Sometimes you just have to feel the fear and let it wash over you

I wrote yesterday about keeping a sense of humor about my current situation of having had asbestos exposure in my home, writing about how it takes time for asbestos to get you, how something else may likely get me before then, given my age. All true.

The fear that this brings up is also true. Feelings come in waves. The wave this morning is one of fear. 

I love life, with all of its bittersweet moments and ups and downs. And, although I know that I will die, I’m not wanting to hurry this along at all. So when realities happen that our bodies face, realities that can cause illnesses and breakdown, (in addition to the aging process that is already going on, ) then my constant companion in this life of fear comes back into the foreground.

I say constant companion because I have carried anxiety for all of my life. I have pushed through it to carry on, and acknowledge that it is still there with me. I can point out where I learned this, but the fact is that it is here with me. And this morning it is truly sitting right beside me with its warnings, dreads, and whisperings of looming possible catastrophe.

So here we sit, my fear and I. I am afraid of this likely asbestos exposure that is now an issue, given that the furnace inspection person found a partially open duct that does indeed have asbestos. My house is older, built in 1955, when this was used in houses. Great for fireproofing. Not so great for human lungs.

I have no symptoms, but have been strongly encouraged by several friends to notify my primary care doctor about this recent situation, in order for her to suggest any tests that she may think are necessary. 

I emailed my doctor this morning. Funny how that makes this all more real, makes it harder to for me to deny and to push it into the background. It’s real, this whole asbestos thing. It has happened. I can’t deny it at the moment. I can’t push it out of my awareness at this moment. And I feel fear. How human. How vulnerable. How very real and present and in the moment. And how this moment is not one of my favorite ones.

Things happen in life. People get a diagnosis that changes everything in the blink of an eye. Accidents happen that change everything for someone and their family. People end up in the wrong place at the wrong time and life turns upside down. Shit happens. Life happens. 

Having worked in a county nursing home where I would work with patients as young as 18 who were now quadriplegic due to gunshots, I have seen human tragedy up close and personal. I have also seen the resiliency of the human spirit in the face of these unspeakable tragedies. I was, and still am, in awe of the courage and spirit that I got to witness. 

Since I retired from this intense, demanding and rewarding work several years ago, I have truly begun to find my Voice. Both in written word and in art. The Self that was there so long ago , the one that had to submerge due to work and life’s demands, has emerged again. I have been so very grateful and humbled by this. Such joy and beauty.

Today I feel the other side of life, of random things that occur, of life being itself and things happening. I feel deep fear. And awareness on a different level of how brief our time on earth really is. How quickly it can change and be taken away. How precious each moment is. How precious each breath is. I am particularly aware of the preciousness of breath at this moment. Inhaling and exhaling. Something that we can so easily take for granted. 

So I must, and do, acknowledge this fear. Accept that this is part of the whole messy process of life. Accept that things happen that we truly have no control over and that we carry on as best as we can. 

And sometimes we simply have to stop and feel the fear. Then breathe, and take the next step, when we can. Carrying on while we can and while we are alive. 

Yes, I’m scared. Humbled. And still alive, still here, still going to write, paint, and feel it all. Feel. It. All. And still live while I can, with gratitude.

Bullets of mortality coming toward us increase as we age, until the one with our name on it arrives

I laughingly tell my friends that we keep dodging bullets as we age until the one with our name on it comes for us.

That’s what if feels like to me. Whenever our time to go and whatever the way we go is (the bullet with our name on it), we have to accept that this is coming.

This is easier to think about when I haven’t heard a bullet whizzing by head, feeling too close for comfort.

I had a scare when I was turning 50, which is 19 years ago. (Where did those years go?) 

I experienced some tingling and numbness on my left side. Multiple MRI’s, a spinal tap, various other ongoing medical tests and we had a result. My neurologist, a lovely man who I will be ever grateful for, showed me the results of an MRI. There was a spot on my brain, a lesion. Of unknown origin. Was it a brain tumor? Something else?

 We would wait for 3 months to see if it grew and acted like a tumor. If it was a tumor, I was told it was in an inoperable area of the brain.

I don’t have to tell you that these were the three longest months of my life, as I waited for the next MRI. I turned 50 during those three months. Not the happiest birthday that I ever had. I was definitely present and awake, I can say that. 

Fast forward three months and the next MRI. The lesion had actually shrunk. Great news! 

