with our server and let her know not to worry, that it was ok, that we were not in any rush. I have been in work positions before where I could not get things done, due to outside circumstances, in the time that was expected. I remember what a difference that someone else’s reaction can make. This, I believe, can be another benefit of aging, putting your own memories of similar experiences to use in the current moment. To empathize, to understand, to be as patient and kind as we can be in that moment. 

We were in such a tight spot that she could not reach us at one point. We waited for a long time before she eventually got through. She apologized profusely for the wait.

 I told her not to worry, that it was amazing that she made it to us at all.

 And she smiled and breathed, for a moment, giving a sigh of relief. We spent a long time at dinner that night, and were able to laugh about it all, vowing to never go out on that special day again, but to choose an alternate date to celebrate. 

So, here we were. Having a very long Valentine’s dinner. And we made it fun. We laughed and joked with each other and those around us most of the evening. 

To our surprise, as we neared the end of our dinner, some cocktails and a dessert showed up on our table. We tried to catch our server’s attention, sure that a mistake had been made and that we had received someone else’s orders. I caught her eye, and to my surprise, she gestured with a hand to her heart and a smile, and mouthed the words thank you.

She was thanking us, with the extra goodies, for being patient and kind. For understanding that she was doing the best that she could. 

I was so touched.

 Kindness has such power, yes? Kindness can reach across to help someone feel seen, heard, cared about and understood. And it makes whatever is going on a bit more bearable. 

What could happen in our world if we all just took a breath to stop and see what each of us may be going through at the time? If we stopped and wondered if what was happening between someone else and us really had nothing to do with us. That maybe they were going through a challenging time right then. 

I think that this will always be one of my favorite memories of Valentine love. The love that is one that simply sees another struggling and offers them some understanding and kindness. That, in a moment in time, stops to see what they may be going through and tries not to add to the challenge that they may already have. The love that is reflected in their eyes and gestures of gratitude. The love that can happen between strangers that is pure and in the moment. 

So, with that in mind I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day. Whatever you may be going through, I wish you kindness and love. 

I have joined a new tribe, much sooner than I thought.

I think a lot about tribes these days, groups that we feel we belong to, our chosen families. I have no family around me that I have any connection with, so, my chosen family feels extra important to me. 

Much sooner than I could have imagined, I now find myself in the tribe of elders. 

What? When did that happen? Where was I? How did I not notice how quickly life was going by?

They have a special room when you first enter, the room where you begin to work through some of your shock and denial about having joined this tribe. 

There are mirrors to help you adjust, to help you see yourself and to help you get used to the idea. Some people seem to get stuck in front of the mirrors. They adjust things to try and change how they look, to try and camouflage the look of elderhood. That might work, for a little while. But eventually the truth becomes clearer in front of those mirrors. And reflected in the eyes of those around you.

And when you are ready (and sometimes before you are ready), you enter the main room where other members recognize you and welcome you, speak to you, reach out to you. Those that are more introverted may look toward you, waiting for you to make the first move when you are ready. 

You look around. Everyone looks old. Wait, does that mean that I am old too?

Wait, wait, I say. I am not ready. I am not ready to give up on dreams of youth, sensuality and sexuality, the future to look forward to, the energy and enthusiasm and courage of youth. I am not ready. I haven’t done everything that I wanted to do!

And your tribe sits patiently around you. Quietly, for the most part. (Except for those who deal with things loudly and brazenly. They seem to be part of every group. We each deal with life in our own ways. Aging helps you see and accept that more.)

Yes, your sensuality and sexuality have changed, you are told. But, do not despair. They are still there. Just because some others around you may not see those parts of you, we see them. We know that they are still very much alive in you, even if they may be expressed differently. We see you. We see your sensuality in the way you touch the leaves of the trees in the parks where you take long walks, in the way that you pet and caress animals, in the hugs that you give with everything that you have. 

Yes, your energy is different. You may be slower, more measured in your movements and decisions and even thoughts. But you bring more to those, more history, more information, more wisdom. You bring more richness and depth. If others take the time to listen and hear you, there can be many gifts that you can give. 

