A poem that helped me remember why.

Sometimes I wonder what purpose my writing is serving. I have moments of doubt, moments of a sense of loss of direction. The critical internal voices that have lived inside me and tried to protect me for so long can grow stronger at times as I continue to break their rules. Rules that have told me to be quiet and keep things to myself. Rules that were meant to keep me safe, but kept me isolated. 

Then recently a friend sent me this quote:

 In his poem “Why Bother?” Sean Thomas Dougherty wrote, “Because
right now, there is someone out there with a wound in the exact
shape of your words.”

Oh, yes. Now I remember. 

My intention is to write from my heart and to speak my truth as authentically as I can. Sometimes it feels scary to feel so vulnerable. Some of my friends ask me how I can be so open and vulnerable on the written pages that go out to total strangers. Funny, I don’t feel like they are total strangers, perhaps only some of them being people that I have not heard from. Those that have responded are no longer strangers to me. We share a connection, one that is important to me. 

As I continue on my path of aging, I am aware that if I speak of my vulnerabilities, I have owned them. How can anyone use them against me, really, if I have already admitted them aloud? Why not be open and connect with those who may speak the same language that I do?

And then I get responses from readers who are kind enough to read my work and who take the time to write back to me. 

They tell me that I touched them somehow with my writing, that I have helped to put words to some of what they are feeling. They write that they feel a bit less alone. 

The woman who wrote that I put words to what she has been feeling but had difficulty naming for herself. There can be relief in naming things. 

The man who resonated with something that I wrote and said he was right there with me. I felt that companionship. 

Those that connect with what I write and tell me that I am not alone. They feel things that I feel. They hear me and see me, and even offer comfort at times. 

I am so grateful. That is one of my intentions, to help others feel a bit less alone on this journey of being human, and now especially this aging part. 

We are all together on this path of life. And as we approach the later stages, aging can bring up a lot of questions and feelings. It can bring fear, sadness, and losses. It’s all part of the journey. Especially as more losses keep coming as we continue aging, if we are lucky enough to live that long.

It can help, I believe, to share our feelings and talk about all of this along the way. We die alone, as we are born alone, but we can take some comfort in holding each other’s hands along the way. In sharing what our experience is. In revealing who we are and what we are feeling. In being seen and heard. 

My writing is my attempt to reach out and connect, as well as to give voice to all that is within me. I am so grateful to be able to do that. I am grateful for each of you who takes the time to read what I write, and sometimes to write back to me. I cherish your responses. I feel a connection at times that I don’t always feel even when in someone’s physical presence. A connection that comes from our souls, from things deep inside of us that we don’t always speak aloud to everyone. 

Writing is also a way to connect with myself. To validate and hear those parts of me that I may have tried to shut down earlier in my life in my misguided attempts to please others at the expense of myself. To finally be able to feel and say this is who I am. This is my truth. 

So, write I shall. With gratitude and awe at the beauty of connection and where we may find it, including connection to the deepest part of ourselves. 

Befriending the face that stares back at me.

Have you ever really made deep eye contact with yourself? In a mirror. Really stopped to look into your eyes and see.

I confess that I mostly only look in the mirror these days to put on a bit of makeup, comb my hair, make sure that things are covered or tucked in as they should be. But I don’t take the time to really see. 

I think that I do that because these days the image that stares back at me does not fit with how I feel inside most of the time. It really does seem that we don’t age at the same rate on the inside as we do on the outside.

People respond differently to me than before. I am older, and they see that. Even if I don’t always remember, they remind me. Their smiles have a different feel to them. I feel like often they smile at what they think that they see, what image they might have of me, what their internalized vision of a woman my age is to them, what they expect me to be.  

Parts of me may be erased in many of their eyes. Different parts like sensuality, playfulness, full engagement in life, aliveness. A whole history and lifetime can be erased, not seen. 

I tell myself to not let that define me. To not let myself internalize those messages of becoming invisible and less-than somehow. 

It’s hard sometimes. As a child learns who she is at least partly by how she is reflected in her parents’ eyes, so we still can be looking to see parts of ourselves reflected in the gaze of others. 

As a young woman, men’s eyes reflected desire, attraction, curiosity, a validation of being worthy to be looked at for a while. This may not have always been comfortable, and I do at times find relief in not having to deal with that anymore. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t sometimes miss those gazes. 