The eventual working diagnosis was migraine, that could cause spots on an MRI. Who knew?

I was, and still am, so grateful. 

And here I am at 69. 

Today I had the annual heater inspection happen. Something that I have done annually since I replaced the old heater system in my house three years ago.

They found a duct that had become disconnected. A duct that they could not touch, as it had asbestos. (My house is old, built in 1955). I was surprised that this had not been seen or mentioned before by all the inspections prior to purchasing the house, and with prior heater inspections.

The next step? Having a senior tech come to my house tomorrow to give me a more accurate estimate of what the solution will cost. (The young tech that was here today didn’t have the experience or knowledge to be able to do this.) 

What will this involve? First off, the Hazmat team, in all their protective garb, will have to come to remove the asbestos from all the ducts, including those under my house. Then the heating company can replace all the ducts. All. The. Ducts. 

The expense is something that I dread hearing about. And even more, the thought of the asbestos and wondering how much of that I may have inhaled and taken in. I briefly looked up asbestos poisoning. Not pretty. 

So here I am this evening. Sobered by this. Thinking about the bullets that I have joked about before. Thinking about life and how something gets each of us in the end. This is a bullet that is one of the potential ones with my name on it. Maybe later, maybe sooner, maybe not at all. Maybe another one will appear sooner. 

Once again, aging brings one of its gifts, its messages. Our time here is limited. We will die. We will succumb to something eventually. We don’t know, for the most part, what it will be. Some of us get to know sooner, with a diagnosis and the potential prognosis that it brings. Some of us get more surprised. Some of us get warning shots, reminders.

So, the lesson? The gift? To take the best care of ourselves that we can, with what we can. To realize that we are mortal. To remember that each day is a gift, that nothing is guaranteed. That we are lucky to wake up each day, to live another day. To ask ourselves whether we are doing what we want with each precious day that we are blessed enough to have. To live each hour, each day as fully as we can. To be aware of impending mortality, yet not paralyzed by the fear of it.

We don’t know when our bullet will come. And we can live up until the moment that it arrives. 

It can be so hard to stop blaming and punishing yourself

I am struggling, and have been for some time now. 

I had two kitties for 17 years. And two weeks after I retired, which was over two years ago, one of them, Rocky, got sick. It was the time of having to wait outside the emergency vet hospital all night, without being able to be with your pet. The pandemic added to the pain and fear.

The vets kept telling me that Rocky was very sick. But, when I did finally get to see him the next morning, he didn’t look nearly as sick as I thought he might. I was tired from being up all night outside, still reacting to retirement, still in a state of shock about it all, about everything in my life feeling like it had turned upside down. 

I allowed them to convince me that we had to put him down. I will always regret that. And, 6 months later, my second kitty, Rusty, succumbed to the cancer that I believe grew out of his deep grief for the loss of his companion of 17 years. 

I felt like I lost everything. Those two kitties had been my heart, my connection to touch, to a love that only an animal can bring to your life. Not having been in a relationship for a while, they were my lifeline to a deep connection that was always there with me. Even in the wee hours of the morning, those hours that can bring a unique kind of aloneness to your soul. 

I blame myself still. I wish I had brought Rocky home and just watched him for a bit. Taken him to the regular vet for more help and another opinion. But, I did not. I gave in to the authority of these emergency vets who did not know Rocky. Did not know his resilience. Did not know. And I feel like I knew differently, but let myself be convinced otherwise.

I have been taught early on to give up my power to authority. My parents were immigrants and old school, and I felt no power or voice in the family. Being the only child, I learned to do what I perceived that I had to in order to survive. Lay low. Don’t rebel, as it will only make matters worse.

I learned that lesson all too well. I have spent much of my life trying to please others, which of course, never really works. 

I am working on reclaiming my voice, finally. But, not in time for Rocky. Not in time. 

Not in time for my mother. 

The oncologist put my mother on hospice when she refused treatment for her breast cancer. The doctor thought that she would have much more time than the 6 months that hospice usually allows (and they do make extensions as needed, I know). She died three months later. 

Hospice had been generous with the morphine, I believe. And I did not intercede enough to advocate to make sure that they weren’t over medicating her. Although she spoke English fairly well, it was not her first language. Did they really assess her pain correctly? She was in assisted living at that point, close to where I was working, so I could visit frequently. But, I now feel that I wasn’t as involved in conversations with hospice as I could have and should have been. The “coulda shoulda woulda” syndrome.

