Visiting a 55 and older community. How did I get here?

My neighbor and I visited a retirement community yesterday. It was lovely. Lots of amenities, beautifully manicured grounds (that someone else takes care of through the Homeowner’s Association dues). People being active on the paths, in the pools, in the fitness center.

And I looked around. These people are all older. What a surprise at a senior living center, right? But it was still a shock that I am now thinking of a place like this as my next, and hopefully last, move. I am now one of these older people. WTF?

How did I get here so quickly? I feel like I am just now figuring out who I am after 70 years on this earth. Just now doing what I love, just now learning to set clearer boundaries and not care about what others think nearly as much, if at all. Just now coming home to the self that I somehow pushed away all those years while I got busy doing what we are supposed to do in life. Go to school. Figure out career goals. Get married (and, in my case, divorced). Decide whether to have children (or not to have, in my case). Be productive and successful, using others’ definitions of that. 

I now live blissfully alone. I have been married, been in other relationships, and although I appreciate them all, am at a place that I need to focus primarily on my relationship with myself. For me, I seem to do this best when not in a primary relationship. I tend to focus on the other when in a relationship and lose my center. At least I have up until now.

Should another possible relationship present itself, I think I would be open to it, but from a much more centered place. I will not lose who I am. I have worked too hard to get here, finally. I will come into it as a whole being. And if there are no more primary relationships in my future, which is a distinct possibility at my age, that’s ok too. I have had lovely relationships in my life, and I am glad for the experience and the love. 

I still have things to figure out in my life and about myself. I don’t always schedule things that I know would feel good. Sometimes I lose chunks of time, not sure exactly what I want to do. Or I don’t seem to have the motivation to do those things. Like writing or painting. Or even going outside for a walk. I am not sure why I struggle to do those things that are good for me. Clearly, I have more to explore and learn. 

I’m working on it. 

I still want to work on getting as healthy as I can, even though I know that our bodies decline as we age. I want to lose weight and be as active as I can be. A lifelong goal that I have struggled with for so many years. Get my blood pressure to come down and maybe even get off meds for that. Give my body the best chance to be what it can still be. 

I want to paint and write more. I want to take a dance class just for fun. It’s been decades since I danced. Dancing used to bring me such joy.

I want to be outdoors more, take more walks in nature while I am blessed enough to have a body that still can walk and enjoy this. I want to embrace each moment fully. Nature and the redwoods are my sacred space, my cathedral. I am calmed there, held there, nurtured there. 

 I want to keep in mind that even though I don’t always do these things that are nourishing for me, time still marches on. 

Looking at this retirement residence made the reality of aging a much more visceral experience for me in yet another way. This is my new peer group. These will be my companions and friends for the rest of my path. I am not saying that I won’t have contact with others who are now in my life, but realistically, I know myself. I will tend to gravitate to those that are around me, that have things in common with me, that are at the same relative place in their journey that I am.

The realtor was a lovely gentleman who was honest about the pros and cons, the realities of living there. Like hearing ambulances more than we are used to. Such a stark reality of aging, yes? Of living with other seniors who are also aging. Watching different things happen, illnesses, declines. Hanging on to the joy that we still have and appreciating it even more. It’s sobering. 

So, I find myself in a quiet place about this today. The reality of my time of life is hitting home in yet another way. I believe that moving to this kind of place can be a good thing for me. I don’t have a family, and I find that I am someone who seems to let go of people, with no rancor or ill will, but lets go when our paths seem to diverge. It’s ok, but I realize that I do need some community around me as I get older. I will need help at some point, very likely, if I reach that point. Better to have some of that more easily set up. Better to be in a place where someone will miss you if they don’t see you for a day or two. 

I feel sad. I know that this is life, but so is my sadness about it. It’s ok. It’s part of letting go, part of then fully stepping into the next phase of life. Part of continuing to walk forward until there are no more steps to take. 

I want to live somewhere that others can understand and relate to what I am going through. Where we can talk about and share our feelings and thoughts about this. Somewhere that I feel safer, where there are others watching out for us. Where there is not so much crime and where I am not afraid to go for a walk in the evenings. I currently live in a city where crime has risen, even in the area where I live, which did not have this as an issue before. I am tired of having to feel so vigilant and vulnerable. 

