Nostalgia for special dates, acknowledging losses and grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now here I am. Living alone. Intentionally. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have lost my former definitions of myself. 

My career. No longer calling myself a social worker. 

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

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

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

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

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

Letting go becomes a major focus as well these days. 

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

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

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

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

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

So, I feel sad today. And it’s ok. 

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

And still in wonder of it all. 

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

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

How to work with this, I wondered. 

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

Breathe.

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

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

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

Breathe.

I write the list. So many things on it. 

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

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

I can work on decluttering one drawer, one closet. 

Breathe.

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

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

Breathe. 

It’s ok. I’m still ok. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 I felt suffocated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am coming home. To me. Finally. 

As if I have a choice!

This is the year that I turned 70. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I feel some of the other effects of aging. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author’s photo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new way to look at what it means to be a late bloomer. 

You may have heard the term late bloomer. This refers to someone who comes into their beauty and fullness a bit later than average. 

How about elder blooming? 

There is so much talked about in terms of aging and the declines that come with it. I do not mean to discount any of the changes in both functioning and appearance that aging brings. Quite the opposite. I am acutely aware of these changes, especially since recently turning 70. 

I am aware of the passage of time. I am aware of the road before me being much shorter than the road behind me. I am so much more aware of the reality of mortality. I realize, on a much more visceral level, that I have an expiration date. An end to this life as I know it. An end to attachments that I have. An end to me. 

It’s not easy to wrap my brain around these ideas and feelings, but here they are. They are real, and I feel them, write about them, breathe into them and go about living and appreciating each day that I am graced enough to wake up.

I think about where to live, whether a retirement community might be a good option. It’s tiring to take care of a house all by yourself. And as I continue to age, I’m not sure that living completely alone is the best thing. 

I have no children or family that I am close to, so I need to make plans for a chosen family to continue to grow old with. To share this path. To hold each other’s hands and hearts on this final leg of the journey.

What has surprised me about my own aging, however, are the other changes that I have seen and felt since my retirement three years ago. 

Some of my friends struggle with retirement and what to do with themselves, how to define what their purpose is now, since they are no longer a part of what we call productive members of society. 

Yet, here I am. Feeling more at home with myself than ever before. Feeling more in tune with my soul and spirit. More at home in this life and this body than ever before, even though I see and feel it changing and slowly declining before me. 

I have always loved to write, but work took over my life in my younger days. I don’t regret my career as a social worker, and hope that I was able to touch some lives in a positive way. But I didn’t have the energy or time to spend writing. 

Now I do. And it is as if that part of me has come back to life and is excited and eager to express everything that it has been longing to say for a very long time. I write about what my current life experience is. The experience of an aging woman. I find that I have much to say about that. 

Writing helps me to process and make some sense of this process of being a human being. It helps me to name things in order to work with them. To better feel them and learn from them. To more fully live. To share with others as we try to sort this all out together.

 I am thrilled to now be writing online and to be seen, heard, and responded to by those who read what I write. To have others resonate with things that I write. To get feedback that my writing sometimes helps others feel less alone. This makes me feel so very grateful. 

I have always loved to draw. Again, I really did not have the time to devote to this when working full time. Now I do. I was able to take a few adult evening classes while still working to learn some basic techniques, and now I paint regularly. I have joined an art association and even participate in art shows. I have submitted pieces of work to online exhibits and have had several accepted and published. My art appeals to some people, and I have even sold some pieces. Again, I am grateful. My work touches something in them. 

How interesting, this time of life. To let go of work and how I have defined myself for so long, like by my career. I had no children, so motherhood was not something that I could also define myself by. But, I also think that women tend to be maternal in many ways to others. This was also part of who I saw myself as. A caregiver. Sometimes putting others first, at times to the extent of forgetting myself and my own needs, or certainly not putting those first. Not anymore. 

These days I have a lot of quiet time, which I thrive in. 

I can hear myself more clearly. I can take time to simply be. I can ask what it is that I need in each moment. I can still give to others, which I do, from my heart. And I can know when it is not healthy for me to keep giving to someone, when I need to set a boundary. Knowing when I may need to let someone go from my life, wishing them well, but realizing that I need to let them go for my own health. 

I can choose my friends more carefully. I finally can see that I don’t have to strive to have others like me, and that I don’t have to like everyone. I can wish others well, and choose to not have them in my life. I have choices.

I can be still and quiet when I need to. I can know when I have had enough of social interaction for a day and take myself home. I can sit and do nothing, letting my mind take me where it will. I can get up in the mornings, have my coffee and spend time with the birds and squirrels who have come to know that their breakfast of roasted peanuts will be served every morning. This brings me joy, and that is reason enough. Doing nothing has been highly underrated. 