Yes, the future looks very different these days. The road ahead is much shorter than the road behind you. Do not despair. What you lose in looking forward, you gain in appreciating where you are now, in the present moment. You did not have the time to really see the present when you were so focused on the future. Running, racing, doing, accomplishing, being efficient. Now you have time. Now you see the deep importance of being in the moment. This moment in time. 

But, I respond, I now have a clearer sense of the end of life. The concept of death has become much more real. I am afraid.

Yes, comes the answer. It is natural to be afraid. We are, too. It’s normal to be afraid of things that we do not know or understand. 

But we are also here to tell you that each moment can be so much more filled with all that life has to offer. Each moment can touch your soul more deeply, more authentically. Each moment can become an eternity unto itself. Time takes on a different feeling, a different perspective, a different measure. 

Your body may falter, but your spirit can grow stronger. Richer. More vibrant than ever. You can still inhabit this body of yours, encourage it to do what it still can. Breathe into it and into each moment. 

Your mind may not work as quickly. Your memory may be a bit slower as well. But you may also have the memories that make you realize what has been important all along. Not the job, the lists, the accomplishments, but rather those whom you have loved and who have loved you. Those that you had a connection with. Those that helped you feel a part of something bigger than you. Love doesn’t age, but only grows deeper and more inclusive, if you let it. 

You may feel sad more frequently. It’s ok to feel sad. Do you notice how deep and poignant the moments of joy and wonder and awe can be these days? As if the sadness helps highlight those times. Sadness can help you cultivate more gratitude, can be the special ingredient in appreciating those sacred moments. There is no need to be afraid of it. 

Your body may grow frailer as you continue this path. Aches, pains, creaks, and groans. And your spirit grows stronger. Your wisdom and capacity for love can grow deeper, if you allow that to happen. It means feeling it all, however. To fully feel and live each moment, even the painful ones. 

You will at one point no longer be here. But your love lingers. In those you leave behind, in art or with written words that you may have created. In the spirit of who you have been that is like no other. 

Come, sit with us, walk with us, take our hands. We are here together. We will continue this journey together. 

You have value. You are loved. 

Welcome to this sacred tribe. 

Learning to see grand purpose in everyday being

I have always been searching for what my purpose is.

 As a child, I seemed to feel early on that it was to help others. I could discuss childhood dynamics here and what may have led to this, but that’s for another story.

Fast forward, I became a social worker. No surprise there. This, I thought, would fulfill my sense of purpose and wanting to be of service to the world, wanting to fulfill what I might be here for.

I don’t regret my career now that I am retired. I hope that I was able to help a few others along the way. 

But it was not my purpose. 

So, what was, I wondered.

And now that I have entered the land of elderhood, what is left to do? Did I even come close to finding what that purpose was, or is?

I find that I love to write. I wish I had focused on that earlier, but I am grateful to be spending time doing that now. It brings me a sense of fulfillment and a sense of connection with those who may resonate with some of the words that I write. It gives my soul a channel to speak through. 

I have always loved to draw. Now I paint. I can lose time when in front of a piece of art that I am working on. That is a mystical feeling. It gives me a sense of something greater than me coming through me if I only step out of the way. 

I love animals. So much that it hurts sometimes, when I see how we, at times, can treat them in our world. Could I have done work with animals? It wasn’t an option that I was familiar with back when I started college. It didn’t feel like a real choice. My upbringing led to other fields. I think I would have loved working with animals and working toward protecting them, their survival and that of the earth.

Now I volunteer at our local zoo with the elephants. It brings such a deep sense of connection with nature and these sacred magical creatures. I am grateful.

I love the majestic redwoods and our parks. I feel a connection with them when I touch them. Might I have done something along those lines? Park ranger, perhaps. Maybe. 

Now I go for frequent walks among these beautiful trees, these majestic beings that feel ancestral to me. They help calm me. They let me know that I am of the earth and part of them. Under a tree is where I will plan to have what is left of me scattered, in a way that nourishes the tree and doesn’t harm it. I even found an organization that does this, mixes your remains with the right minerals to be of benefit to the tree that you choose. Perfect. 

Still, what is my purpose now, as a 70-year-old woman? 

