Daring to let our vibrancy show as elders.

I have been recuperating this week from an art show that our local art association puts on annually. Recuperating from the intense labor and time that goes into putting on an art show. Recuperating from what a show can stir up inside me. 

I exhibited some of my paintings, which is always such a vulnerable feeling. As an artist friend of mine once said about showing your work, “That’s your ass hanging up on the wall!” Just what it feels like, I must say.

I didn’t really get into painting much during my time working, and am grateful to be able now, having retired over three years ago, to spend time on my passions of writing and painting. 

As I looked at my exhibit, and looked at some of the others, I noticed that my colors seemed much brighter and more intense. I felt a bit of uncertainty about this. I already feel like such a beginner next to these other artists, most of who have been doing art for much longer than I and have studied much more than I, who have only having taken several adult evening art classes. 

Their paintings were beautiful, I thought, with subtle colors for the most part, skillfully blended and flowing. And here were mine, standing out boldly. Were they too much? Too bright? Not subtle enough? Not sophisticated enough?

 I always loved that saying that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Was I being a fool showing my work? Was it too much? Was I too much? This is a question that I have asked myself for most of my life. 

 As I walked around and helped with the various booths that we had going on, I found myself very aware of when people might be walking by my paintings, might be stopping to look. 

I noticed, with pleasure, that several children seemed to linger longer at my paintings, especially the paintings of animals, which is one of my favorite subjects. It made them smile, which made me smile. 

We had a slow turnout that day. There were several other festivals going on in the area on the same day and they may have drawn more crowds. Especially Oktoberfest. It’s hard to compete with beer, sausages, and music.

I was amazed once again, as I am each time, how very vulnerable showing art can be. Then again, I have felt that vulnerability most of my life about showing my true self. I have spent much time trying to please or mold myself to what I thought that others needed or wanted me to be. 

Now, as I have entered the sacred realm of elderhood, I find that I am becoming much more comfortable being who I am, stating what I think, disagreeing when I feel the need to, and not caring nearly as much about what others may think. 

This got me thinking. Could I apply this new attitude to my artwork? Might I even learn to appreciate the colors and brightness that I seem drawn to paint? Realize that it’s ok to paint in my style, and not try to compare myself to others? 

Maybe I can finally allow myself to unmute my vivid colors. 

And maybe I can unmute in other ways where I may express myself more vividly than others. Like my intensity, my sensitivity, my personality. Perhaps now is the time to finally, fully, step into me. Step into who I have tried to mute, dampen, soften, hide, or push into the background for all these years. Maybe I can now let the child inside me paint brightly and enjoy it simply as it is. 

Art is such an individual thing, yes? Different people are drawn to different artists and different forms and expressions. Maybe I don’t have to worry about that anymore, don’t have to be afraid to paint my colors, speak my voice, write my soul, and be myself. My Self. 

And maybe I can age in vibrant color as well. While I am still breathing, let my colors flow and glow, even if only for me. Because I am finally beginning to realize that doing something just for me is good enough. 

My colors are one expression of who I am. One that I can learn to appreciate. 

Isn’t it about time we let those parts of ourselves be free? If not now, when?

 So, I will paint and live my elderhood in vivid, bold color. 

Care to join me?

The graceful hands of an elder ballerina, with Alzheimer’s and in a wheelchair, whose music and dance would not be denied.

I watched a video again today, one that went viral a while ago. One that I will never forget. The video about the elder ballerina in a wheelchair, taken over by Alzheimer’s. But not completely.

Several version of her name were given. Marta Gonzales, Marta Gonzales Saldana, and Marta Cinta. She was born in Madrid, lived in Cuba, danced in New York. If you have not seen this video, I encourage you to look it up on YouTube. Plug in elder ballerina or ballerina with Alzheimer’s and you will find it.

 Have Kleenex ready when you watch it. 

I imagine that younger people may see something quite different if they watch this poignant video. Are their smiles one of pity? 