I want to be able to get to activities that are close by, and have choices. And to enjoy being part of life still. Even though I am now part of the older segment that is on its way out. 

I walk around my lovely home and can feel the beginning of my long process of saying goodbye to it. I have lived here for 22 years. It’s beautiful to me. And it’s beginning to feel like too much to take care of at times. I get tired. There are always home projects to do, things to fix, and people to hire. I have enjoyed taking care of this home and myself in it. And I am getting tired. Is this how I want to spend so much time and money? These questions are realistic and necessary to think about. 

I want to be as happy as I can be. As relaxed as I can be. To let go of what I can so that I can embrace more fully those things that I want and enjoy. While I still can. 

Bette Davis certainly knew what she was talking about when she said that “Old age ain’t no place for sissies!” It takes courage to face the harsh realities of it all. And to face, close up and personal, the ultimate reality of mortality. 

These are some of my Sunday afternoon thoughts and feelings. Poignant, bittersweet reflections. Choices to be made. Time limits felt. The past is fading more and more. Goals, wishes, and dreams are not the focus these days. Living as fully and passionately and authentically as I can. That’s my focus. And how to best do that. How to best set that up and navigate the self-care that is needed to do that. 

I have entered the zone of senior living. The last stop on the highway. I am hopeful that it can still have much beauty and life and joy in it. Perhaps even more so, given that it may be the end stop. 

Yet, although stunned into quiet contemplation and deep feelings, I notice that the flame and spirit of life seem to glow even brighter within me as I take a realistic look at this all. It’s still there, inside me. I’m still here. 

So, I will continue to live as fully as I can. Let my flame burn as brightly as it will. Until.

I have another document that I want someone to read after I die.

I have completed my Advance Directive. Stated what I do and don’t want done at the end, at my end. Stated how I feel about hospice and about pain meds (just enough, please, but not too much). 

Having turned 70 this past year, these details and plans for my final days now come into focus on a more real basis.

I still have to make the final arrangements, which I will do. I like the idea of choosing a tree where my cremations ( water cremations) will be mixed with the earth beneath that tree (with the right composition of soil and minerals to be nourishing to the tree and not destructive). With a tiny medallion at the bottom with my name on it. Simple. Respectful of the earth. And not in a wooden box. Besides, I can get claustrophobic. (Thank God my sense of humor is still alive and well.) 

Before I am simply a memory, I just have a little more to say first, please.

I want to include a document,in the midst of all the other instructions about my wishes, that tells something about who I was. This one could be titled something like My Final Thoughts. 

Why isn’t this kind of document included as part of what we want done at the end, what our final wishes and last words might be? Why can’t our voice, our last words and thoughts, be part of our final ritual? 

I want to have one last say about who I was. Who I was as a child, a little girl, a teen, a young adult, all the way up to an elder. You get the point.

I want to have this read by someone at the end, to get one final chance to have who I was be seen and be heard. 

It seems to me that this is what we long for our entire lives. To be truly seen, heard, understood. To have our being and essence acknowledged. 

I have no family that I keep in contact with that will come to any memorial service. I was an only child . No siblings. And I chose to have no children. I was married but got divorced and, although I had several relationships after that, never remarried and have been on my own for a while now. 

When I was a child, we moved away from the few relatives that I came to know, but did not intertwine lives with. No one’s fault, really. Life happens. It’s ok. 

My parents were immigrants so most of the people that I am related to live in another country. I didn’t grow up with them, did not feel close to them. We are related by blood, but not by intimate, everyday connection. 

We are all alone at the end anyway, I believe. The final trip is one that we take solo. Some of us may have others around to help usher us out, which I would think might be a comfort, but that final leg of the trip is ours to take alone. 

