Sometimes it’s as much fun observing the humans as it is the animals! 

I am lucky enough to be a volunteer at our local zoo. I am on the Behavior Observation Team with the elephants. I never tire of watching them and my two-hour shift sometimes becomes a three or four hour shift. It’s meditative, calming, soothing, quieting.

It’s not nearly as calming when observing the human guests that come to the zoo. 

We are an interesting species. For the most part, wonderful to behold and watch and be part of. As I continue to age, I find myself observing and noticing more and more, now having the time to stop and really listen, really hear, really look. And we can be such a wonderful species. 

For the most part.

We are funny. And inspiring. And completely befuddling.

Inspiring. The 92-year-old volunteer who answers questions, engages the children and families alike with his brightness, cheer and lovely spirit. Although no longer able to walk easily, he now has his zoo scooter that he gets around with. He stations himself at the elephant exhibit and is a delight to watch and listen to. He has been a volunteer there for 30 years. He talks about enjoying each moment, as he never knows what may come next, being 92. All said with a twinkle in his eye. 

Encouraging. The grandmother, who when answering her grandchild’s question of why the elephant had walked further away, asked that child “You know how you need to be alone sometimes and get away from everyone and get some space? Elephants need that too.” Such a moment of teaching wisdom and empathy. 

Delightful. Adults becoming children once again, totally mesmerized by the animals before them. Smiling, laughing, mouths open and facades dropped, even for a few moments. 

Funny. Listening to parents, who are dealing with excited children. Children who may be tired, hungry, overstimulated, or cranky. 

Funny. A mother yelling “You need to watch the elephants for at least 30 seconds!” when her child wants to run quickly to another exhibit. “30 seconds and no less!”

Funny. Dad, with an attitude of disbelief, sighing “I did not bring you to the zoo to watch a squirrel!” Yet the child is completely fascinated with the squirrel that comes close to him, ignoring the elephant right in front of him in the exhibit. 

Funny. Guests, often men, explaining facts to others (unsolicited) about elephants, that have no basis whatsoever in any truth. I have to admire the authority that they speak with. It can be so convincing, even if totally inaccurate. 

Befuddling. Parents yanking their children away, while the child may be completely mesmerized by the animal before them and want to just stand there watching. Parents trying to get to see all the animals, without ever really spending time with any one of them. Quantity and lists of things to do winning out over the chance of being in the moment and allowing their child to be in that precious moment of connection as well.

Befuddling. Parents making up stories about animals when their children ask, rather than daring to admit that they don’t know, but can find out.

Endearing. A young man, who has given himself a day at the zoo, comes up to me shyly asking questions. Shy about even having given himself such a day. Opening up when I not only answer his questions, but make suggestions about things to see and areas to go to. Smiling when I encourage him having done this as such a great thing to do for himself. Because it really is. He lingers a bit, takes it all in. Smiles as he leaves. 

Encouraging and inspiring for the future. The zookeepers who come to so deeply love the animals that they care for, and try so hard to do their very best for them. Knowing that a zoo is imperfect, yet also knowing that good work, rescue work, education, and conservation work is being done by this wonderful zoo. Young souls caregiving the precious creatures that we share this earth with. Not paid nearly enough, yet loving their work. Young caregivers of these beings that we are in danger of losing. 

This gives me some hope for the future of our planet. As an elder, I won’t be around to see what happens, but I have hope that these young caregivers can be warriors for the planet and its many inhabitants. 

This journey of aging helps me see the lessons in everything. Even a day at the zoo.

To realize that we are a species that has its own patterns of behavior, its own quirks, its own rhythms. 

To realize that we need to take time to really see, hear ourselves and each other. That we don’t know everything and that that’s perfectly ok. That we are separate from and yet part of all of creation. That we need to be part of the story and the work of rescuing our earth and its creatures. That we are separate, and yet not so different, from our non-human cohabitants of this earth.

We are all connected. And spending time really being with each other, taking our time, quietly observing and listening, may be the thing that we need the most of all. 

It has been deep inside of you all along.

I recently heard from a friend that she felt that she had “lost it” when responding to an emotional situation.

What an interesting way that many of us have learned to think about this part of ourselves. This emotional, tender, vulnerable part of ourselves. This part that we can be so careful to hide and to push down, in many situations. To carry on without deeply acknowledging what may be going on inside of us.

How sad and what a loss that this can be.

As someone who feels her way through much of life, I do see the value of containing the feelings enough to be able to name them, express them where and when we feel that they, and we, will be safe enough, really heard, really seen.

I can become flooded with emotions at times. I have learned to speak enough of the language of containing them in order to best survive, thrive, and protect myself when necessary. To pause and use thoughts to be better able to name these feelings so that I can express them as best as I can. 

This containment and control can be taken too far. 

 I wrote back to this dear friend. What I responded with was that I did not think that she had “lost it”. Rather, I continued, I felt like she had found it. Found and experienced that deep and sacred part of herself that responds from the heart. That reacts to and connects with the pain and the heart of others. That part that makes her unique and wonderful. That part of her that I treasure as such a gift in our friendship. 