My smile was one of awe at seeing who was still inside of her at that moment caught on camera, that part of her that dementia and age had not been able to completely claim.

It was so moving to watch her face transform as her hands moved gracefully to Swan Lake, having their own memory of what to do, of what to express, of the grace and of the music and the story of the dance. Her face expressing what she could no longer use words or her feet and body for. But, oh, those hands and arms fluttering like wings. The magic was still there. I was mesmerized, watching the music transport her back in time, back to who she used to be and still had within her. 

She was sitting there in her wheelchair, being encouraged by the young man speaking to her. She began to move slightly as the music started, but then she sat still again. He gently took her hand and kissed her like the diva that she was, that he still honored. He kissed her hand, and the dance within her came back to life. 

I watched and was enchanted, able to see her grace and beauty that time and life did not steal. Feeling the music. Turning into that swan before my eyes. I forgot she was in a wheelchair, as she was transported back in time and to the world that she used to live in, for those moments when she could hear the music of her past. 

 I felt the metaphor in this poignantly beautiful ballet before my eyes. We all have that spirit and music and our own dance within us. Who we were in our youth. When we could move and express ourselves differently than we now do. When we were seen and appreciated by others in a different way. When the spotlight showed beauty and grace for all to admire.

And here we are, now elders. No longer seen. Certainly not seen as who and how we were. Yet, those parts are within us still.

How do we validate and acknowledge and honor those parts of ourselves as best as we can? How can we express what we still can? How can we encourage our spirit to still dance and move when it can? Our voices to sing? Our hands to move, write, paint, to express what they will? How can we remember the whole of ourselves as we watch this body of ours change, age, and decline?

Perhaps others cannot see this part of us, understandably. But the real tragedy would be to forget this ourselves. To put these parts completely to rest and bury them before we are buried ourselves. Even a beautiful elder woman with dementia was gently coaxed to remember and to still allow that part of her to live, even if for a brief moment.

Who were you? What kind of child were you? Curious? Playful? Dancing? Singing? Drawing? Running for the sheer joy of it? Laughing? Joking? Touching? Happy in groups? More comfortable being solitary? What did you love to talk about? What were your dreams? What has your story been up to now? Not to live in the past, but to remember the total of who you have been, so as to allow all of it to still be alive within you. 

Aging has its own dance, yes? Moving more slowly, watching our bodies change and be unable to do things that we could do before, and having to find new steps to this dance. Steps that we can handle now. Steps that we may have to think about more, so as to keep our balance. Some steps that become memories only. And sometimes those are gone as well. 

Although we may feel as if our bodies betray us, we also can feel the life force still inside of us, even as the outer shell perhaps may not be able to express it in the same way. 

We have dance left within us still. We have music inside us. We can still respond with rapture to this music. 

We have laughter inside us. We have love still there to give. We are still capable of feeling it all, perhaps even more now that we are aware of the brevity of life in a much more visceral way. 

Yes, we cannot deny mortality in the same way as we may have in our youth. We see evidence of it in the mirror. We see it as we look down at our bodies. We feel it in our changing brains. Although we can work to be the best we can be, there is no denying that there will be an end, and that we are much closer to it these days. 

The music is coming to an end. But not yet. Not while we are still here. Not while we can remember, or have someone or something help us remember it, feel it, embrace it, dance to it however we can. The ballet is not over yet. Not yet. Let’s see the dance in ourselves. Let’s listen to the music still there. Let’s help each other remember what is still there. Hold the memories for each other as we make more. As we participate in this final movement. The beautiful finale. 

Let’s gently take each other’s hands. And help each other to remember. Help each other to still be all that we have been, are now, and can yet be. The choreographer has not finished with us yet. Indeed, perhaps the most beautiful music is yet to come. Saving the best for last. 

And loving every minute of it! 

I got completely drenched the other day, after Donna, an elephant at our local zoo where I am lucky enough to volunteer, decided that I needed a good hosing down. 

I was delighted! 