I can spend more time volunteering at the zoo. Spending time with animals feels healing for me these days. Being in their quiet presence and watching them living their lives is meditative to me. They teach me about living and being in the moment. 

I can choose. I can breathe. I can stop what I felt that I could not stop before. And I can be. 

It’s so interesting to feel as if I am blooming the most now at this later stage of my life. It’s bittersweet and wonderful. It is a sacred gift. 

I am so very grateful for each moment, for each day, for each thing that I get to do that is a true choice from inside me. For finally being able to come home to myself. 

Feeling one’s travels in time.

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

What are we referring to, actually? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am grateful, albeit wistfully at times. 

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

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

Living fully, feeling it all, setting boundaries.

I was talking with a young friend the other day. She was bemoaning the fact that she seemed so much more sensitive to everything these days, and that she thought that getting older meant being more resilient.

I replied, “You are resilient.” 

And I went on, giving words to my own thoughts lately, about the true meaning of courage, resilience and growth.

To live this life takes courage. To live as fully as possible takes deep courage. To weather the storms of life, to feel the pain and the losses and the grief, takes courage.

It has been my experience that I become even more sensitive to everything as I continue on this path of aging. 

I feel the pain of others more. I feel the pain of the creatures that are slowly being killed to the point of extinction. I feel the pain of the earth and how much we have, and continue to, destroy her. I feel the sadness of people going through their own version of hell. Wars, violence, indescribable pain and sadness. 

I feel the pain of grief as it becomes my ever more frequent companion with the losses that keep coming. 

And I am still here.

I think that because I work to allow myself to feel as much of what is going on as I can, this makes me live more fully, be more present, and be more present to each moment. To live life fully and look all the pain and sadness in the eye takes courage. To feel the losses takes courage. To feel the joy and the wonder and to know that it is all fleeting and that there will come a time that we are no longer here to feel this, takes courage. 

It is not the idea of no longer feeling sensitive or pain that makes one resilient. It is knowing these parts of yourself and being at home with them. Knowing that it’s ok to feel them all. Knowing that this is one of the greatest gifts of being human. Knowing what to do when feelings flood over you. Knowing that it’s ok to take care of yourself.

I feel it all. 

And I also set boundaries so that I choose not to add feelings that I don’t need. Like being around someone who doesn’t nourish me, or being around those who, from their own wounded place, are painful for me to be around. Can I empathize? Yes. Do I need to take on their pain as my own? No. Do I need to accept pain inflicted on me because I understand where their attack is coming from? No.

I get to say yes to all the feelings. I get to have them be part of my experience in this human body. I get to say no to those that are not what I need or want in my life, when I have that choice. 

Getting older means putting up less with abuse from others.

Getting older means knowing what you want to accept and what you don’t.

Getting older means knowing that you have the right to say no, whenever and wherever you need that.

Getting older means feeling every piece of this precious life with every fiber of your being. Feeling it all to the point that it can bring you to tears of joy. 

Getting older means thinner skin and less boundaries to the pain around us.

More boundaries to what we don’t need to inflict upon ourselves. 

Less boundaries to pure love, awe and wonder at this life.

More boundaries to all that is not that important, things that we were taught to focus on and worry about. Things, that in the long run, really don’t matter as you face the end of your life. 

You are resilient. You survived your childhood, which was not perfect, given that your parents were human too.

You survived each and every one of your traumas, which we all have. It is part of this roller coaster ride that we are on. Everyone has a story.

You survived and have come to where you are now. You are still alive.

And you feel it all. What a sacred gift that is. You breathe life in and out. You are present on this earth. You are connected to others around you. You give and receive love. 

You get hurt. And you make it through. You feel joy. And it passes as well.

If you are an elder, you are facing aging and the challenges that this brings. And you wake up each day and go on. Grateful for the bittersweetness of it all. 

You are alive. You are human. And you are so very resilient. 

Making things more efficient sometimes comes with a high price

I had an interesting morning today. From going to my doctor’s appointment at my HMO, to the post office, to the gym, and finally home to hide from everything and everybody.

The doctor’s appointment. They have instituted an online check-in program to make things more efficient. So I checked in online, proud of myself for navigating yet another tech process, given that I did not grow up with all this technology. I arrived at the reception area to the office, and sat down, happy that I was already checked in. 

A staff member came up to me asking if I had registered already. I responded that yes, I had registered online. Thinking that she probably didn’t think that I would be doing that, being an older woman. Ha, I thought. We can learn! Don’t make assumptions about us. 

I was then immediately informed that I needed to check in at the front desk anyway, as the system did not always work correctly. Seriously? So much for bypassing that part. I checked in. 

I was called into my appointment.