And yet, I still feel the urge to have someone acknowledge who I was while I was on this earth. To give a nod to the spirit that was within me. The love that I felt for the earth, its creatures and plants and trees. My love of art and paintings. Paintings that may mostly end up in the trash. My love of writing and how those pieces will fade as well. My sense of humor. My kindness and connection to others, especially random strangers that I sometimes felt a deep momentary bond with that delighted me. And I hopefully touched them for a moment. 

There was depth and longing in me. Although quiet, I had a voice within. A voice that I finally learned to express toward the end, when I finally felt the freedom to do so. After a lifetime of trying to please others and finally realizing that this is an impossible goal. Finally learning that the person that I truly needed to please was me. 

I am grateful to have reached that awareness while still alive. What a delight to speak the truth and not worry about what anyone else might think. Perhaps a bit late in life, but better late than never. 

So, maybe I will write a letter to be read at the final step. Pay someone to read it at the tree where my ashes will be left. Let the tree know who I was, who is going to be resting at their base. Thanking the tree for the space and letting it know I will be a good neighbor. I will become part of it. 

Does it really matter, at the end, to have someone read this? Perhaps this is silly. But, why not design the last ritual and memory for myself? I can’t control if this will really be carried out, but I can at least state my wishes. At least acknowledge for myself who I was. 

I think that this is what families and friends do at memorial services, at what are referred to as celebrations of life. 

Maybe there needs to be one final form that we can, if we choose, fill out. With one question at the top. Who were you in your life? Anything left unsaid? 

Maybe it’s ok to do this for ourselves. Our voice can be part of that final celebration, part of the final goodbye. 

Now that I think about it, maybe I can start letting people know now, while I am still alive, more of who I am. That I am present and here. What I feel. My joys, my sorrows, my loves, my regrets, my Self. 

I am grateful to be able to do this with my writing. Grateful for those who read what I write and perhaps connect to parts of it. I am grateful to be able to have paintings that are part of me and to even have some of them hanging in others’ homes. My writing and paintings have pieces of me within them. 

I am grateful and humbled. To be seen, heard, and felt while I am still here on this earth. Before it’s time to say goodbye, so that maybe some others may know a bit of what I might include in that final document. And, every now and then, remember me with a smile. 

Treasure buried beneath what you see — in things, in others, in ourselves.

I found the piece of palm tree bark (in the first photo) on my walk up the road to the elephant exhibit at the zoo, where I volunteer. It was lying there and called to me. 

How could I resist? A piece of bark that had contained in it, to my eyes, an elephant that wanted to be encouraged to come out.

The second photo is what I was able to help emerge from that piece of bark. A powerful elephant had been hiding in there all along, waiting to be discovered and brought out. 

I am honored to have been the one to find this amazing gift. And delighted to have had the creativity from a Source (that is so much more than me) flow through me. Creativity truly feels like it does not come from me, but flows through me, if I open myself to it. I am humbled and grateful. Both to feel this and to still be alive to be able to express this. 

My path of aging is teaching me so many things. One of them is to stop and let the playful and imaginative side of me come out and see what it might have to tell me. A side of me that I learned to discount when younger as I tended to serious things and adult matters. 

I have always seen shapes and creatures in nature. And others would at times smile indulgently at me, subtly discounting this piece of me. I learned to do that to myself. Discount, but not completely ignore or destroy. I learned to just keep this part of me more secret. Only for my eyes to see and my mind and spirit to enjoy. 

Now, being retired, I have more time to play. Now I have time to become reacquainted with this piece of me and to see what has been there all along. Waiting patiently for me to come back to it. Waiting patiently for me to bring forth its creativity and delight in what can be possible. To see more than what may be initially obvious. In things. In people. In myself.

I am older now, and tired of hiding, tired of discounting myself and of following all the almighty shoulds and should nots. Such deadening rules. 

I realize now that these parts of me that I learned to hide and to keep safe from the world are some of the best parts of me. Parts that make me unique. Gifts to be expressed. Because I am still here to express them. 

So now, in my elder years, I come home to those parts of me. Come home to the playful child inside. Come home to the artist within that sees with her own unique vision. Come home to what longs to be allowed to come out. For no other purpose than to come out and be seen. Be expressed. Be appreciated, perhaps, by some others. And by me. By me. 