I think I was looking to my choice of career to fulfill whatever my purpose was supposed to be. It can be part of it, certainly, but not totally. At least not for me. 

I was married at one point, for 12 years. But I did not feel the calling to have children. I did not feel the calling to be a mother, which is a beautiful and sacred calling. But not for me. 

So, here I am still questioning my purpose.

I think that I was always looking for my purpose to be a grand statement, something huge and of great importance. Something so much bigger than I could ever be. Purpose with a capital P. 

I think on a smaller scale now, in the grandness of small gestures, small kindnesses, in using who and what we are to hopefully contribute to a better world, in our own small way. 

Maybe my purpose has been to find my way back home to myself all along. To stop trying to be other than what I am. To express who and what I am to the world, to finally use my voice and simply be me. To spread kindness and love in my own unique way. By smiling at random strangers as I walk down the street. By engaging in conversation with various people that I encounter, even at grocery stores or coffee shops. By helping them feel seen and heard. By offering that small piece of me to them to make genuine contact in those moments. Moments that may change the direction of their day in the same way that kindness from others can change the direction of mine. 

I am learning that it’s ok to do my small part. To be a good friend. To listen. To contribute where and when I can. And it’s ok to also spend large amounts of time with this self within me that I have tried to mold and shift and change the shape of, but who has been perfectly fine all along. Who may have had things to say and gifts to offer if she was only listened to and allowed to speak her voice and feelings. 

I can do that now. I can keep working on being more and more authentic, speaking my truth, spending time with those that I choose, and offering what might be my gifts to those around me. 

 Perhaps our purpose is that each of us comes with unique gifts to offer, and that we need to learn to recognize those, stop judging them, stop trying to compare them to others, and open the channels that have blocked those gifts from flowing into the world.

Might it also be that it is never too late to do that? I hope so. 

I think that part of my purpose, now as an elder, is to realize that we still have time to be who we are. We are still here, still alive. I can now work to spread that message to others, as I continue to encourage that ongoing unfolding within myself. 

 I can hold a lantern out for others who may make some use of the light that is still within me. To encourage them and to cheer them on in their own journey. To help them feel a bit less alone for a few moments in time. 

As Ram Dass wrote, “We are all just walking each other home.” That home is also inside of each of us. We can recognize and honor that in each other as we walk our own paths. 

My sense of purpose is no longer capitalized. It’s not so grand, perhaps. But no less important and magnificent, in its own way, and so very much closer to home. 

The challenge of answering when someone asks me how I am.

I am struck by how much we humans like to have things easily categorized, black and white, good and bad, evil and good, happy and sad.

For me, that is not my experience on this journey of being a human, especially as I continue aging. 

It’s not an easy question to answer when someone asks me how I am. I find that I hesitate at times. Do I give one of the accepted answers (fine, ok, great, hanging in) or can I dare to speak my truth and say some of the mixed feelings that are inside me? Do they really want to hear? Isn’t it interesting that the phrase How are you? these days is not usually a question that has space for a lengthy answer. It’s almost like saying hello. 

What if we reserved that very special question for times when we have the time and emotional space to hear the entire answer that someone may have to give us? 

I often feel sad these days. Sad about things going on in the world. Sad about the pain of others, the pain of the earth itself and all its creatures. My own sadness at the realization of the reality of mortality. Of my own aging body. Of the road ahead of me being much shorter than the road behind me. Of regrets about things that I might have done differently. 

I only speak of these things to a few people. It seems difficult for people to hear about pain.

We are often told to focus on gratitude at the expense of feeling all the feelings inside of us. 

And so, well-intentioned as it may be, I am sometimes redirected to feel gratitude. To focus on the positive. And there is almost a bit of shaming that can come across for what is perceived as my negative focus.

As if it is assumed that I do not feel gratitude for life and everything in it because I feel sad. 

I feel both. That is one, for me, of the wonders of being human. I can contain it all. I can feel it all. And it’s all ok. It’s a gift. 

I am deeply grateful for my life and all the lessons I have had and continue to have (some of them easier to handle than others, certainly, but all important to have helped me reach where I am today.) 

I am grateful to wake up each morning to another day. 

I am grateful for this body that still functions, even if a bit differently than when I was younger. 