 I tend to accumulate significant wax in my ears, and more so in the ear that I recently got a hearing aid for. So, I was there to get the wax cleaned out. The staff person came in, way too cheery and energetic for my comfort zone at that hour of the morning (but that is for another story) and showed me this new device that they would use to clean my ears with, using water pressure. I have had my ears cleaned out before with water, and prefer the staff to use the manual technique. Water tends to get stuck in my ears. They let me know that this device is what they would now be using for ear cleaning, and that it would help make things more efficient for the staff, as then some of the line staff could use this device rather than having a doctor, nurse practitioner, or other licensed staff, have to use their time for this. 

I realize that my reason for this appointment was not any kind of emergency or life altering situation, and yet, I felt a bit put off that this didn’t warrant any attention of the doctors or nurse practitioners. I can already begin to feel that way by simply being an elder. 

The staff are still in the process of learning to use this device and seeing how it works, I realize. But today it took three times as long, several visits from the licensed staff to come and check how it had worked, and several tries with the new machine. And I still feel like I have water in my ear. 

Next, I went to the post office to mail something that I wanted to send via Priority Express. Getting to the postal clerk’s window after standing in line, I was told where the Priority Express envelopes were. I grabbed one and filled it out, and then went back and again waited in line. Once again getting to the postal clerk’s window, she then informed me that I needed to fill out another form and she handed me that form. Back to the table I went, filled out the form, and got back in line. 

I was finally able to get the item mailed off. I know that it is efficient to have all the forms filled out in advance, and I am glad to do so. I do think, however, that when the clerk pointed out the proper envelope for me to fill out, she could have at that time mentioned the additional form required. I am glad to be more efficient, but also ask that others be more clear and efficient in their communication. Just saying. 

I thought that I would then go to the gym to work off some of the tension that I had built up in the morning. That didn’t work today, however. I simply needed to be alone and do things at my own pace. Even if that was nothing. I didn’t feel like being on an elliptical machine going nowhere, even though that was an efficient way to get some steps in. I didn’t feel like being efficient. I’d had enough of that for the day. 

I am paying most of my bills online these days. I like the idea of not using paper when possible. But, sometimes, I really would like to speak to a live human being if I have questions. But, once again, it is more efficient to have things dealt with online. Live chats are sometimes available online, but not always. It can be kind of like trying to get a representative when making a phone call and getting lost in the menu hell of all the choices, only to end up back to the original main menu. And screaming representative at the top of my lungs into the phone, to no one there. 

I used to work at a nursing facility before I retired. And I was amazed at how administration was continually trying to make things more efficient. Which often translated to less time with the doctor, so that their time could be used in the most productive manner possible. I am not sure who determines what is productive, but I do sense that the bottom line is all too often monetary. Of course, businesses have to watch the bottom line and pay attention to expenses, but in the medical field, there is more to business than that. 

I understand how crazy busy the doctors are, and how they are pushed beyond what is reasonable. But, I also see that efficiency seems to have a strong correlation with patients not feeling really seen or heard or paid attention to by their doctors. Patients who are often scared, overwhelmed by the system, and trying to get answers to what is going on with them. I did my best as a social worker to get them answers, but I was not their doctor. I was just better at (and less nervous about) chasing their doctor down and being annoying to them. And I would tread carefully when talking with the patients so as not to overstep what would be my place to answer and what would really be a doctor’s place to answer.

I felt that the younger social workers, who were clearly told to focus on discharging patients as quickly as possible, saw me as old fashioned when I spent more time with patients, listened to their stories, and advocated for them to have a bit more time in the facility while we found the best place possible for them. Not very efficient, I know. 

I would, at times, have patients’ families crying in my office, because of how they felt treated by their doctor. Doctors who can be so pushed and rushed that they can forget the kind of trauma that each family is feeling at that moment. They can forget how much impact their words and tone and feelings can have on families and patients. Forget that they have many patients, but these patients have only them as their doctor. All in the name of efficiency and getting a higher number of patients seen. Well, maybe not really seen.

I also begin to feel some of this demon of efficiency creeping into how I feel treated as an elder. Brushed aside more quickly, I think. Sometimes already seen as on the way out and not warranting as much time or energy or attention as those younger than I. I wonder if my doctors see me this way. 

I have to be vigilant if my own attitude turns toward this. It’s easy to internalize these messages of insignificance, not wanting to be a bother, not being a burden. 

Is it more efficient to not spend as much time with elders, since they are closer to leaving this planet anyway? Is it more cost efficient to spend time with those younger, who still are what is seen as productive members of society? As if we elders are no longer productive if we are not in the work force, no longer part of that statistic. 

Is it a waste of time to spend time listening, really hearing, paying attention to each other? 

Quite the opposite, I feel. 

Suffice it to say that you will not see the word efficient on any tombstone or memorial of mine. Thank God. 