To be honest, I had originally picked up this piece of bark and heard the familiar symphony of voices within telling me that I didn’t know what I was doing, that I had no idea how to even begin such a project. 

I still held onto the bark and took it home with me. Because there was something in it that was speaking to me. And I decided it was high time that I listened. 

One of the gifts of aging. To finally listen to myself. To hear what was not heard. To see what was not allowed to be seen. To bring forth what was perhaps shamed and belittled. To encourage full expression of this gift of self that we each have been given while we are still here. 

For me, this means allowing art to come through me. Allowing writing to come through me. Allowing what has been hidden inside, out of fear, to come out. To see beneath the surface. To hear beneath the words. 

Because it’s time. Aging teaches me the depth of what now or never really means. 

I am so grateful for the gift of being able to create my vision. For the wisdom that the years have brought me, where I can finally learn to pay attention to that intuition, that gut sense, that message and random thought and feeling that may come up. To pay attention to what is inside me. To what I see that others may not. To what I feel. 

To finally see with my own unique eyes. 

In random gifts from nature. 

In others, and what may lie beneath the surface that the world sees. 

In everyday things that hold miracles within, if only we take the time. 

In myself and all that I am meant to be and to express.

There is a wistfulness with all of this in me. Wondering what if I had reached this understanding about myself sooner. What if, what could have been, what should have been done. The melancholy of regrets and things that might have been. 

I acknowledge all of this. It’s real. 

But it’s not the final chapter. Not yet. 

 I am still alive, after all, and there is still time to finally allow this self to emerge fully. Gloriously. Creatively. 

We are still here. Still alive. To see, to hear, to listen, to embrace, to express, to live. With all of our unique, and gloriously imperfect, quirks and gifts. To appreciate these hidden gems within us and to share them. 

To see what has been hiding in plain sight all along. 

Our genuine and authentic selves.

 Finally. 

Quiet solitude, Sunday morning blessings

It’s Sunday morning. I wake up and feel the gift of the day before me. Although I am retired and no longer following the schedule of my working days, there is still something special and sacred about a Sunday morning.

I have been doing chores and find myself grateful for the ability to still do those life routines. It is a gift that I do not want to take for granted. I can still change the linens (and look forward to the delight of slipping into freshly laundered sheets at the end of the day), do the rest of the laundry, try and get some of the tree sap off my old beloved car, tighten some screws on the wooden enclosure in my yard. Little things that seem so trivial. Little things that will help me feel better and add to my feeling of self-care. Little things that keep me engaged in life. Things that help me feel that I can still navigate my life with competence. Even if more slowly than before. That’s ok. 

I find, as I continue this aging part of my life, that it is not so much the big things that I used to think were the all-important markers of worth and value, but the everyday tasks and routines. The simple things. The gifts of living life in my own body (the body that I have shamed and criticized so much, yet this body that has served me so beautifully and faithfully), in my own mind (what gifts it brings me with thoughts and ideas and learning), in my own spirit and the indescribable gift of that spirit being me and yet so much more than me.

I connect with friends and neighbors and am delighted. I need those connections. To feel included, loved, seen, and heard. 

Yet, what has always been true for me, is that the connection that I need the most of all is the connection to myself, and to the Divine within and all around. The Divine in the earth, in its creatures, plants, and trees. The Divine of the birds’ songs in the morning. The Divine of the quiet moments before the world begins to wake up, the time I can more clearly hear that Whisper reminding me of who I am. I find that I don’t need to question where that Whisper comes from. I simply need to let it be, and appreciate its presence. I marvel in awe and wonder.

Being older has taught me to see value where I rushed by before, eager to get to the important things. My definition of what is important has changed. I am grateful to be able to see and feel that.

This week has been a bit more challenging for me. I have been sad, which is not an uncommon experience for me. It is one that I work to not judge negatively, but to welcome and ask what it has to tell me, teach me, point out to me.

 I appreciate the experience of melancholy. The joy becomes so much sweeter in comparison. The depth of my sadness seems to carve room inside me for the depth of that joy. 