That part of us has often been buried treasure. Buried, as treasures often are, by storms and the passage of time. Buried where they are not easily found. Buried deep and waiting. 

I learned to try and completely bury this treasure inside myself as well. Unsuccessfully, for the most part, thankfully. 

This treasure is what makes us human. What helps us connect on this very bittersweet, human journey that we are all on together.

How important it is to be able to share this part of us with others. To help us all feel a bit less alone for a moment in time. To look with our hearts rather than our brains. And then invite our brains along, but give them a rest as the sole master. To let our brains know that they can step back at times, that they can stop and allow other parts of us to take the lead for a while.

For me, thus far life has been best navigated by this entire team inside me, by all parts of me. By my brain, which helps me figure my way through. By my heart, which helps me feel the love, pain, connection and loss that is part of life. By my gut, which helps warn me with deep instinctual reactions when something, or someone, may not be safe for me at that time. 

Aging, with the experience and wisdom that it brings, has taught me to be able to recognize this precious treasure within me. I gratefully open it and allow it to fill me. I acknowledge it as one of the most beautiful parts of me and I honor it as a sacred gift. 

I am so grateful that this treasure did not get lost. That it waited patiently for me to come home to myself and find it, recognize it, and allow it to come to the surface.

This treasure has reminded me that my feelings are such tender gifts, to myself and to others. That my writing from my heart can perhaps, at times, be a guiding light to encourage others to find their own buried treasure. 

Are you ready to go on a treasure hunt?

 I’ll be right beside you.

There is so much more inside of me at 70 than is realized, seen, or heard.

I recently reached the age of 70. And I have a lot of feelings and thoughts about it. A lot.

There are images that come to mind, in our society, of what 70 is, what 70 is like, what 70 should act like.

And my reaction to all these rules and images and messages, as I embrace and inquire into this new age I am now identified and sometimes categorized by? 

I don’t think so.

 I don’t think that I am dead in ways that 70 can sometimes be seen as dead.

I find that I feel a bit of embarrassment and shame creeping in about that. Self-recrimination at having feelings that I now am somehow expected to not have, or at the very least tone down and certainly not talk about. And certainly not write about.

I don’t think so.

I notice the way that older people, especially women, are portrayed in the media. Laughable. Cute. Past their expiration date. To be condescended to, seen as less than (if seen at all). Cute little old ladies who still feel the dance inside of them. Cute? Laughable? Expired? 

I don’t think so. 

Rather than tell you what is not true, let me talk about what my truth is.

I am an endless well of emotions and hungers. I am acutely aware of my aloneness, yet also my deep connection to all that is around me. The lushness of the earth. The connection with animals that is beyond description, yet also deep and rooted in our physical togetherness in this moment in time on this planet.

I have hunger for touch, for deep eye contact, for connection, for intimacy. I can still shiver at a touch. Still feel longing, even if from a distance these days. Still admire someone whom I find attractive, still have fantasies. Still want. Still crave. 

I have desires that I am surprised to find still within me, that surprise reflecting my own internalized ageism. Of course, those feelings don’t wither away and die. Why did I think that they would? 

I thought that they would because our society has images and a list of shoulds about how we age, what we should now do, who we should now be. What we should no longer be interested in. What we should no longer feel.

I don’t think so. 

I am a sensual woman. I have a depth that I long to share. I have love to give and a hunger to receive. I am physical. I am sexual. I am still a woman. The label of old does not negate the label of woman. 

I want to validate this for myself, even if no one else does. To at least see myself in all my entirety even if not seen by others. I don’t want parts of me to die before I die. I don’t want to be less alive, less passionate, less present to all that is within me. 

I can do this for myself. I cannot control how others see me. I can, however, begin to question the beliefs that I have been fed that do not feel true. Assumptions that are not proving valid for me. 

I am still here. I still have this body, even if it no longer fits society’s image of what is attractive. I am still inhabiting this precious body that has gotten me through so much. That still vibrates and quivers and is filled with life. 

I will reject this shroud of invisibility that I am offered. Because when I accept it, I also become invisible to myself. 

And that, I will not do. 

I don’t think so. 

After the birthday celebration, it’s time to face reality.

The flowers, cards, dinners, phone calls, and balloons are gone. All were lovely acknowledgments of my birthday. My 70th birthday. 

 Seventy, I say the number to myself as I try to become familiar with it. As I put it on as the new number which I now must identify as my age. The number that I will at times be easily categorized by, right or wrong. No way around it. I am 70.

We celebrate transitions. Birthdays, marriages, births, retirements. We have gatherings for transitions from life. Funerals, memorials, wakes. 

The parties and celebrations bring us together. We acknowledge each other and our personal anniversaries. 

And then the parties stop. The flowers wilt. The cards get put away. The balloons begin their descent from the heights. 

Everyone leaves the gathering and goes home. 

We are alone once more. To face whatever the new circumstances are. 

I face 70. I face being an elder and the changes that this brings. I face all the changes that I already see, already feel. 

And for a while, I think that I will feel a bit adrift and lost. Lost as I navigate this new terrain. Adrift as I feel a lack of direction and purpose as I used to define it in my younger days. 