Donna, at age 43, is one of our elder elephants at the local zoo where I volunteer. I have been volunteering there for over 10 years now and it is an absolute delight and privilege to be able to be in the presence of these sacred creatures, the African elephants. 

What I do in my volunteer position is observe them. For several hours at a time, recording their behavior, letting the zookeepers know if there is anything unusual that I see. We observe them to gather information, study their behavior, and learn if we need to adjust anything to improve their life at the zoo, and to see if they are ok. 

Donna, our remaining female elephant, is scheduled to be moved very soon (this month) to an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee. It looks beautiful from what I can see online. Two zookeepers and a vet will follow her on the trip there, which will take about 40 hours. The keepers have been working on training her to get into the air-conditioned trailer, and she is now doing well with that. I pray that all goes well. 

Why are we moving her? This past March, she lost her dear friend, Lisa. Lisa was another of our female elephants who had been friends with Donna for 33 years. They would sleep side by side every night, often reaching out and touching each other. When Donna would wake up while Lisa was still sleeping (Lisa liked to sleep a lot longer than Donna), Donna would stand guard beside her, sometimes resting her trunk on Lisa. 

Lisa was 46-year-old and had developed some medical conditions that affected her quality of life significantly. The decision was made to euthanize her several months ago. We all are still grieving the loss of this dear elephant. 

Donna lost her friend and companion.

She was upset for a while, not herself. Female elephants need to be with other female elephants. Males are more loners in the wild, but females are in herds. The staff at the zoo did not think it best for Donna to be alone. This sanctuary in Tennessee is a place where she can spend the rest of her life on their thousands of beautiful acres. Where she can roam with no guests visiting all the time, like her life at the zoo had been. Where she can be with other elephants. A retirement home for elephants if you will. 

As part of saying goodbye, the zookeepers are allowing the observer volunteers to spend a little one on one time with Donna, giving her treats. I had my time with her last week. I brought what I could carry up the steep hill to the elephant barn (watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapples) and I loved feeding her. Watching her take the melons from my hands and put them whole into her mouth with the juice pouring down was a delight that is indescribable. 

I ran out of both the treats that I brought, as well as a few more that the zookeeper gave me to hand to Donna. The keeper and I then talked, as I wanted to give her support for all that she has been through in her young life. As an elder, loss is more familiar to me. Not easy, but more familiar. My heart goes out to these young zookeepers. 

While we were talking, apparently Donna had an opinion about not getting any more treats from me, as well as not being attended to. Without either of us noticing, she filled her trunk with water and completely doused me. The keeper got wet as well, but I got drenched. Completely drenched. 

And I couldn’t stop giggling about it.

 I found it somehow reassuring. She was still Donna, after all, with her zest and spirit intact. She had opinions and needs and was not afraid to express them. And express them she did!

 I was pleased to see that she had her spunk intact. It gives me reassurance that she will survive the trip and make it just fine in Tennessee when she arrives. She will get through this. She will still be Donna.

Maybe I can remember that this is true for me as well. I am still me. I still have my spirit.

 I notice that I seem to have no problem speaking up these days when something upsets me. My own version of hosing down, if you will, although I think that Donna’s version may be more direct and to the point. Eloquent and elegant in its own way. 

We are elders, she and I. We have been aging together. 

I am considering moving to a retirement community as well within the next several years. But that doesn’t mean that I am not me anymore. I am still alive, still with my spirit intact (maybe even more so now that I have gotten to the age where others’ opinions are not nearly as important to me). I still am who I have always been, containing all that I have been. Like Donna. 

She inspires me. She is strong, and her will to live remains very much a part of her. 

And so it is with me. Although society may not see me as vital or productive (as society has defined it) because I am now an elder, I dare say that I feel more vital and alive and present than ever. Perhaps because I am on the final path, for however long I am graced to be alive. But I am still alive. Still feeling. Still loving and caring and giving. And still ready to hose down anyone who needs it. 