I feel sad about recent losses, about losses that I know are coming. Loss is ever more part of life as we age. 

Awareness of the loss of our own life, as we know it, looms larger each year. 

I feel sad about adventures not taken, and use this as a reminder to take those that are still available to me. There is yet life to be lived, tasted, enjoyed and marveled at. 

 I feel sad about words not spoken, and hear the reminder within me to speak now where and when I can. I still have my voice, and it is time to use it more, and time to use it wisely. I delight in hearing it and feeling it rise within me. To choose which battles I may need to engage in and which to not accept the invitation for. The balance of that changes as well as I age.

 Letting go becomes more the theme music of my life. Letting go helps me appreciate what is still here, what I still can experience, enjoy, and be a part of. And letting go of what does not deserve my precious time. Precious time that grows short. Let me spend it wisely.

So, on this Sunday morning, as I continue the chores and tasks that feel so good to get done, I am also grateful for the other gifts that today will bring. 

I will spend some time with my neighbor next door for our monthly happy hour. After living next to each other for over 20 years, now finally able to truly get to know each other since we no longer have the crazy, exhausting work schedules that took all our energy and time. Better late than never. 

I will finish the chores that I have planned for today. How delightful that feels.

I will work on a piece of art that I want to finish. I am trying something completely different with this piece. I found a large piece of palm bark at the zoo where I volunteer. And this piece of bark called to me, its shape reminding me of the majestic elephants that I get to spend time with every week. I will share a photo of it when I complete it. It’s such a joy to let myself simply express ideas that I have and not worry about the result or whether I even know what I am doing. I can learn. And I can play. Isn’t that the point? 

I am happy to be writing this and sharing it with all of you. Yet another part of my spirit that comes out more these days, the writing, the part of me that never went away, even when I didn’t feel that I had the time. To connect more with that voice within me. To be able to share thoughts and feelings with you, to perhaps help someone else feel a little less alone for a moment on this journey that we are all on together. 

So, I will go through this day and breathe into each moment. I am here and alive and able to experience it. 

What sacred Sunday morning gifts. 

My spirit seems to have low and high tides in my ocean within.

Aging can bring such an awareness of things within us. Things that we may not have had the time to pay full enough attention to in the busyness of our youth and all that this included. Careers, families, life.

Having turned 70 this year, I am grateful to now have the time to be able to slow down, stop, and pay attention more deeply to the rich complex beings that we all are on this human journey.

I am aware of the moods that I can notice within. I’m not always aware of what may have triggered a particular emotional state. And that’s ok. I don’t need to always know. I just need to notice and allow and honor things that are beyond my control. As I continue to age, I see how much has always been beyond my control. It’s humbling. And reassuring, in a way. Reassuring that I really could not control it all, could not have changed the tides that have been part of my life, that are still there.

I wake up deeply sad some days. Immersed in that sadness and mostly unable to move. 

 I wake up deep in gratitude most days, thankful even for that sadness. 

That sadness is part of life, and I am still part of that life as well.

 Sadness can be about losses, grief. And those losses and grief are a testament to love and attachments that I may have had for a while. Nothing lasts forever. But we can have them for a while. And that’s a gift. 

Going with the tides means allowing the waves of attachments, loss, grief, and sadness to simply be. As if we had a choice. But, in our youth, we may have still clung to that illusion of control. 

I can walk in the redwoods and become completely taken over by awe and wonder. What stories and wisdom that these trees could tell us. What they have seen and experienced throughout their lives. And the wind rustling through their leaves that makes me feel as if I am hearing the voice of God whispering to me. It can make me cry. Tears of joy and being part of this story of life. Being part of this family of the earth and its creatures and plants. 

I can feel out of sorts and angry at times, and again not always sure what the trigger might have been. I try and listen to what I might need to pay attention to, what I need to hear from within. What my voice might need to express, even if only to myself. 

I can feel afraid and vulnerable. Especially as I continue aging. I see my body changing and slowly breaking down. I can feel the path before me growing so much shorter than the path behind me. Fear of the end. The waves of anxiety and fear are also part of this path.