I recently had carpal tunnel surgery and am still recovering from that. I have had to modify some of my activities as I slowly continue to heal. Having been instructed to be careful not to lift too much weight, I have been somewhat less active than usual. I know that this adds to my sense of things being different right now. 

I have been a bit quieter as of late, staying indoors, even more intentionally alone than usual. Being more still. More pensive. A bit depressed as well, perhaps. All part of the journey, I think.

Feeling the reality of this new number that I now have to claim as my age. Wondering if that also will involve claiming a different sense of self. A different perspective. A new reality. 

I am still the same self that I was, and yet I must also acknowledge the passing of time and the things that this brings. Things that sometimes feel like a curse, other times like a precious gift. Same coin, different sides. The bittersweetness of aging, of life. 

I feel lost, adrift, alone, anxious, sad, and overwhelmed at times. So many feelings. So many. 

I will keep moving through this. One day at a time. One breath at a time. 

Today I will go to the gym. To begin working out again, as my hand allows. And to be around a group of people that have become one of my chosen families. I need to feel their presence around me. I need to feel part of them again. And I need to physically move my body more. To fully inhabit this physical body and nourish and take care of it, as it has done for me for all of these years. 

I will start deciding what my next painting will be. This is one way that I will continue to express that part of me. Painting parts of myself onto the canvas. Acknowledging that creative piece of me that I now have more time to express.

I will continue writing, to be part of this group of writers, also a chosen family that I am grateful to have. Writing about my experience of this life, naming it, giving it words. This helps me navigate it more. 

I will continue to sort through all the things in my house that it is time to let go of. Declutter my house. Lighten the load. Consciously letting go of things is a new part of this whole time in life. A time of letting go. Traveling lighter. Paring down to what feels most precious and important. Until it is time to let go of that as well.

I will go to my volunteer shift at our local zoo. Continuing to grieve the dear elephant that was recently euthanized, and being there with those elephants that remain, who are also grieving, I know. And being with the staff there who is also still deep in grief. We comfort each other, together. 

I will attend the annual zoo volunteer appreciation dinner this weekend. To be with this other chosen family. Grateful for them and for all of my chosen families.

I was recently contacted by a long lost cousin. What a delightful surprise to be able to talk with her and my uncle (a cousin, actually, but we always called him Uncle Joe). It’s a part of my life that has needed some sense of continuity. And here it came. What a lovely gift from the Universe. As if to add some healing to this part of my past as well. 

This process of healing parts of my past feel even more important as I age. I am grateful for people who remember parts of my past, who hold a piece of my personal history. I have been missing that. 

Life goes on. Gatherings, celebrations and parties continue. 

Do I feel like celebrating and partying right now? No. 

Do I need to be around and connect with these others in my life? Yes. 

And so I go on. Living. Participating. 

Quietly nodding to the passage of time and all of the changes. While I do the best that I can, still being alive. Still able to write, paint, move, laugh, and love. Grateful for it all. 

Each of us has an inner hero, and it’s time to honor them

I am so moved these days when I watch or hear stories about heroism. About someone making it through adversity and thriving. About someone who has been relatively unknown finally having their voice heard and celebrated. 

That got me thinking.

What is it, I wonder, that so moves me about these stories? What brings tears to my eyes when I see someone who has had a hard life finally come into their own? 

The street singer struggling to survive who has a voice that rivals any opera singer and is finally heard.

The family singer/songwriter who moves people to tears with their song of triumph over their personal battles. 

The bullied child who shines when expressing their talent and hidden powers and gems. 

It is because we all have our own personal battles. Some battles are harsher and perhaps more easily recognized by others. And those heroes deserve all the credit that they get and more. 

In many ways, we are all heroes. We need to acknowledge our own journey of struggle and pain and survival. We don’t need to compare ourselves to others. Everyone has a story that is worth hearing, even if only (and especially) by themselves. 

It’s easy to admire those that have triumphed over such huge obstacles and pain. I don’t mean to diminish them in any way.

I have had the honor (and pain) of witnessing human resilience and the spirit of survival at its most extreme. 

Having been a social worker at the county nursing facility at my last job, I worked with patients from ages 18 to 90 plus. Walking the halls and witnessing their daily pain of being taken care of and having to have everything done for them, these once independent human beings.

 An 18-year-old gunshot victim, now quadriplegic and only able to move from the neck up, learning to use a custom power wheelchair that could be moved by the few movements that he had left. 

Another 30-year-old with quadriplegia, who, weighing in at 500 plus pounds, had been in the gangs and honestly talked about knowing why he was where he was. Now in terror during parts of care that necessitated him being hoisted up above his bed. Terrified of being dropped, with no control over this at all. 

Victims of car accidents whose whole life changed in the blink of an eye. And the pain of their families, having lost who they knew, now having to learn the reality of who their family member now was. Unable to grasp this new reality. In shock. Tears, anger, frustration, helplessness.

I am humbled by what I have had the sacred honor to have been part of. To watch the resiliency of this human spirit tested and in anguish yet surviving. Through the pain. Through the changes. Through the battles. Knowing that there are more battles to come. 