As a worker and colleague, I was seen as a member of the institution where I worked and where I belonged and those parts were reflected back to me. I was included. I was part of something bigger than myself. I was a team member, needed, appreciated, and useful. At least sometimes. 

As a wife to a husband or later a partner to others, parts reflected were those that were loved and cherished, cared about, wanted, appreciated, and seen. At least some of the time.

As a single older woman, those reflections in romantic relationships are no longer part of my life. I am open to the possibility of another relationship, but also realistic about options that may no longer be available to a woman of my age. 

As a friend, I have been seen as someone who brought value into someone’s life, who was needed, cared about, loved in friendship and camaraderie. Part of a gang, a network, a circle, a tribe. I still have those things, gratefully, although I am now more careful in choices of which tribes to join. Time becomes more precious. 

And now I am also so very aware of those friends that I have already lost. I feel the ache and pain in my heart for those gone. Those that shared parts of me and my history that are no longer here to help me remember or celebrate those memories and special times. 

The mirror shows me the sadness in my eyes. Losses over the years leave tell-tale signs.

There are lines, spots, and a general drooping that has shown up over the years, in both face and body reflected. I sometimes feel like I have become a caricature of my former self. It’s me, yet somehow doesn’t feel like me. 

And sometimes that’s what makes me look away. Disgusted, disappointed and not feeling good enough. It’s a struggle to fight those internalized judgments of society. 

I take a breath and look back at the mirror. 

I look deeper into my eyes. 

There are stories within wanting to be told to those who might be interested.

There is a life lived with both pain and joy felt, with passion and silliness, with longing and desire, with joy and deep tranquility. All of it jumbled up together.

I can still see the younger version of myself in my head, and even sometimes when I look in the mirror. She is still there. 

I can still see the child inside me, still eager to learn and experience new things, although perhaps more cautious these days. 

I can see the lover and friend that I have been. Caring, flawed in a very human way, trying to work through childhood wounds to find love. Unintentionally hurting others in my desperate attempts to try and make myself whole, not realizing that I must be whole within myself before I can truly be with anyone else. 

I can see the elder. And I can begin to see the even more aged elder, the one who will be looking back at me in the mirror if I am blessed enough to live longer, the face that will become my new reflection. More lines begin to show where they will, in time, claim more depth on my face. More spots that have begun to show up on my face and body that will continue to darken and grow over time.

I step back for a moment and pause and think about all of this. 

It can be easy to think that what we see in the moment is all that there is.

But there is so much more to see if we stop and really look…and feel.

Perhaps others are afraid to see the whole of me when they look at me as much as I am sometimes afraid to see the elder who now stares back at me in the mirror. Maybe it reminds them of their future and what is yet to come. 

But maybe for now I can begin to befriend this face in the mirror and know that I can still contain all of me, even if this reflected face is the current version on the cover of my book of life. I can still open the book to see all that is contained within. I am more than just the cover. 

The face in the mirror reflects a woman who has things to tell me, things to help me remember, things to teach me still, things to share. She has beauty in her own way. Different, but beautiful, nonetheless. 

Feeling the dark, but necessary, side of aging.

I am up at 3am once again. This seems to be a special hour, for some reason. I usually sleep well, but when I do wake up and am unable to go back to sleep, it’s almost always at 3am.

So, here I am. Feeling a deep sadness and heaviness. It’s part of the journey, I know.

I feel deep gratitude for my life, for the time I have had, for the time I have at this moment, for whatever time I may have left. I have loved and been loved. I look forward to more. I cherish each moment.

But some of those moments are a bit more painful than others.

This is one of them.

I am 70. Reaching that age has touched me in a different way. The next decade, should I be lucky enough to reach it, is 80. When did that happen? How interesting that my insides do not seem to age at the same rate as what the calendar shows. As my skin may show. As my body reminds me of its various aches and pains that seem to come out of nowhere. 

I am grateful for this body. It has, and continues to, serve me well. It is the vessel through which I experience life on this earth. It is how I feel the sun, the rain, the wind. Feel the connection to other beings. Feel touch, although not as much these days. I miss that.

 It’s ok to miss touch. It’s part of being human. I can feel the ache, but it doesn’t consume me. That’s one of the benefits of experience…knowing that I can feel whatever the current feeling inside me is, and not be afraid that I will be destroyed by it. It will pass. 