It frustrates me how I can easily give up my power, my agency, my voice. How compliant I have been and can still be in times of crisis when my defenses are low. 

And the pain of loss is made deeper still by the regrets and remorse. 

So this then is the challenge. How to forgive myself. How to allow the pain of the grief, but not heap on more with the added burden of regret and self recrimination. 

I am working on it. I write. I paint. I am finding my way back to my voice that was quieted so early on. I am showing up more. 

I cannot go back and change what happened. And I cannot go on whipping myself with the regret and self blame. So, I pray. And I sit quietly and breathe. And I cry, with what seem to be tears that have no end. 

The challenge is to know that I did the best that I could, given the resources that I had at the time, including internal resources that were very stretched. I did love, and I did not fight as much as I could have. And I need to forgive myself, or I will also then give up on myself and living my own best life. Letting go of all this is hard. Hanging onto it is beginning to feel even harder. 

We are imperfect human beings, struggling at times to do what we can. We make mistakes. We don’t always make the best choice. We fall short of our best. 

We need to forgive and keep living, move on. to have compassion for ourselves and our past selves. Because we are still alive, still here. And maybe, just maybe, we can learn. And by accepting our imperfections and faults and really look at the lessons they bring, maybe we can also learn to do better. 

(Not at my own expense. The poking fun at elders that is sometimes not so funny.)

I have been called too sensitive in my life.

These days, when someone tells me that I am sensitive, I say thank you.

Because being sensitive is a gift. A gift that helps me connect with others. Helps me understand their pain. Helps me be with them. Helps me empathize. 

It also makes me bristle at some of the ageism that I see around that is supposed to be funny. Ageism that makes fun of seniors, and that , in my opinion, does harm to our image. Externally and internally.

Yes, things about aging are funny. And a sense of humor is vital at this time of our lives. Laughter is often the best response. I laugh at myself and with my friends often. The memory issues, the joints that don’t work quite as well as they used to. The age related changes that come, that we must learn to cope with and deal with. It’s part of life and it can be funny at time. 

But not when it is at our expense. 

I see Medicare commercials that make me cringe. 

The older woman, “Martha”, who is called “cranky” and is portrayed as stubborn and unwilling to see the benefits of what the narrator is trying to show her about the Medicare advantage plans. She yells, pouts, crosses her arms over her chest, and is the caricature of a cranky old woman.

The couple where the wife is yelling at her husband, asking why he hasn’t called Medicare to get the newest part C plan. She goes on to tell him of all the benefits of this new plan, what it covers, why they need it. My question is this. If this woman is so knowledgable and informed, I have to wonder what makes her incapable of making a phone call herself? Ageism and sexism team up here.

The two older women who are calling Medicare together and the younger woman on the other end of the call laughing at their antics and arguments with each other during the call. They are subtly portrayed as cute. “Cute” can be deadly. It can make someone less than the other, inferior, not to be taken seriously. 

I may be told that I am being too sensitive. That I take things too seriously. However, when these portrayals, stereotypes and caricatures end up becoming the lens through which elders are often seen, there can be harm done here. 

There is invalidation of the whole person, the life experience, the whole fabric of their being. It can end up protraying them (us) as a shadow and comic version of who we were. Something to be laughed at, indulged (like a child), tolerated and condescended to. Not a whole living being with a lifetime of experience and wisdom to share. 

I think that we need to be aware of what we make fun of. 

There is more awareness of the importance of not doing this to various groups these days, which is great. But elders still seem to be considered fair game. 

There is a saying that we teach people how to treat us. 

So let’s have the conversation more often about what these jokes and ridiculing may result in. It may be at the expense of a group of us that are already feeling pushed aside, invisible, no longer valued as productive members of society. 

Sometimes there can be much hostility and passive aggressiveness in a joke, in teasing. There can be a fine line when that turns into ridiculing and devaluing, making someone less than. 

And, sadly, these images can be internalized so that we begin to see ourselves this way. 

Can’t I take a joke? Not so much anymore. I have taken far too many jokes in my life about various groups that I have belonged to. And I am tired of it. I have had enough.

We deserve better. And we deserve to think of ourselves in better ways as well. We are not caricatures. We are elders with much to offer. And we deserve to be seen, heard, and valued. 

Reflecions on life going by, memories cherished, tasting the moment

It’s Sunday morning and I sit in quiet solitude. Full of so many feelings. Yet empty in a way that feels deeper than the fullness, deeper than words. 