I would tell myself to walk through the halls and pay attention when I thought I was having what I thought was a bad day. To see what had happened to these patients. 

There is truth to that, how important it is to remember to appreciate what we have, to realize how easily disasters occur and how lucky we are to have what we do. How quickly our lives can change. 

And yet, I realize, we must also acknowledge our own battles. Our own triumphs. Our own pain. Because to be alive is to have some struggles, to have our own story, to have our own battles to fight and overcome. 

Not to wallow in self-pity, not to get lost and give up. Rather, to acknowledge our own life path, our own wounds. And the fact that we are still here. Still alive. Still breathing and living and going on. 

I recently turned 70. And that feels like a major milestone for me. It causes me to reflect even more on life and its lessons. 

I made it through some difficulties as we all do. I survived. The pain of my parents’ childhoods and the consequences of that played out in part in me. The insidiousness of self-doubt and trying to please others to feel as if I was worth enough, and never feeling that. Relationships that I brought my issues to, repeated past patterns, and couldn’t make last. Medical scares that brought me to my knees in not knowing what the results of the latest test would be, whether I would have much time left on this earth or not. 

And this latest challenge of aging. Of watching and feeling my body slowly decline, of wondering what other changes will be coming. Of doing what I can to stay as healthy as I can, yet knowing that time will take its due. And age related changes will occur. I have seen them already. 

And facing, in a very different way as I continue this aging journey, the reality of mortality.

It takes courage to live fully. It takes us tapping into our inner heroes and strength. It takes faith in ourselves, in a higher power if we believe in that, including the part of that higher power that resides inside of each of us. It takes trust in ourselves and our ability to get through whatever we have and will face. To see how we have been a hero in our own lives. And how we continue to be. 

So, I salute the hero inside you. They have helped you make it to where you are now. They are with you still. Celebrate them. Celebrate you and all that you have come through. Celebrate the hero that you are. 

And it’s not for my funeral!

I turned 70 the other day. I have no idea where all those years went.

I have been quieter in my life, socially, as the years go by. I don’t really get into having big parties or large scale celebrations, preferring to celebrate these major milestones in my own quiet way. Appreciating the friends that I have and their attention, kindness, and acknowledgment.

This was a big birthday for me. Something about the number 70 feels huge. Different. A senior in everyone’s book. Increasing awareness of the road before me being much shorter than the one behind me. The ticking of the clock of mortality.

The night before this momentous birthday, I was amused to notice that I stayed up until the stroke of midnight, watching the age that I claim now turn to 70. No longer in my 60s. I don’t usually even stay awake for the new year to be welcomed in anymore, but I did stay awake for my own new year’s entrance. My new decade.

The day before my birthday, I went to the gym in the morning. I’ve got to keep moving, I know. I came home to find a huge long box sitting at my front door. Perishable was written on the side.

I opened it to find the most beautiful bouquet of tropical flowers, sent directly from Hawaii. I didn’t even know that this was possible, but there it was. My lovely neighbor, who is from Hawaii and has been there on vacation this past week, sent these to me. She and I are now really getting to know each other, since we are both retired and finally able to slow down enough to have the time and energy. She turned 70 last December. We are on this path together.

What a beautiful gift these flowers were. I arranged them and placed them on display to enjoy.

Later that day. There was a knock on the door. I looked out the peephole to see a young woman holding a beautiful vase of flowers. Opening the door, I was able to really see them, and they took my breath away. 18 long stem roses from my ex-husband. (We were married on the 18th of June, almost 46 years ago.) We have been divorced for almost 34 years. We did not have contact for decades. Then he reached out several years ago and that contact has helped heal the rift and pain and sadness. It’s a lovely connection that I treasure. I am so grateful. And these roses from this, my ex-husband who I now have contact with on special holidays, brought me to tears. The healing of past trauma. The reconnection to a love that still exists, albeit in a different form.

Again, I arranged these stunning roses and placed them on display to enjoy.

And then it was my birthday. Waking up to these flowers greeting me. Waking up to now being 70. Looking forward to having dinner with a friend at a local restaurant where the staff feel like family.

Another knock on the door. Looking again through the peephole, I see a man holding yet another vase of flowers. I open the door to receive another beautiful bouquet of lilies, roses, irises. Purple and pink splendor. From a dear friend, the one that I would go out to dinner with that evening. She and I retired from the same place and are both so grateful for this time in our lives. She also just turned 70 last month. Another of this special tribe that I am now a member of.

I found a place for this bouquet. I breathe in all these gorgeous flowers and the love that they represent.

I am overwhelmed with all this beauty and love surrounding me. I often can underestimate my significance to others, feeling alone in this world. Appreciating friends, but also feeling unattached. No family that I am close to. And yet, I see that I do have a family. Chosen family. Family that is formed out of love and history. Intentional family.

Dinner with my friend was lovely. My birthday was wonderful.

Not done yet. A sweet man who I dated for a while calls and wants to stop by. And he did, showing up with a dozen beautiful red roses. I have no words at this point.