I will miss Donna, as will we all. We have loved her and have been her family for so long. My heart aches at the thought of her leaving, yet I also remind myself that we really do think that this will be the best thing for her. We hope that she will be happier there. 

 I may also need to leave this home that I have loved for all of these years for a place that better fits me and suits me as an elder. 

Aging. Learning we are still who we have always been. Remembering that we still have the life force within us. We may have to make some difficult decisions and moves as we figure out what is best for ourselves, for each other. We must deal with losses. A lot. 

In addition, we humans have the gift of the knowledge of our own mortality. A knowledge that is difficult and painful to contain at times. But, also a gift in helping us appreciate each moment more, knowing that there are a limited number of them left. 

 We still have the spark inside of us, until we are no longer here. 

But, for now, let’s raise our trunks in a toast to the spirit that lies within us all. Let’s trumpet when we can. And embrace each precious, glorious moment of being alive. 

Redefining life and self while there is still time

I woke up today feeling so lost. Lost and so very alone. Early morning awakenings can bring these feelings to the surface more for me. 

Who have I been in my life? How can I express who I am more while I am still alive? Who will hear or see me? Does it matter? Do I matter?

The quiet of an early morning is unlike any other, I think. The world is not awake yet. The quiet is still and brings up thoughts, for me, of the final quiet that happens to us all. 

I turned 70 this past April, and the feel of that is still reverberating inside me. 70. And yet, in some ways, I feel like I am just beginning again.

After retiring over three years ago, I have now been devoting time to writing and to painting, neither of which I had the time or energy to really pay attention to while I was busy working. I got focused on the job, the career, and lost these pieces of myself. For a while. They never went away, thankfully.

So, here I am at 70. Feeling the reality of mortality. The much shorter length of the road ahead of me compared to the road behind me. Where did all those years go? 

What do I do now? How do I live the best life that I can, as I watch my body continue to age and change? What will I be able to do and for how long? 

I still feel all the feelings of each age that I have been. 

I can still get lost in childlike wonder as I gaze at the beauty of nature, of animals, of this earth. I can still delight in a carousel ride, even if others find that laughable. I stop and pause in absolute humility as I gaze at all the life forms that we are fortunate enough to still have on this planet. It’s humbling. I am in awe of it all. 

 I can still feel the delight of sensuality and attraction, even if there may be no more opportunities to act on these with someone else. Even if no one sees that in me anymore. Even if others want to deny that these feelings still exist within an elder. They do. I am alive, after all. 

 I can still feel the delight of seeing something that came through me, like a piece of writing or a painting. I feel wonder at the life force that flows through us all, getting expressed in whatever individual ways of expressing that we may each have. So many ways for our unique voices to be expressed. To be delighted in. 

 I feel the sadness of loss (perhaps more so as I continue aging with the losses coming faster and more frequently). 

I feel the absolute delight in being alive. The taste of food, the soft feel of the grass beneath my feet, the stunning palette of the skies with its different moods and weather, the ease with which tears can come more frequently with age as I stop and notice all the wonder around me that I may not have had time to really stop and take in before. The sensuality of being alive. 

I feel the struggle to accept the inevitable changes that aging brings. I do my best to maintain what I can, and time marches on. I have an expiration date. 

I feel it all. Sometimes I feel as if I cannot contain it all. It leaks out in tears. I am grateful, even for those tears. They are a part of still being alive, still being here on this earth, still feeling all the precious gifts of being human. Some of them may feel more pleasant than others, and yet they are all a gift. We can still feel. We are still here. 

So, I will pick myself up this morning, and carry on. Go to the gym so that I can keep moving for as long as I can. Paint a bit as I prepare for the annual art show that the art association that I belong to has each fall, still not quite believing that I belong with this group. Writing this morning here to express this all and to share with those who may relate, as well as to give voice to what is within me.

And maybe I’ll go for a walk in the redwoods, and listen to the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves. It speaks to my soul. For me, it feels like the voice of God whispering. I will keep listening and let it fill me. And remind me that I am still here to feel it all. Still alive. 