I find that I question more which activities to commit my time to. I need to leave space for that which feels precious and nurturing, even if I don’t know what will fill that space. I need to let go of what doesn’t nurture me so that there is room for what does. A leap of faith, learning to become more comfortable with the empty spaces and the in-between times.

I am letting go of things, possessions, items. Wanting to give them to others who may appreciate and enjoy them. I seem to be lightening the load for my final departure.

Sometimes I wander around my house and feel a bit separate from it all. These possessions, these walls, this place that offers me sanctuary that I know I will leave at some point. That others will live in and make their own. Change it, rearrange it, make it their new temporary shell, like the hermit crab. Until they outgrow it.

I have been to a few estate sales. These are some of the saddest experiences that I have had. Walking through someone’s house, touching their possessions that are now for sale, seeing pieces of the life that they lived and who they might have been, now for sale to be emptied out for the next temporary resident. Soon forgotten. I stop and talk with the spirit of the person who died, whose home I am now walking through, trying to connect with them. Will anyone remember them? Does it matter?

I feel lonely and alone. But it is not a loneliness that can be filled by other people. Sometimes being in nature can help ease the ache. Sometimes being around other beings, as in the 4-legged variety, can help. Wordless companionship that goes beyond and beneath words. 

I feel a different kind of quiet at this time of the morning. A deeper quiet if you will. A realization of how each of us must face the final leg of our journey alone. We may have others around to help send us off, but we each have our own ticket. A solo one-way ticket.

 I am afraid. It’s normal to be afraid of the unknown. I have never been very good at endings. And this is the big one that I am coming to face more and more each day, each year. It’s ok to feel the fear.

I wonder about meaning and purpose. I wonder about whether I have expressed enough of who I am, who I was meant to be. I am more in touch with that since I retired, now being able to write and paint, both of which I love to do. Then I look around at the paintings, wondering what will become of them. Will they be thrown out?

This sadness is hard to feel. This ache is deep. My questions remain unanswered. 

And it’s part of the journey, part of this life. 

So maybe I’ll go make myself another cup of coffee and get ready for this day. I will go to my volunteer shift at the zoo today, thankfully, and spend time being with the beings there. And be grateful to be among them.

I will work on a sketch that I began the other day. It feels good to be working on art again, as I have not felt like doing that for a while. It’s not something that I can force. 

I will keep writing, both to offer for others to read, and for my own private journal to simply hear my own voice and give it space to be. 

I will keep living, keep being with friends, keep breathing, keep walking among the redwoods. Keep being grateful for life, including the sadness. It’s a feeling, after all, and feelings are some of the gifts of being human. Why would I deny myself any of the full range of that experience? Sadness helps me appreciate things more sometimes, including moments of joy and laughter. We can’t have one without the other. Same coin, different sides. 

There is time enough for deadness when are no longer here. Until then, I want to feel it all, and appreciate it all.

But sometimes it’s hard to wake up at 3am.

Buckle up, buttercup. You’re in for quite a ride!

I have entered Elderland. They gave me the ticket at birth, told me to step right up to the entrance of this amusement park called life. 

First, a brief time in Youthland.

As I entered, I stared in wonder at all the lights and music and people. Everyone looked like they were having fun. It made my head spin. I got on rides, screamed in delight, and ran to get right back in line for my favorites. 

I loved the carousel rides as a child. I would pick a horse and pretend that I and my horse would gallop away to adventures everywhere. 

Then I got a bit older and roller coaster rides became one of my favorites. Scary, exciting, and thrilling to ride again and again. 

Entering Elderland.

Older now, I walk through this park a bit more slowly, paying more attention to the games, the shows, the attractions, the exhibits, the crowds. I realize how this park really is a metaphor for life, full of all kinds of experiences and surprises for everyone.

I have crossed the threshold to the part of the park called Elderland. 

The rides are slower. They still have a carousel, but with more seats for those that can’t quite get up on a horse. The music still plays, although less frenetic. It’s softer now, with melancholic tones at times. 

My ticket has the time stamped on it for when I must exit the park. I don’t know when that will be until it is time for my number to come up. Until then, I enjoy the sights and sounds around me, cherishing each moment more, now that I am aware I am in the last section. 