I am stunned, in a way, to feel so noticed and paid attention to. I am humbled by the love and affection and being noticed and remembered. I feel significant to these people. And to other friends that I have contact with on the phone who also send birthday love. More tears come. Tears that don’t always have words.

I cry a lot more these days, and it’s all good. I feel everything even more deeply as I continue on this aging journey. I appreciate it all. I am glad to still be alive to be able to feel all these feelings. To have the tears. To be in the moment and feel the joy, and bittersweetness at times, of being alive.

My birthday has passed. The flowers linger and continue to open more gloriously each day.

And I know that they will wither and die.

Isn’t that the lesson? To appreciate the blooming times, as in our own lives, and savor each moment, each opening of our own petals, each precious taste of love and affection? While we are still here? While we can still breathe and feel and savor?

Before the flowers that are sent are those that are for our funeral.

On the eve of my 70th birthday….WTF???

Here I am, at4am, feeling the weight of this being my last day in my 60s. 

How the hell did that happen? Where did all those years go?

Yet, indeed, here I am. 

So it’s time to look this in the face, right here and right now,

First of all, I am grateful to still be alive. And functioning pretty well, as far as I can tell. I assume that someone might have noticed by now if that was no longer true. 

My neighbor, who recently turned 70 as well, and I, have decided to check on each other regularly to make sure we are still alive. She sees if my bedroom light comes on at the time when it usually does, both at night and in the morning. What once might not have felt so, now feels reassuring and amusing. Laughter is so essential at this time of our lives. 

I also make sure that I see her at some point during the day each day. 

So far we are both still here, both still kicking (even if not as high).

 I remember so many parts of my life, as I reflect on this, the eve of my induction into my 70s. 

I remember being the little girl, the only child of immigrants (from Sicily). The first generation American. Often feeling alone and somewhat lost and like I didn’t quite fit in anywhere completely. I’m not sure if I ever outgrew this completely. 

 I remember entering my adolescence and the roller coaster ride that this was, for both me and my parents. Me struggling to begin to carve out some sense of identity, and them struggling to let go of the child that they so wanted to protect from everything. 

I remember finally going to college, something I so very desperately wanted, to begin to feel a sense of independence from my very well meaning, but very restrictive, parents. Freedom, I thought. 

I remember finally saying my NO to my father, who had made the decision that we were going to move to Italy and had even begun inquiring into colleges in Italy for me to transfer to.

I remember, after having said that NO to him, having to support myself and put myself through school. 

I remember graduating from college with my Master’s degree in Social Work, still feeling completly unprepared for the role, the intensity of the work, and always carrying my companion, self doubt, right along with me.

I remember getting married, also still having no idea what I was doing or who I really was. 

And I remember 12 years later, getting divorced, wondering what the hell was happening to me and my life.

I remember moving several times, sometimes to a different state, changing jobs, continually struggling to find that solid sense of myself and my core. Sometimes feeling like I was getting closer to it, only to feel like major life events made me feel lost all over again. 

I remember all the romantic relationships that I have been in. I am grateful for them all. I sometimes wonder if being an only child in the particular family that I was in made it difficult for me to stay in any one relationship, feeling easily suffocated at times with intimacy. 

Funny, now I am still alone. Intentionally. Maybe I have made some peace with that part of myself. Maybe I did need to be completely out of any primary relationship for a while to finally come face to face with myself. My Self. 

Memories abound on this day.

And so does an awareness of some of the other changes that come with aging.

My body, which I have not had the best relationship with over the years, continues to change. Funny how much easier it can be to appreciate a past version (which I did not always appreciate at the time) than to appreciate the current older model that I see reflected in the mirror.

Things that I used to take for granted now come more into my awareness.

I don’t hop out of bed as quickly as I used to, now checking to see what ache or possible muscle stiffness I may need to attend to or stretch first. 

I become more intimately acquainted with where the restrooms are located wherever I go. My bladder and I are much more intimate these days. Not quite the intimate relationship that I had envisioned as being my primary one. Again, insert the sense of humor here. As I have stated before, I now realize what the term Golden Years refers to, as in the color of pee and its new major role in the day to day drama of life.

I look in the mirror and see a new and different version of my face, changing ever more quickly. I can still see the younger face (that I remember looking back at me) and I begin to see images of the older face, yet to be, that I am now becoming.

I chuckle at myself when I notice that I don’t like driving at night much anymore. My doctor says that I have baby cataracts (how cute) that are not developed enough to do anything about, but that are present enough to have an effect on my night vision. 

I laugh when I look around me when I go out to dinner, realizing that I like the early dinner times, and so do all the other older folks around me. We all leave as the younger crowd come in and as we prepare to go home and go to bed early. 

I try and keep laughing at myself when I forget why I walked into a room, or someone’s name, or what I was just about to say. Sometimes I scare myself with worries that it’s a sign of deterioration that will increase quickly. Other times I laugh and keep going. What choice is there? 

There are other changes too, that I see on this aging journey.

I am so much more connected to nature and all of its creatures. I can feel the pain of the earth, its trees and creatures, and all the cruelty that we have inflicted upon it.

I can feel the aching beauty of a sunset, feeling my own sunset and its glory as it approaches my own evening and nightime.