Remember when we used to claim our half birthdays? I remember proclaiming I am 10 and a half! Almost 11. Or I am almost 16. Or close to 18. Funny, isn’t it? We rush ages early on, only to realize later that age rushes us all too quickly.

So I turned 69 and a half the other day. A group of roommates and I used to celebrate our half birthdays during our college years. Another reason to celebrate, we thought. Feels a bit different these days. 

Now I am closer to age 70 than to 69. How quickly the years seem to go by, more and more so as I am blessed enough to be able to continue aging. 

So here I am, this Sunday morning. 

I am so very grateful for life, and to be able to see another day. This is not about lack of gratitude. 

 I am quieted and sobered by the brevity of it all. 

Memories of my past flood me more these days, seeming to come out of nowhere. Reminding me of parts of the life that I have behind me. The child, the adolescent, the young adult, the middle age woman. All parts that are still within me, although not visible to others. Yet very visible and visceral to me. 

Here I am, approaching the seventies. I can’t quite wrap my brain around this at times. Seventy used to seem so OLD. Not so much anymore. 

There is part of me that does think of this as a new phase of life. A phase that I seem to have reached so much more quickly than I thought that I would. 

There are things to explore here, more lessons to learn, more to embody, more to live. 

I am leaving the golden autumn of my years and entering the more cool and blue winter. There is beauty to behold in the blue ice and cooler colors, in leaving some of the vibrant autumn hues behind me to enter this new land. And realizing that those vivid autumn hues are also within me still, as I travel to this next destination. 

I feel wonder, some fear, some shock, and oh so many more things that I cannot quite assign words to yet. I will keep working on this. For myself, to name this experience and rich time of life. For any others who may be able to relate. There is much power in naming things, in owning them, in fully living them. 

I am struck by how often elders are seen as having the story of being old to share. Yes, this is there. And there are also stories within us from every other time of our lives. A novel. Elderhood is a chapter, perhaps several with its many stages. 

We all carry so many stories, to those who may want to hear, who may be willing to stop and take a few moments to listen. 

We have much to share. Much to tell. 

And we are learning still. 

The book is not quite done yet.

Cleaning out my bookcases and realizing that there is not time enough to read them all

I have been procrastinating on the whole decluttering project that looms before me, now that I am retired. I look around at things that I don’t need, have not used, can pass along to someone else who can use them. I do this gladly, for the most part.

Except for my books. I look at all the bookcases filled with all wonderful books. Books that I have accumulated over the many years. Books that I have read (and forgotten, but that will be for another article). Books that I intended to read. Books that bring back memories and scenes from my life. Books that have been companions to me through the years. 

There is a young man on Nextdoor who posted that he is willing to accept any and all books and will go through and repurpose them to where they can be used. It is a project from his heart. And I responded, feeling like this was the Universe helping to push me along a bit in the letting go process. 

I have 20 bags of books now sitting in my garage, waiting for his response as to when he can pick them up. 20 bags! And I still have books left on my bookcase. 20 bags is a pretty good start, I tell myself.

I realize, at this time of my life, that time feels much more limited. Much more of it behind me than ahead of me. Not time enough to read all these books, realistically. There are stories that I will not read. And I need to let go of those and pass them along to others who may read them and love them. 

Yes, I have a Kindle and also use that. But, and I think this may be also part of my age group, there is a special feeling that comes from holding a book in your hands, to turning each page anticipating what will come next. To feel the physicality of the book, the pages between my fingers. Not quite the same as a Kindle.

Which books to let go of. Which to try and read, to keep and plan to try and get to. And, realizing that I am a bit of a book addict, also acknowledging that I will still buy more books. So many books, so little time. So many stories. So many ideas. So many adventures into someone else’s world. 

I must choose. I must let go of some. And continue to make time to read those lovely books that I still have. 

I also realize how easy it is to become engrossed in technology, scroll through my phone, emails, texts. Less time reading. I need to work on that. Reading is such a quieting, meditative, soothing activity for me. 

As an only child, books became my friends, my way to voyage out into the world that my loving, albeit overprotective parents, limited me from. Books opened up the world for me. Told me stories. Made me think, feel, and become part of another story, forgetting my own for a bit. 

And so I become more intentional with my books. More intentional with my time, however long I may be graced enough to have left. More intentional with what I keep for a while and what it is time to let go of. More intentional with each moment of my life. 