Elderland has different features and exhibits than I remember seeing before in Youthland. There are attractions that younger guests may not have the patience to go and see, exhibits that require more attention and deliberate focus. This, I believe, is one of the strengths of aging, being able to slow down and look more intentionally, seeing things that we may have missed before. 

So many rides and exhibits!

There is an exhibit hall with all the quilts, home-made jams and artwork done by various members of the community. It’s really peoples’ hearts that are on display. I notice the beauty, time, and love that it has taken to create these pieces. I appreciate them more now as an elder. I see the uniqueness and intricacies of each person’s expression and the courage it takes to publicly display this. 

The Arthur-ritis ride, where we get to experience the various aches and pains that come with aging. We get to keep souvenirs from this ride. The aches and pains come with us. And now more than ever, I realize how important it is to keep a sense of humor. We must keep laughing where and when we can.

The Name that medicine exhibit. We get to guess which medicine each pill is. We get souvenirs here as well, with pill packets to help us remember which pill to take on which day and time.

The Sensuality ride. This ride is slower than the version found in Youthland, and much less flashy. Younger folks would laugh if they saw us on this ride, but since they don’t look at Elderland very much, we are not seen. But we still do ride it. Some of us in pairs, many of us solo. The souvenirs of this ride are often memories that bring a certain kind of smile. 

The Things that you worried about exhibit. It’s a bittersweet exhibit. We laugh at the silly things we worried about and spent so much time on. We are also sad about that and how much time we wasted on these things that don’t really matter in the long run.

The “fun house” called Aging. We step in and it exaggerates our size, changes our skin, making it droopy and wrinkled. It changes the proportions of our bodies, shortening and widening them. It’s a different fun house than the one in Youthland. This one sticks with us. Predicts the future. It’s not one that we can walk out of looking like our original selves. The distortions become our new reality. 

The Scary Monster ride. In the Elderland version of this ride, we get to see what is behind the monsters, which is mostly reflections of parts of ourselves that we have been afraid to claim and to see. The only way to get off this ride is to look the monsters in the face and see them for what they really are. Reflections of our own fears and insecurities. 

The Find the Restroom maze. Fun for a while, until it is not. Elders know what I mean here. 

The Self-judgment ride. This is where we get to see harsh judges we have heard inside of our own heads all our lives. We begin to realize that the criteria that we used to judge ourselves with have been impossible and destined to fail. Once we look at them head-on, these judges crumble. We can finally begin to see ourselves more clearly. 

The Land of Regrets exhibit, where we get to face things that we have felt guilty about and have regrets about. We must be extra careful in this exhibit, as it can become easy to get stuck here. It can be like quicksand unless we can let go of enough of our regrets. We must reach for the tokens of self-forgiveness as we walk through. The trick is that to be able to grab these tokens, we must really believe that we deserve them. This is easier said than done.

The Reality of Mortality exhibit. We get to meet those people in our lives that have passed away. We realize that they are letting us know that we will be joining them in the not-too-distant future. Once we enter this portion, there is no going back. We have approached the beginning of the end. 

A Surprise!

What we have not been aware of is all of the love tokens that we have collected along the way. The light from them glows from within us. We can see them now, with their golden glowing light. They calm us, and give us a sense of peace. This, we now begin to realize, is what this ride and journey have been about all along. Love. Love given and love received. 

Love has been the purpose, but we had to learn that on our own. We had to go through all the lessons that came with that. Those tokens of love stay with us and with all of those that have loved and been loved by us. This, we realize, is our version of immortality. 

This may also be where we find our deepest regret …that we didn’t take the chance to collect many more of these lovely tokens. 

But wait…

Wait, though, we are still alive. We still have time! Let’s go do this while we still can. 

When it’s time, I’ll see you there. Hopefully my light will be bright enough so that you can find me. 

Here, take one of my tokens to help guide you.

Kindness turned my day around.

I am convinced that kindness is the most under-rated superpower of them all. (Do you remember Mr. Rogers on TV? He knew the power of kindness, and his kindness touched whomever watched him. He is one of my super-heroes.)

A Bit of Background

I have been isolated for a few weeks, not feeling my best. I had a bout of RSV, (Respiratory Syncytial Virus) a respiratory viral infection. I am feeling better, and slowly re-entering life.