I can feel the still present sensuality of this aging body, the desires and exquisiteness of touch. Even a hug or simple touch on the shoulder can bring such delight.

I can feel my skin, see it becoming thinner, more fragile. And how it does its best to protect me still, even as it bruises more easily.

I can feel the need to slow down for caution’s sake. Needing to be careful to not fall.

And I also feel the joy and increasing awareness of everything around me that this slowing down brings that I did not take the time to notice in the fast-paced rushing around of youth.

I can see all the ages of those around me reflected in their faces. I now see the younger faces in my older friends. I now can see who someone is, and who they have been. 

I can see the kindness of strangers and feel it so much more deeply. I see those moments of connection that I now realize the significance of. Eternity wrapped in a moment of time.

I cherish the depth of friendships through the decades. Sometimes we keep in touch. Other times we pick up where we left off even if we haven’t been in contact for years. 

I love new friendships and the ability to connect. I find that aging helps me connect more deeply more quickly. Perhaps it is the awareness of the shortness of time that may be left and not wanting to waste any more of it. 

I am so much more grateful for each and every moment of life. Each of the remaining drops of nectar tasting ever more sweet as I realize that there will be an end to them. 

And I am grateful that I now feel more myself, more authentic, more genuine, than ever before. 

I let go of those that I do not find nourishing to my soul. Wishing them well, but not wanting to spend precious time carelessly. 

I am so grateful to be retired, and for the time to write and paint from my heart. To finally be able to be me, do what I want, spend time as I wish, and put myself at the top of the list of who to please. And that when I do that, I can love more authentically, more deeply, more completely. 

So, 70, ready or not, here I come. 70. Still going. Still living. Still breathing. Still loving life in all of its bittersweetness. 

An elder’s gratitude for the gift and pain of being too sensitive

I am so grateful to be sensitive. “Too sensitive” has been used as a statement toward me meant to somehow make me wrong, or less than, or defective.

My response these days to this comment ?

 I say thank you.

Thank you for seeing my sensitivity. It is one of my strengths. It is, I would venture to guess, perhaps one of the reasons that you may speak to me. Because you know that I will try my best to really hear you and understand what you are feeling. From my heart. 

I will be able to understand your pain because I have taken that journey myself, and have braced myself through the painful times and felt them. That takes courage. So thank you for recognizing the courage that it takes to be sensitive. And I encourage that for you. It is priceless, this sensitivity. 

It is not an easy road, being sensitive. It means allowing yourself to feel all the bumps, bruises, and deep losses that life brings our way. It means allowing yourself to sometimes sink into the pain and feel submerged in it. Trusting that you will emerge, because you know that you have come through this before. You have come through this, come through the pain more alive and attuned to life within you, around you, and within others. 

That is what I now will say to others, who care to listen, to what I feel about my sensitivity. How I embrace it. How I appreciate it. How I am so very grateful for it.

And now, as an elder (turning 70 in less than a week, which means more writing to come), I can pass along this hard earned wisdom to those that are younger that I see also struggling with this bittersweet gift of being too sensitive.

I volunteer at a local zoo, and a recent excruciatingly painful experience that I have been going through is the recent loss of one of our elephants. A very special creature that I have had the sacred honor to have known for 10 years.

The pain is deep, the hole is my heart is elephant sized.

 I allow it to wash over me, through me, grief coming like waves of the ocean. 

I also do my best to be present for the young zookeepers that I have the pleasure of working with and of being there for them, as we hold each other in our mutual pain and grief. 

One of these keepers, I can tell, is an extremely sensitive young woman. Tears are often just beneath the surface for her as she struggles with this harsh reality of life. 

Sometimes I simply go up to her and pull her in close and hold her for a moment. Which gives her tears permission to flow once again. We cry together. Each grieving alone and yet taking some comfort from each other.

She talked about feeling like she is too sensitive. 

And here I got the gift of being able to talk with her from my own heart, my own pain around this, my own past struggles, and my own blessed acceptance and embracing of this wonderful gift I have been given. 

I talked with her about her sensitivity being such a precious gift. 

I tell her that yes, she will feel pain acutely in her life, and will also feel the depths of joy in a way that only allowing herself to feel the pain can bring. That her life will be richer because of who she is. 

That I, much further along on the path of life that she is, can now see what this gift has given me through the years. What it continues to give me. That I wouldn’t change this part of me for anything. 

That I have been drawn to her since she arrived at the zoo, how I recognize those of my tribe. The too sensitive tribe. How special she is. How treasured she will be. What a gift to the world that she is and will continue to be. 

She cried a bit more into my arms, which was such a gift for me. 

She thanked my for my wisdom, which gave my tears even more permission to flow. 

I chose not to have children, and thus sometimes wonder about who might even want to hear what I have to say, what I have to share. What young people will want to hear what an elder woman has to say? Who will take the time?

I was drawn to stay longer at the zoo yesterday, not leaving at the end of my usual shift. I found myself wanting to stay longer to be with the elephants that are left, to share the space of missing Lisa with them. And wanting to stay for other reasons that I wasn’t exactly sure about.