I have stories to read. I have stories to write. I have a story to keep living, while I am still here. 

Hanging by a thread — my spider friend and I

(This photo isn’t of my new friend, Penelope, but it looks just like her.)

I have a new friend, a spider, that I have named Penelope. I’m not even sure whether it’s a she or not, but she is Penelope to me.

I first noticed her a while back, and admired her intricate work with her beautiful web. She decided to build her web right outside my sliding glass door, and I now have a front row seat to her life. She mostly comes out in the evening, except for a few brief visits to her web during the day.

I have mindlessly destroyed spiders in my past. Without a thought.

These days, since retiring, I have more time to actually observe all the wondrous life forms around me. Birds taking a bath in the back yard where I leave water not only in the small birdbath but also in the bottom of potted plants. Different birds seem to have different preferences for where they take their baths. I am happy to provide a choice.

And now there is a spider here with me hanging out and living her life. She is quite the hunter, waiting patiently for any bug that may be flying by that gets caught in her web. A web that is silky and seems so fragile, yet can easily withstand strong winds. 

I talk to Penelope during the day. Needless to say, the gardener that comes by thinks that I may have lost it when I told him to be careful to not touch Penelope and her web. 

I find such fascination watching her and allowing her to simply be where she has decided to build her home. And I learn about patience, vigilance, persistence. 

I volunteer at the local zoo observing the elephants. They have taught me much. And I now find that I have come to observe so many other creatures, something that I did not have time to do when working full time. Bugs were nuisances and pests back then. Now I see them as fellow beings simply trying to live their lives.

I watch Penelope in her daily life. I think about how each of us is trying to live our own life, have made our own home (web), are doing our best. Mostly.

I learn from all these creatures. I learn that it is enough to simply be who we are. Live the life that we can. Do our best. 

I learn patience (or at least I try to learn that). 

I learn that we will do what we need to survive. I feel for the bugs that get caught. But Penelope must live. She must eat. Circle of life. Fierceness of nature. Predators and prey. 

I learned about that fierceness as well from observing the webcam that our local university has of the peregrine falcoms that nest there on the university campanile. They mostly eat other birds. They must live, and must feed their young.

 I have learned that there is grief and loss everywhere in nature. One of the young falcons that I observed was attacked and killed by another falcon. I grieved, having watched this young bird grow up from soon after she hatched to her first day of flight. 

I have learned that there is beauty in each moment, that sometimes we get caught by surprise by these random moments of beauty and grace, if only we pay attention. 

I have learned humility, watching the strength and bonds that other creatures form. We are all connected. We are all fellow beings on this earth. We all have our own life spans. And we are all important in the bigger scheme of things. The ecosystem. 

I have also come to appreciate the honeybees and make sure to help them out if they get into trouble when trying to drink water from the various birdbaths. I provide twigs for them to climb on so that they can get back to safety. I have been quite afraid of bees in my past, but find myself among them when trying to help one and finding that I feel calm when they buzz around me. I know that they are trying to protect their water source and fending off any possible intruders. 

I watch the ballet of the birds taking their baths. Splashing, moving around to get a full bath, then the fluff dry cycle that comes after. 

Penelope is often hanging by a thread. I feel that way as well at times. 

It’s ok. We all are. The golden silky thread of life, more resilient at times than we think. But also knowing that there is a time for the end of the web, the end of a life, the end of that cycle. Until the next one forms. 

I watch my neighbor’s baby grow. I see my other neighbors ready to welcome their second child any day now. The next cycle in the making, as mine comes to an end, whenever that may be. 

I am going to be 70 next year, so the time and passage of life become more real with each precious moment. And I appreciate them all. Each fragile, yet powerful, strand that makes up my particular web. Each breath of wind that comes by. Each life that shares the earth with me. Human and non human. I am filled with gratitude and awe. 

I am reminded of one of my favorite quotes of Ram Dass. We are all just walking each other home. 

I have lived alone for years now. I was married once, decades ago, for 12 years. And I lived with another man for several years. We split up over 5 years ago. I have been on my own for most of my life.

This is where I find comfort, in sacred solitude. Especially in my own home and private sanctuary. 