I volunteer at our local zoo and thought that going back for at least part of a shift this past Saturday would be a good way to start getting into my regular routine. I reassured myself that I could always come home early if I felt like I couldn’t quite last a whole shift.

The Adventure Begins.

I started driving to the zoo, and while on the freeway, noticed that the windshield wipers were moving much more slowly than usual. That’s odd, I thought. Then the battery indicator light came on. Uh-oh, I thought. That’s not good. Since I was close to the zoo, I thought I would drive there and if needed, I could call AAA.

Getting to the zoo and parking, I thought I would first spend some time on my regular shift, so I spent an hour with our wonderful male elephant. That made me feel better. Fortified, I walked back down the to my car and called AAA (my car now would not start), thinking that even if it took them a bit of time to get there, it was early enough in the day that I wouldn’t risk being at the zoo at closing time and having to figure out what to do with my car.

AAA showed up an hour later. The verdict? My car needed to be towed to my mechanic, Ok, I thought. I can do this. The tow truck will come and we will head to the shop and deal with this.

Waiting in a dead car.

And there I sat. One hour. Two hours. Coming up on three hours.

I was tired, a bit chilled from the rainy weather. And beginning to get a bit upset. Up to that point, I had been calm, grateful that things happened as they did and that I was safe.

But after a while, my patience wore a bit thin. I wanted to get my car to the shop, leave it there, and get home where I could just relax and take care of myself. And breathe in relief.

The kindness begins.

I called AAA again, and this time was a bit more frustrated although being careful not to attack the person on the phone. They were only trying to help, after all. This kind woman kept me on the line until she could get me an update on when I could expect someone.

She finally got back to me and said that I was next on the list, that it might be up to an hour before they got to me. I thanked her for being attentive, persistent, and for being a kind human being on the other end of the line.

I got off the phone, and just sat there for a minute. I think that all of the feelings and frustration from the whole ordeal, plus still not feeling completely recovered and my usual healthy self, finally got to me. I felt some tears come, and now, at this stage of my life, I know that letting the tears simply come and flow is the best thing to do to help relieve some of the feelings and pressure.

Sometimes, when no one else may be around to comfort us, we need to learn to do that for ourselves. To allow whatever feelings to come up, and we can tell ourselves that it’s ok. That we are ok.

My hero arrives!

15 minutes later the tow truck driver called me. He had a kind voice and a gentle manner, and told me that he was about 10 minutes away.

Once he arrived, we talked as he went about the business of getting my car onto the truck. I found out that he was 70, as am I. That he had done all kinds of work before this, that his eldest son was on the local police force, that he was grateful to be alive and still working, that he enjoyed life. He also talked about having been in the hospital for 33 days with COVID when it first began. And he was engaged at 70, which I found delightful. Love and hope do not die because we get older.

We chatted, we laughed. Ready to now head to the mechanic, he told me more stories about his life. At 70, we have many stories that we can tell, to anyone who might want to listen. These stories can be such gems that can teach so much.

We got to the shop, my car was taken off the truck. My tow truck hero waved goodbye and was on his way. A 70-year-old hero has a special quality, I think. He brought the experiences of his life to that moment and that helped to reassure me. All the frustration of earlier that day had dissipated, as the day turned into a lovely day with unexpected gifts.

I continue to marvel at moments like this. At the power of kindness and gentle compassion. The gift of stopping our busy pace to really hear someone and be there with them for a moment in time. Moments of walking beside each other along some of the small bumps in the road. Moments that bestow gifts on both the receiver and the giver.

This is one gift of being an elder, I think. We learn what really makes a difference. And we can put that into action. A valuable lesson and pearl of wisdom that we can pass along, teach, and model. For them and for ourselves.

Kindness comes through again. As elders, we know that more than ever. Just like Mr. Rogers knew it.

Testing positive for RSV and navigating self-care when feeling miserable.

You have RSV, the doctor’s message read. I had just been tested for COVID, Flu A and B, and RSV. Negative for COVID and Flu. Positive for RSV.

RSV is a common respiratory virus that can become more serious in infants and older adults. 

I have no idea where I may have gotten it. It’s common and prevalent, from what I have read. I had written to my doctor’s office a few weeks ago asking about the RSV vaccine, which was not widely available at that time. I did not fit enough criteria of the higher risk groups that they were recommending it for at that time. 