I can feel completely alone and yet, at the same time, deeply connected to all around me. I feel both because I am both. I contain so many feelings and waves of emotion. The vast ocean within. 

I notice that there are also waves and tides in my relationships. Times that a friend may feel closer, times that there is more distance. Neither is right or wrong, good or bad. They are simply part of the flow, the waves, the high and low tides. Souls that can connect more at times, and need to recede at other times for their own growth and purpose. 

During low tides we can explore more, gather more, look to see more of what we may find as the water recedes.

During high tides we may need to step back a bit so as not to be overtaken by the waves. Allowing them to wash over and through us, and simply marvel at their power. 

In my youth, I tried to control these waves and tides. Trying to force my will and efforts through with whatever plan that I had formulated for a particular day. Pushing against the tide. 

That pushing never really worked.

Now I have the blessings of time and age to be able to relax more and check in on the water level and what I may need to do or not do. Honoring the timing of the ocean. Paying attention to the tides. Waiting, if need be, for things to recede and allow for more exploration and action later. Realizing that waiting and being still are an important part of this journey. They have their own gifts to give. 

I sit in wonder when watching the ocean, listening to the crashing waves, watching its majesty. And I also sit in awe at the ocean within, the tides that ebb and flow, the gift of being in this human body with its wonders and treasures. Some buried deep. Some closer to the shore that can be gathered and saved, even if only for a while. 

I have the earth and ocean within me. I have the vastness of the universe within me. And now, I can finally begin to hear it, feel it, and honor it. 

Loneliness brings its own unique gifts.

I am an elder woman, an elder keeper of wisdom (the newest way that I refer to myself in my own head), who has always loved solitude, who best comes home to myself when I’m alone, who only hears my own inner voice when it has the space to speak to me. With no one around to compete with it. In the quiet.

Perhaps having been an only child contributes to this. Or the introvert part of me is coming to the forefront during these times. 

I love my solitude.

I love my friends and community as well. I need them in my life. 

And I need a significant amount of alone time and quiet space.

 Not that I don’t distract myself with social media, tv, trips to the refrigerator to try and fill a hunger that is not for food. I’m quite human with all that. It’s humbling. 

And even with all that, I still crave my own company.

This loneliness is the hunger inside me, perhaps, to really hear what my spirit is trying to tell me. It’s the restlessness that will continue its inner rumblings until I stop and hear it and try to name it. 

I felt that loneliness today. 

Today was a day that I very intentionally spent by myself, feeling like I had done enough “peopling” this past week. I reach a certain quota of socializing and find that I then need to schedule time with no one else around me. My head literally feels like it’s buzzing after being with others for a while. I try to listen intently and deeply to others, and then need to be alone afterward to absorb and to quiet all that I have taken in. 

It’s an interesting phenomenon that with this need for solitude, I notice this loneliness inside me. It can be a bit confusing, to both want to be completely alone for a while, and yet feel this deep loneliness. 

It’s ok. It is, I believe, a part of the human condition. It’s a deep feeling, this loneliness, and one that I can even feel in the company of others. Sometimes even more so in others’ company as it becomes clear that this is a longing that others cannot fill. 

My loneliness is a type of sadness for me, an ache. For what, I am not completely sure. Sadness about the human condition? The brevity of our life span? The time it has taken me to finally find my voice, now at the age of 70? To finally be able to put myself at the top of the list of who to please? And now able to erase the rest of that list, for the most part.

It is also, at least, partly a longing for connection, a longing for a deep connection. A connection to my own soul. A connection that I seem to feel most these days when I express my voice through my painting or my writing. 

Or when I walk in the redwoods. 

Or when I watch the elephants at the zoo, where I volunteer. As I slow my breathing down and sync myself to their life rhythm, to their being in the moment. Animals teach me much about being present, living in the here and now. 

I feel the aloneness of this human journey we are each on. The aloneness of the final days of the trip that we will all take. The final step being one that we each take on our own. Stepping into the unknown darkness. Letting go of this life as we know it.