Taking my first class at a senior center and realizing this is my new peer group. 

I started a class with some friends the other week. At the local senior center. It’s beginning Qigong. Lots of steps to remember. I’ll see if it’s a fit for me and if it feels like a good thing for me to do. I do, though, enjoy being part of a live group class again, after all the pandemic’s zoom classes. We feel each other’s energy, laugh as we all try to master the moves. Some more gracefully than others.

I am shocked that I belong here now. At a senior center taking an exercise class for seniors. That means me! 

What???

When did that happen?

Suddenly, I am part of the group that I used to look at from the outside in, as an observer. Slowly wondering what it would be like when I reached that age.

I blinked, turned around for a second, and found myself there. The group of others now includes me. 

I am still trying to wrap my brain around this new phase of life that I find myself in it without remembering having stepped over the threshold. I wonder if we should have some kind of ritual where someone carries you over the threshold to this new part of your life. Marriage into the seasoned version of yourself. Walking into your new home of age and wisdom. 

I look around. I seem to see a different version of myself in the mirror than what I see in the others around me. Yes, there are times that I do see the changes that aging brings, but most of the time I still have an internalized image that does not match what I see in the mirror.

How to begin to accept this new status and time of life without taking it as a sign of being less than, of being in continual decline, of being marginalized and all that this brings with it. That is the challenge.

Yes, I am a senior. Yes, I have age related changes, and will have more to come, God willing that I keep living for a while. 

Yes, there are ways that I have become more invisible. That has its good and bad points. I feel free to do more of what I want, since no one is really looking anyway. But there is a bit of nostalgia for the attention that I used to get as a woman. Relief mixed with a twinge of sadness. The bittersweetness of aging. Of life. 

I am now no longer a part of the work force. I need to remind myself that I have my own brand of productivity. Writing. Painting. Things that bring me joy and that are sometimes, to my delight and surprise, enjoyed by others. 

I am free to be more myself. To find who that has been all along and now has the freedom to come out and play more. I call this coming back home to myself. I just didn’t realize that it would take this long to get here. Or that I would be this old. 

I say more of what I think. Not only is my skin thinner, so are my filters. And it’s ok. I don’t care what others think nearly as much. I am still aware of not wanting to hurt anyone intentionally, but I am also no longer willing to sacrifice who I am at the cost of my soul. I have had enough of that.

I move more slowly. That seems to have creeped up on me as well. I get out of bed more slowly, bend more slowly, see that I am less flexible than I used to be. I laugh at myself when I catch how I carefully step into my clothes. Things I never gave a second thought to before. 

I am aware of dangers of falling and take more precautions. Falls can lead to fractures which can be the beginning of a slippery slope. New things to think about and to be conscious about.

My neighbor and I both live alone. We keep an eye on each other’s homes, making sure that we still see signs of life. Are the lights still coming on and off? Have we seen each other that day? It’s a bit funny, and important. I have known several people who were found dead in their homes after several days. I want someone to be aware if I am not around anymore. 

I have longer visits at the mausoleum when I go visit my mother there. Realizing that I will at some point be among their ranks. Not in that particular place, but among that new peer group. I think that I had better start the conversation now.

 I try to say yes to invitations more often. Being an introvert, I need to pay attention to when I need alone time to recuperate from too much stimulation, but I also realize that the time to do things, to experience things, to try new things, is now. I don’t know how many nows I will have left. 

I appreciate each moment more. I am in awe of things that I was too busy to notice much before. I can sit outside and be delighted in watching the birds and squirrels enjoy the peanuts that I leave for them. Giggling when the jays call me in the morning letting me know that I am late with their breakfast. Running outside to keep the birdbaths full and fresh. It has become part of my purpose. To nurture and nourish nature as it nurtures me. 

I treasure what I would have thought of as brief, but not meaningful, interactions with others. Now a random connection with a stranger, an encounter that goes more quickly to deeper levels of thoughts and feelings, is such a gift that keeps reverberating inside of me for quite a while. It is so very meaningful now. It nourishes me with the warmth of the connection that I feel. It can sustain the lonely places inside me for a while. 

I cry more easily and more often. I have always been sensitive, for which I am grateful. These days, the feelings can flood over me in a moment when I am triggered by something. And I let them be. Such a precious part of being human, these feelings that we can have. I thank them. And I do my best to simply let them flow through me. Why would I want to push them aside or deep down inside? There is time enough later to be dead. 

I am still here. I am still alive. And I want to be as alive as I can be. To live as fully as I can. To cherish each moment. Each sacred breath. Each connection, both to parts of myself that I may have neglected in the past, and to others who are on this path beside me. 

So, yes, I am now at the senior center. Laughing, dancing, moving, living. Still here. Still alive. Still so very grateful for it all.