Letting go of my professional license, redefining my identity. 

I have been retired for just over three years now. And I am still in the process of restructuring myself and my life. I realize that I have needed to do this at my own pace, as I believe that we all do. For me, the pace is slow. That’s ok. 

Life these past several years has been, and continues to be, a process of letting go. Letting go of possessions that I no longer need. Of material items that are baggage that are not necessary for this final leg of the journey. 

And now, letting go, even more, of one of the ways that I have defined myself.

 I was a social worker in my career. I am grateful for the work that I did, and like to think that I may have made a difference for some people, may have touched a few lives, may have helped a few feel a bit less alone along the way. I hope so.

And, having turned 70 this year, I realize that I want to stop the bi-annual renewal of my professional license. To put it on inactive status. What an interesting choice of words, yes? Inactive. I must remember that this relates to the term social worker, not to the term human being. 

I do not intend to go back to work, with the grace of God. And I no longer see myself as a social worker. I am ready to let go of that label.

So, that leaves me with the question of who I am now. Letting go of this license brings up so much more than what is apparent on the surface. But isn’t that true about a lot of things? There is often so much more than what we see on the surface with any major decision that we make. 

This is a license that I worked very hard to get. First the college degrees, then the required number of hours of interning, and finally an oral and written exam. I remember feeling such joy and a sense of accomplishment when I finally got the license. I made it! 

And, through the years, I was glad to to take the required number of continuing education classes each year to maintain that license. It was important to me, feeling a part of that group of students, a part of that piece of the population. A place where I was a member and belonged, spoke the common language. It was what I did.

 And, in some ways, it also became how I defined myself and my role in the world. As so many of us do. We tend to equate what we do with who we are. We are more than that, certainly, but in the shortened conversations where we are categorized and named, it can easily become a trap that we fall into.

The years go by, and we do our job, doing our best to fulfill what, and who, our title says that we are.

Until it’s time to retire.

 I remember walking out of the building on my last day of work, taking my few possessions from my office home with me, driving away for the last time. It was over, just like that. All those years. All that work. All that effort. All that struggle and reward. Over. 

 I wasn’t ready to let go of the license yet. I found that I renewed it when it came due, with the thought of you never know, I might still use it, I might still need it. 

 I don’t need it. And I don’t intend to use it. I may still take classes that interest me, but no longer for the requirement to keep my license active. 

I am done with that. 

It’s an odd feeling. Bittersweet. Relief. Wistful. A bit disorienting. 

It’s ok. It’s time to fully face that I have ended that part of my life, that part of my identity, that part of my structure and role. 

So, who am I now? 

I am still a work in progress. 

I am done with that career. 

I am not done with my life, not done with growing and learning and living. 

I am done with going to work amidst all the other workers, being part of that gloomy mass on Monday mornings, and gleeful group on Friday afternoons. I am now part of another group. The retired group. The elders. 

Every day is like a weekend now. I am grateful.

It comes with a price, this joyful time. It comes with aging and all that aging brings. Trying to maintain as much health as I can, while acknowledging the inevitable and eventual decline of this human body. 

It comes with a bit less energy and a bit more caution. With an awareness of increased vulnerability and the need to take the best care of myself that I can.

And it comes with the freedom to finally define myself by everything that is not a career or what I do for a living. 

I can dare to call myself a writer. I can dare to call myself an artist. Because I love to write and paint and spend time doing both. 

And I am still more than that.

I am a woman who is aging, who has lived on this earth for 70 years and has stories to tell to anyone who may be interested. Paintings to create that seem to come through me and not from me, as does my writing. I am the channel, it seems. And grateful.

I am here to still live and to love. To connect with those whom I choose. How delightful to discover that I can be pickier about that these days, realizing that time grows shorter and I want to spend it intentionally, with those whom I choose. 

I am alive. And perhaps defining myself as a human being is more than enough. 

I don’t need a license for that. 

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.