And then this extraordinary encounter happened with this young zookeeper. After that, I felt ready to leave for the day. 

I treasure this moment in time that this special young woman and I shared together. This is a memory that I will take with me forever. This is a sharing of some of my experience that was heard, received, and taken in. That means more to me than I can adequately express. 

I was able to give a piece of me to someone who saw the value in it and who took some comfort in my words and presence. To let someone know how cherished they are, how special the gifts that they have been given are. How very lucky to be too sensitive. 

Still in grief, feeling lost, drifting 

Grief takes its own time. It will not be rushed, or planned, or forced into any shape or form. It will simply be. 

I have been in grief recently over the loss of a being that I have known for 10 years. A beloved elephant at our local zoo, Lisa, that was euthanized over a week ago. She had several ailments that come with aging, and the decision was made that her quality of life was not what it should or could be. And that we could not do anything more to help her, that all the treatments and medications and procedures were no longer helping. 

I struggle with the whole idea of euthanasia. Of course I don’t want beings to suffer, and yet it is also so difficult to know when and how that final decision is come to. How do we know? Those beings that don’t speak human language cannot tell us in words that they are ready to let go. 

I feel this loss deeply as I remember feeling all the losses that I have had. Each new loss brings up memories of all of the others. Each loss adds to the ache and emptiness inside, carving an even bigger hole in my heart. 

It is a deep ache inside my heart, my gut, my throat, behind my eyes. It is an ache that will not be comforted. It is a sorrow that must be gone through, not around. It is something that we all must face in our lives, more and more so as we get older. And eventually facing the loss of our own lives, our own selves as we know them. 

And so here I am grieving an elephant, drifting in grief.

 That can be hard to explain to others. But not to those who relate to animals and their non verbal, yet deep, way of connecting with us. Those who feel the spirit and companionship of our non human friends and fellow travelers on this earth. 

I now watch her elephant friend, Donna, who is left, and how lost she seems at times, how she is not herself. I cannot comfort her with words. I wonder, actually, if words ever really offer any comfort to any of us during times of deep loss. She, Donna, will do what are some of her normal activities, and then walk to the gate and wait to be taken back to the barn area where there are no guests. Where perhaps she can grieve in her own private way. And maybe hang out a bit with Osh, our male. Maybe they can bond a bit more around this loss. 

I feel pain for my loss, pain for the zookeepers’ loss. Those young people who worked with Lisa every day, took care of her, got to spend 8 hours or more every day with her. Who got to watch her struggle with her ailments yet see her still have spirit and spunk. Who got to give her lots of extra special treats the week before the euthansia was scheduled, knowing that this dreaded day was coming. Feeling the pre-loss. Watching her, loving her. Grieving when she would no longer be there. And now doing their best to take care of as well as to try and comfort Donna. 

Grief comes in waves for me, like the ocean. I never know when the next one will come. But I know that it will. And I let others around me know that I may break into tears randomly. It’s ok. It’s a testament to the depth of the love and loss felt. The size of this hole inside my heart. Tears are necessary for me. And I let them come as they will. I find myself telling others not to fear my tears or try and fix my sadness, that it’s ok. Some things cannot, and should not, be fixed. They are part of being human. They are actually a gift. Gifts are not always about pleasure. 

I have been feeling lost. Adrift as all these feelings wash over me. Questions stir inside me about life, death, aging…especially as I now soon approach my own 70th birthday. As I see my own functioning change, see my own declines. I am grateful to be relatively healthy, but also see the changes that happen over the years. Knowing, that if I am lucky enough to be able to live a while longer, that more changes will be coming. Age related changes. Until they stop coming because it will be my time to go. 

I love to write. I love to paint. It’s been a challenge to do either of these lately. So here I am writing to simply give the feelings some form, some outlet. Writing not as organized as I might like, not as eloquently as I might like. But write I must. 

 I have also slowly begun a painting of Lisa, to somehow allow myself to paint some of my grief onto the canvas. My tears will be part of this painting. My sadness will be reflected in Lisa’s eyes. Grief will form its own colors on the palette and portrait. It hurts to paint her portrait. I think it might hurt more not to. 

This aging process is quite the journey. The longer we live, the more losses we get to feel and see around us. Friends and family leave us. Animals that we love leave us. Winters come and leaves die and fall from the trees. 

One challenge is how to keep living as fully as we can. How do we contain this reality of mortality within us and keep going? How do we find a place to hold our grief and also keep other space open for more life and love? 

For me, I think that it’s important to give full expression to my grief. To allow the feelings of drifting and feeling lost to be inside me and simply be with them. And to also know that time will lessen the intensity after a while. And to know that, if I am blessed enough to keep living for a while, that I am still here to keep appreciating each precious moment that I may still have left. Each breath is a gift. Each day is a gift. Each experience is a gift. My life is a gift. One that will end. And that makes it even more precious. 

Lisa, a beloved elephant at our local zoo, was euthanized yesterday

It is with a heavy heart, the announcement from our zoo read, that Lisa elephant was humanely euthanized yesterday. 

She was getting older, had several ailments, and was declining in health.