Then, one morning, I developed a severe cough. Deep down in my chest with significant pain with each cough. Listening to the sound of my loud wheezing, I knew that this was something different, although I wasn’t sure what. 

To be honest, it’s been a bit rough. I am in no way comparing what I am experiencing with those with more serious illnesses, but I also don’t want to discount how different illnesses can now feel as we are further along this aging path. 

I have isolated myself (we have all become well practiced with that, yes?). I don’t want to spread this to anyone else. And luckily, I don’t mind solitude. 

But being sick is a different kind of solitude. I wrote a bit about this in a previous post referring to the humbling vulnerability of times like this. I didn’t know what I had at that time. Now I have a name for it. That helps, somehow, to name things. To know exactly what you are dealing with. 

I had a fever, wheezing, severe cough, and fatigue. The kind of fatigue where you don’t feel like doing anything. Not one thing. Except sit and maybe watch some mindless tv and nap during the day since sleeping at night is not possible due to coughing. 

I am grateful for the relative health that I have been able to enjoy thus far in my life, except for a blip or two. I am grateful to be working my way through this RSV toward recovery, even though the cough feels relentless at times. And I am once again reminded of the fragility of life and the need to appreciate each moment, as things can change in the blink of an eye. 

I have cancelled all appointments, of course. I have stopped all activities that I enjoy. Volunteering at the zoo. Walking in the park. Even getting my hair cut. Meeting with friends. 

I have ordered what I need online. Thank goodness we can do that so easily these days. 

 I feel like my life has been on pause. I have been on pause. I haven’t even had the energy to write much or to paint at all. I haven’t been able to exercise, given that just talking makes my cough act up.

Everything has been on pause. Stopped. It’s as if I stepped off the carousel of life for a bit and am watching it go by, spinning round and round with its passengers, minus me for a moment.

I watch life go by without me. I watch my neighbors go about their lives. Decorating for Christmas, going on vacation, spending time with their families. And I am not part of it. I don’t feel part of anything right now. It’s an odd sensation. 

It makes me think about how people must feel this who may be hospitalized, unable to participate in day-to-day activities of life. How your life can change in the blink of an eye. How much we take for granted as we go about our lives and worry about things that, when we look at the big picture, are not worth worrying about. 

I am feeling better than I did when this first began, but can also feel that this is not over yet and that more healing needs to happen. And that I need to stay off the carousel a bit longer. To respect the time needed to heal. Something else that I cannot control. 

Aging brings more awareness of that for me as well. How little I really can control so much of what I have spent time worrying about. 

Maybe it’s good to stop spinning for a while. To stop and look around while sitting still. To see with different eyes. To see the world around me when I am not in motion.

Perhaps, as I continue to feel better, I can use this time to deepen my appreciation for the precious moments that I may still have left in my life. Appreciation for the health that I may be granted. For the time to enjoy this beautiful earth, walks in the redwoods, time with the elephants at the zoo, time with friends. 

Appreciation for the time and energy to even be able to go to the store and get things that I need, as well as spend some time with the clerks who greet me as we know each other, in a way that people who see each other in a neighborhood regularly, know each other. Recognize each other. Validate each other’s presence. Say hello to each other, which on some days, may be the only hello that I hear. 

Appreciation for the time to express some things that are inside me with writing, with painting. To hear what is within me and be able to encourage some of it to come out. To express who I am, who I feel like I was meant to be all along. Finally. 

Appreciation for this final phase of life and the gifts that it brings. Poignant at times and bittersweet. Yet the bitter somehow intensifies the sweetness. The brevity makes each moment more alive, more precious, more joyful. 

So I will sit, rest, look around, watch the carousel a bit longer. Grateful for the time to simply rest and be and tune into myself once again on an even deeper level. Sometimes being completely still is part of being alive. And there may be much to appreciate in that quiet space. In still being alive. 

Being sick is a different experience as an elder.

I remember when I was younger that I hardly paid attention to those times when I would wake up not feeling well. Maybe a cold, or the flu. No big deal. It will pass. I’ll be fine. 

It’s not the same these days. I am not the same.

I woke up several days ago with a deep cough that hurt my chest with each cough. No other symptoms, such as a runny nose or fever. Uh-oh, I thought. Could this be COVID?

Straight away I went to take a COVID test. Negative. I felt grateful.