I am grateful for where I am in life, the gift of retirement and finally being able to do things that I love. Writing. Painting. Long walks in the redwoods in the middle of the day. The time to sit and simply be.

I am grateful for the many blessings that I have that others may not. I have a home. I can provide for myself. I live peacefully. 

I am grateful for random acts of kindness in a world that can sometimes be cruel.

I am grateful for my friends, and sad about those that I have lost.

I am grateful that I get to volunteer with the elephants at our local zoo, and sad about all of the poaching and killing that these sacred creatures suffer.

I am sad about wars and senseless killing. 

I am grateful for the smile of a stranger as I walk down the street, the grocery store clerk who recognizes me and asks how I am doing. The coffee shop owner who asks where I have been and goes on to say that she hasn’t seen me in a while and hopes that I have been ok.

I am sad about being old, and grateful that I have lived this long and am still alive, still here.

I am sad about being alone sometimes, and deeply grateful for my solitude.

I am grateful for my neighbor’s new babies. They give me hope for the future. And I am anxious about this world filled with turmoil into which they have been born, while being hopeful that they can make it better. 

Being human and alive feels like such a privilege and gift. And it can be quite painful at times. Might I say, exquisitely so? Exquisite in that the pain amplifies the joy. Sadness helps me appreciate the moments of pure delight. The temporary nature of our lives helps me appreciate each moment. 

As in a painting where the empty spaces help define the entire meaning of the piece, or in writing where what is implied, but not stated, can lead to deeper thoughts and feelings…so is life for me. 

So, when someone asks me how I am, I often find that I hesitate for a few moments before answering. First, to have someone ask and then actually look at me and wait for my answer feels like a bit of a surprise at times. That doesn’t always happen today in our very fast-paced, text-size interactions. 

There is my own weighing of how much to share with this person. How much might they really want to hear? How much of the complexity of being human may they feel comfortable with? Can they hear me without giving advice or telling me to be grateful and to remember how lucky I am and that others have it so much worse? Of course, these things are true, and I do know that. But being reminded of that in the moment of sharing what is inside of me only serves to shut me down. Perhaps that was the intention.

It’s interesting to remember that as a child, not only was my being sad at times criticized, but so were times of excitement and pure exuberance, as we can sometimes see in children. It is as if any extreme was disapproved of. Don’t get too excited would be the message. It’s too much. Your feelings are too much. You are too much. 

How many of us have learned to numb ourselves, to dampen our feelings, to not accept what is inside of us and to do our best to hide it and present a facade to the world that we think may be more acceptable?

This, then, also makes it harder to simply be with others, in whatever their present moment and emotional state may be. We try to fix things, and if we cannot, then we try to redirect them to not only what we think will make them more comfortable, but also what will make us more comfortable in their presence. 

We are all on this path of being human together. We have all had, and will continue to have, our own individual challenges, as well as triumphs. How lovely when we can simply sit with each other and share more of our journeys, with no need for answers or solutions. When we can open to each other and feel a bit less alone for a few moments. 

 So, if we meet sometime, I may ask you how you are. I will wait if you take some time to answer. It’s ok. I have time to listen. 

Going to a Jewish synagogue for a movie screening, feeling like family, talking openly about death.

My neighbor and I went to a movie screening the other day. It was held at a Jewish synagogue. Neither of us is Jewish.

From the moment that we entered their parking lot, people were there to greet us and usher us into the room where there were refreshments to be enjoyed. We sat down and folks started to say hello, ask our names, and include us in conversations.

I was touched.

In a day-to-day world where we hear of so much divisiveness, hatred, and conflict, what a joy it was to experience this sense of being welcomed before we were even known. Being asked to come in. Being included. Feeling comfortable in a room of people we had never met.

We sat down with our coffee and talked with some of the people there. They asked where we lived, how we heard about this movie screening. We chatted. We drank our coffee (with the added milk of human kindness.) What a lovely thing this kindness was, and is, in our world. We so desperately need this today.