How is it that even though I knew that this was coming, the shock still comes? How does one contain grief that is the size of an elephant?

I have volunteered at our local zoo for almost 10 years now. I am on the Behavior Observation Team for the elephants. I get the privilege of watching these wonderful animals for two hour shifts and recording their behavior. We use the data to keep learning about them as well as to make sure that they are ok and to try and give them the best life possible. 

I have come to know and love these majestic creatures. When I first started volunteering there, we had 4 elephants. Three females and one male. Three years ago we suddenly lost one of our females. A shock, a wave of grief, and so much sadness. I grieve her still. 

And yesterday, Lisa left us. 

The day before, the zookeepers and volunteers and others who loved her spent extra time being near her, feeding her all of her favorite treats. Loving her as much as possible.

 I am so grateful to have been invited and to have been among those who got to spend that extra time with her that day. I hadn’t realized, until I was there, how important it was to be with others during the shared grief and pain. We held each other, crying together. It is a pain that, although each of us bears alone, we also share with each other in deep understanding. Together in our grief, as well as witnessing and honoring each other’s solitary pain.

Standing in front of Lisa, I found myself trying to soak up her very presence, to memorize even more each detail of her being. Each breath of her spirit. She was already in my heart, as all the elephants have been and are. I wanted to take her in even more deeply if I could, to keep her spirit alive within my being. To keep her inside of me when she was gone. 

She was 46. She had been with us since she was 2. We all became home to each other. 

 Elephants live longer in the wild than they do in captivity. They can live up to 60 or longer in the wild. 

There is a movement going on these days to have elephants (that need to be rescued and that can no longer live in the wild) be taken to live in sanctuaries and not in zoos. I agree with this. To go where they will have more room and space to be who they are. To be able to walk as much as they need. To be among their herds. To live the best life possible.

Our zoo does the best that they can to provide all of our animals with a good life. They have more space for most of the animals than most zoos are able to provide. They are involved in education and conservation. They are connected with an elephant sanctuary in Africa that they raise funds for. I am glad for all of this, and also realize that it is still a zoo. Not a perfect environment for an elephant. 

These elephants are cared for with much love. Lisa had received many different treatments for her various ailments, including an innovative stem cell treatment in hopes that it could help her. But, it was not enough to stop the decline. Not enough to stop the pain of her body getting more and more tired.

 It was determined it was finally time. What an awful decision to have to make. 

I still struggle with the idea of euthanasia. I understand that we don’t want animals to suffer, and yet, it is so very hard to come to that final decision. To finally say it is time. I saw the struggles that the staff went through, the tears.

I love Lisa. I miss her so very much. I don’t know where to contain my deep grief. It gets caught in my chest, my throat, my gut. Tears come randomly and whenever and wherever they like. I let them flow. I want to honor how much she meant to me. I want to allow the grief its space to be. 

It makes me think of all the losses, grieving, and mortality of us all.

I approach my 70th birthday soon. I think about changes that happen in our bodies as we age. Treatments for what we can help. Acceptance for what we cannot. Realizing that I also will have my date to pass on. To leave this body that has been loaned to me. 

One of the gifts and curses of this aging journey is this awareness of our own mortality. It become more real with each passing year. With each new ache or stiff joint. With each new sign of aging that can be seen in the mirror. That can be felt in our bodies. 

I cry for Lisa. I hope that she can meet her friends and family and herd beyond. I am not sure what I believe anymore, but if there is something after, I wish her joy in the reunion. 

I cry for all the losses that I have had of pets, of family, of friends. The losses come faster and faster these days. The ever increasing companionship of grief that comes with aging.

I sometimes cry with the thought of my own eventual death. The thought of leaving this life that becomes more precious each day. To leave this beautiful earth and all that it contains. To no longer be part of this life that I come to appreciate more each year. Especially knowing that there are far fewer years ahead of me now than there are behind me. 

And so we go on, those of us who are still here. 

We grieve, we hurt, we cry. We miss those who have left us. We carry them inside of us. 

These elephants have taught me many lessons over the years. Lessons about being in the moment. Lessons about being who and what you are. And now, one final lesson comes from Lisa. How to live until we die. 

Maybe we can remind ourselves to keep living as much as we can until it is our time. Lisa did not know when her last day would be. She kept living and enjoying all the treats that she could until the last moment. Maybe we can learn to do the same. 

Thank you, Lisa, for having allowed me to be in your life. To be in your presence. For gracing me with your spirited essence.For teaching me about not being shy to let it be known how you felt. 

You would throw sticks toward someone who, for some reason, may have been irritating you. You drenched one of the zookeepers years ago with a trunkful of water when you were displeased with his blowing bubbles at an event that was being held. Such laughter and giggles all around from everyone who saw this, including the very drenched keeper himself. 

I want to learn that more, setting limits and boundaries where needed. Expressing displeasure and irritation when needed. Symbolically hosing someone down when needed! Being myself. Thank you again, Lisa, for showing me this. 

And thank you, life. For allowing me to experience you. For each moment. I will try not to waste any of them. To remember and to honor Lisa. To honor myself.