A cold doesn’t seem to ever feel like it could just be a cold anymore these days. COVID has changed our world view.

 And aging changes it as well.

Hmmm, I thought. I have been hearing about this thing called RSV. That’s one vaccine that I have not received yet. 

I made a call to my doctor’s office. I talked with an advice nurse, who set me up for a phone appt with a doctor (my primary care doctor had no openings at the time). The doctor called, and I described my symptoms.

“Let’s get you a chest x-ray”, she said. “To rule out some things, like TB, nodules, tumors, etc. Especially since you have a history of asbestos exposure. And you’re 70.”

It’s scary when they name all the things that they are looking for, and how that seems to change and increase with aging. 

The x-ray came back negative. I was grateful.

“Let’s try an inhaler for a bit to see if that helps calm your lungs.” the doctor went on. “This one has a steroid in it, so make sure that you rinse out your mouth well after each use.” Yikes. Ok. 

My cough is still here, although my chest doesn’t hurt nearly as much with each cough. And the cough, I think, is becoming more productive, which seems to me to be a good thing. 

I am humbled by how different this experience is, the waking up not feeling well and having to address it differently than when I would give it time to pass before I called anyone. 

My body is more fragile now. I must pay attention to the fact that things can be more serious if you are an elder. And I need to call the doctor when I might have waited before. 

The things that they are looking for are different. Elders die more frequently from the flu. I had my flu shot, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. 

I become more acutely aware of the fact that I live alone and that if things need to be done, it’s up to me. Not to say that I don’t have a lovely neighbor, who I am grateful for, that does check in on me via email to see if I am ok. We watch each other’s houses to make sure that there are still signs of life. That never was needed before. We laugh about it, but it’s needed, since we both live alone. 

I have other lovely friends who check on me via text and email as well. I appreciate them all. I feel cared about. That touches me even more deeply when I am feeling more vulnerable. 

Aging brings a deeper awareness of the reality of mortality. We don’t know which bullet will get us, but there will come a time when we can’t dodge the one with our name on it.

I am grateful to be alive, grateful for the health that I have been blessed with so far. Grateful for each new day and each breath.

And I am so much more aware of needing to be more vigilant and pay closer attention to this precious body of mine and when it seems to be having trouble. I can no longer brush it off casually, thinking that all will be well soon enough. 

When we don’t feel well, and we live alone, that can really intensify the feelings of loneliness and disconnection. The need to rest and isolate, which, for the most part is not something that bothers me. I enjoy my solitude and living alone.

This has a different flavor to it when you’re sick. I feel more vulnerable. Not feeling as strong to handle everything. Some anxiety creeping in about possibilities of what may be going on. And an increasing awareness of the growing fragility that aging brings, if we are lucky enough to reach elderhood. 

Lessons to keep learning?

We need community and a support system. I, who have been fiercely independent, must begin to relinquish that rigid version of myself and allow the support and kindness of others. Admit that I need help sometimes, and that this may only increase with age.

We need to pay closer attention to our bodies and what they tell us. It no longer works to just ignore things and hope that they will go away. Maybe yes, maybe no.

Pay attention to each moment of your life, as there are fewer ahead of you than behind you.

Appreciate each phase of life and this aging journey and what you can still do. And humbly adapt to things that you may no longer be able to do, at least not with the same ease of youth.

Allow time for healing. Ironic, isn’t it? The awareness of less time left and yet the need to allow more time for things.

Treat yourself kindly and gently, as you would a dear friend. Gone are the days of pushing yourself and bulldozing through things. And that’s ok. Maybe even a good thing, this slowing down and noticing things more and giving them the time that they need, that you need.

Keep breathing through all the feelings that come up, the anxieties, the fears. It’s ok. You can feel them and keep breathing. Keep living. 

For me, letting myself do things that I find healing also helps. Like working with art. Like writing this article. Reaching out to all of you to make contact, and to feel a part of this community. It helps to know that others are on the path with us along the way. To feel a bit less alone for a few moments. You matter to me, and I am grateful to be part of this community and grateful for each and every one of you.

Even with myself.

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

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

I used to love to dance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it is not dance. 

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

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

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

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

Dancing simply is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe there are some things that I can try.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will you join me on the dance floor? 

Come, take my hand. 

An entire conversation was held without a word spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She immediately touched her own heart in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including the part that longs for touch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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