I notice wistful longing for things that were not part of my life, intentionally, but that I still can wonder about at times. A marriage that ended after 12 years. What might it have been like to grow old with someone that has known me for that long?

I chose not to have children. What might that have been like to see life going on in generations to come, of my bloodline? Watching a friend and his excitement about his first grandchild coming. And detecting a bit of wistfulness in his eyes, a memory of having his own first child, that child who will now become a mother. 

Do any of those things that I have mentioned really make a difference in this final solitary journey that we will each take? 

I wonder about life’s purpose and what that is. Have I expressed this in my life? Is my writing and painting now coming close to helping with this? What have I done with this one precious life? 

Have I loved enough? Have I appreciated it all enough? Have I followed my heart and passion? Have I lived, truly lived? Is there time left to do any of that anymore? 

I talk to all those that have died when I visit my parents’ crypt at the mausoleum. What would they share with me? What was their life like? Who remembers them? I greet all the new residents there each time. We will each have our date to join them. 

So, here I am, this evening, sitting quietly with all these thoughts and feelings. Sitting quietly with myself. Breathing into it all. Letting it all pass through me. 

I’m grateful for it all. For life, for all the feelings. For the poignancy of this human condition. For our precious lives. For the space to share some of this here with you all. For the connection that this brings me to others who may read and resonate with what I write. 

I get sad. I get lonely. I feel joy. And such awe at the wonder of it all. What an amazing gift that this life is. With all its ups and downs, joys and pain, gifts, and challenges. What a journey. With questions, a few answers, and some that will never be answered. 

Even loneliness can be beautiful. Haunting, poignant, rich, and full of life. I am still alive to feel it. I am still here. 

A touch of the wind on my cheek, senses and memories re-awakened

I was standing outside the other day when a light breeze came up, a breeze that brushed my cheek for a second, a moment in time. 

How much power there was in that gentle wind, that slight breath of air blowing on my face. Nature’s touch that does not discriminate because of age or shape or size or time. 

In that moment, I was transported back.

Back in time. Remembering summers with the warm sun on my face and breezes carrying scents from summer. Flowers close by. Suntan lotion lathered on bodies lying all around. The salty scent of the ocean. Food vendors with their delicious scents beckoning. The sound of laughter of families and children playing. Waves crashing into the shore. 

The feel of the sun slightly burning my face. The breeze cooling my skin. Feeling all the joys and presence of life around me and within me. 

So very much within me. 

Feeling myself so alive in my skin.

Remembering my youthful sensuality back then heightened by adolescent waves of hormones. The future was ahead of me. My body was young and with so much time to look forward to. Enjoying this one beautiful day of summer. Free. Safe. Happy.

The memories came flooding back to this face, this face now 70 years old. This face that still can feel the gentle breeze. My skin still reacts to it, enjoys its caress. My body still feels its warmth and delight. 

This body, not touched as much these days by others, still feels the sensuality of that gentle caress from the wind. That warm embrace from the sun. And every cell rises to grab it all. Remembers the delight of it all. 

Body memory. Not forgotten, if perhaps faded and out of sight most of the time these days. Yet in this moment, re-awakened and quivering with the delight of recognition. The delight of remembrance. The joy of having all of this within me still, even if no one else sees it anymore. 

I feel it still. And it makes me cry, both with poignant sadness and joyful passion. I am still alive. My skin still feels touch. My senses still react and rise to meet life. No one else may see it. No one else may recognize it anymore. 

But I felt it then and I feel it still. And I can tremble yet with the joy of the memories and the still exquisite feel of that touch from nature. 

That whisper of a caress that surprised me, one that I didn’t know that I needed so very much.

Life and its memories and senses are within us still. All it may take is a gentle touch, a light caress, a warm breeze reminding us that we are still so very much alive, so very much here. Still so alive to the passion and delight and invitations of life. 

Still here to feel the breeze on our cheeks. And to cry and to smile at it all. 

Breaking down decluttering into smaller bite size pieces

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

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

Yikes.

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

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

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

Not possible. At least not for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Space for memories, not stuff. 

Space for life and living it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a way to refer to myself! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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