I think that there are cultural influences that hit home for my neighbor and me. I am Italian-American, and I have always felt that my culture feels like the Jewish culture in many ways. Both cultures often express feelings quite openly. Both use food to nourish, feed, love, and share. My neighbor comes from Hawaii, where ohana is the word for family and being ohana transcends many barriers. Family is defined more broadly in all of these cultures than simply the ties of blood. I love that.

There is another culture that I believe was also apparent here. The culture of aging and elderhood. We are together in this poignant time of life, aware of an end, aware that we are getting closer to it each day. This, I think, can open us up more. Make us more sensitive, make us hide less. Allow us to share who we are more easily with those who may be interested.

It was time to watch the movie. A 75-minute feature documentary called “Jack Has A Plan”, directed by Bradley Berman.

This was not a light movie. It featured Jack, a man with terminal brain cancer who had made a choice as to when he would die. So many scenes were filled with love, tears, yet also contained laughter, compassion, and bittersweetness. Jack made his choice, did not want to wait until he was helpless and dependent on others and was no longer who he felt himself to be. He set about trying to resolve issues that he felt were unfinished and did what he could with those. He arranged a gathering, a celebration of his life on the day that he had chosen to die. And that day everyone there talked about their memories with Jack, expressed love, hugged, and said goodbye in their own way. After a while, it was time for the guests to leave so that he and his wife could be alone together for Jack’s final moments.

We were all deeply moved.

After the movie ended, the audience was invited to participate in a discussion. There were such touching stories shared by some of the guests there.

A woman shared about her son who has intractable depression that has not responded to any treatments and who no longer wants to live but is upset that he cannot do anything legally about this. His mother’s very torn feelings about this were expressed in her tears as she told his story.

A woman told the story of her mother who was suffering greatly as her disease progressed. She was not eligible for assistance with dying, as she did not have a prognosis of 6 months or less to death, which is required in the U.S. to get legal medical assistance to die. She finally made the decision to take matters into her own hands, did some research and chose her own method of dying. Her daughter’s description of how excruciating of a process this was for her, this woman’s loving daughter. How she struggled to accept that this was her mother’s choice. How she wished that she could have had some medical assistance with the whole process. I could feel the audience hold their breath as they heard her painful story. 

Another woman spoke whose husband had been suffering from dementia that was getting increasingly worse. She talked about that same issue referred to above about the current law in the U.S. and the conditions required to get medical assistance to die. So, she, her husband and some other family members made the decision to travel to Switzerland, where they could legally get that assistance. She described it as a beautiful, albeit painful, experience.

There is much to write and talk about with this topic of the right to die as we wish, the right to choose how and when we die.

But for now, I want to address this particular experience with this family of choice in this synagogue, as we all sat quietly connecting in ways that don’t always have words.

We could feel the very raw and shared humanity of each of us in that room. Hearing and feeling the depth of peoples’ painful experiences. All of us facing our own mortality, talking about choices and the freedom to handle things in our own way.

This is the first time that this synagogue had opened one of their programs to the public. They had predicted that they might get 20–30 people at best. It surprised them when 135 guests showed up. Most of us were “north of a certain age” as one of the speakers said. Given the topic of the movie, it makes sense as this is a topic that we think about more as we age. There is more reality to mortality and the many feelings about the right to die that we face now, in a much more visceral way, having reached this land of elderhood.

Here was a group of people openly talking about these very real end of life issues, sharing their feelings about this. Symbolically holding hands. Making eye contact with each other and acknowledging our fears and feelings. Talking about how we die alone even when surrounded by loved ones, yet also are part of all humanity in facing this final challenge.

I left feeling so very grateful and feel it still. Here was a gathering where we could be open with each other, where we could talk about scary things, where we could share our experiences and stories and listen to each other. Where we could lay our vulnerability down in front of us and have it received, held, and loved.

In that room, we were all family. We felt the presence of each other. And we felt the welcome that helped my neighbor and me to feel a sense of love and inclusion. A welcome that felt like medicine for our souls. A welcome that only grew as we shared in depth, human to human, elder to elder. 

It is in facing the dark, in naming it, in looking at the realities of life, I believe, that we can come together and offer each other some comfort along the way. Where we can hold each other’s hands and understand. Where we can help each other feel a bit less alone for a few moments. Where we can open our hearts with true welcome.