Being an only child, I learned how to best comfort myself while alone. Being the focus of my parents with no siblings to distract them, I learned that the only time that I felt free to truly be myself was when I was completely alone. No one else to please. No one else to worry about in my own private space. No one there to immediately judge me or criticize me or find fault with anything that I was doing. No one else to tune into to make sure that I was safe. 

And now I enter “elderhood”. I will be 70 in the coming year. And living alone has some new added dimensions. 

What if something happens to me and there is no one around to ask for help? Something to think about in terms of where I live as I continue this aging journey.

Living alone can be bittersweet. It can bring both comfort and also at times a sense of loneliness. That’s different from the feeling of being alone that I am so familiar and comfortable with. Loneliness craves. Aloneness simply is. 

There are things that I sometimes miss with living alone. Someone to share a cup of coffee or tea with and chat with when I wake up and cannot sleep. Someone to ask how my day was. Someone to curl up next to sometimes when I need to feel human touch. Someone to help me feel a bit less alone in the world.

And yet, I find more (at least at this stage of my life) benefits to living alone than costs. 

I get to eat when and what I want. Yes, sometimes I do get tired of eating alone and spend less time preparing meals than if someone else were here with me. I am working on that. 

I get to sleep when I want.

 I get to keep my house as I see fit.

 I get to structure my moments, hours and days as I wish. 

For me, living alone also gives me the time and space to really hear myself.

 I have been a caregiver in my career as a social worker. I have learned to tune into others, perceive what they are feeling or may need. I am grateful to be able to do this. 

I also need a time and place when I can turn this off. When I can then tune into my own self and what I may be feeling or may need without the distraction of tuning into others around me and what may be going on with them. 

I write when I am alone. I can hear myself and express that to others who may be interested in some of the things that I have to say. I validate my own feelings and self by writing. 

I paint alone. I have no interest in the popular “paint nights” where people get together to paint and be part of a group. Painting is another exploration into my soul, as is my writing. I guard my time to do that alone. I get distracted by others and my own intrusive thoughts about what their thoughts and judgments of my paintings may be. 

I do my most intense thinking when alone. I allow my feelings to come up as they wish when I am alone, to tell me what they need me to hear and pay attention to. 

I am most myself when alone, and at this time in my life, I am wanting to really know myself, to get to know that deepest part of me that I have not paid enough attention to. The part of me that I learned to judge as not good enough. The part of me that I set aside with the busyness of life and all of its demands. The part of me that it’s now time to fully come home to. 

What I have also learned, especially since retirement, is that I must be intentional in creating my tribe and community. I live alone, and I also need others. So I must create that for myself. I create my own family, having none of my own at this time. The family at the neighborhood gym. The family of the art association that I have joined. The family of writers that is here in this community of writers, all of you. The family of friends and neighbors who acknowledge my existence and worth to them. All of these different families are precious to me. 

I live alone, by choice. And I am connected to others, as needed. For me, this works right now. Will it change in the future? Possibly. Aging brings changes and different needs. For now, I am grateful for the sacredness of solitude in my own quiet home. Where I can finally hear mySelf. 

My house , its various parts and appliances, and I are slowly declining together

 The washer repair guy came over yesterday to look at my old washer. His diagnosis made me stop and once again meditate on aging. This happens a lot these days. 

This washer has been here since I moved in, over twenty years ago. So, it has definitely had a life of service, which I very much appreciate. 

The repair guy cleaned out some of its pipes and then told me that the next time that something goes wrong, it would be time to call it a day for this washer and dryer set and purchase a new one. 

I immediately had feelings about this. Ok, so I have feelings about pretty much everything, especially as I continue on this aging journey. 

What was I feeling, I wondered?

I realize that I identify with aging things more and more these days. And now I even empathize with the washer in its aging process. I will need to replace it at some point. Maybe in a week, a month, a year. Who knows? And I feel sad. Sobered. And amused at my own feelings in some ways. A sense of humor is vital these days. 

Because I realize that I too am declining. At some point my time will be over. And that is hard to wrap my brain around for very long. 

It is important, I think, to carry that awareness of mortality inside of us. 

I think it helps me appreciate each moment more, to be present more with each breath of life still left. To be grateful to still be functioning and alive. 

So, today I did two loads of laundry. And the washer worked beautifully. Good for you, old girl, I said. You still have it in you. Was I talking to the washer or myself? Maybe both.

The dryer, however, seemed to be leaving things a bit damp…oh boy, here we go again. Truly it is a matter of time. As it is with me.

I can laugh at myself as I identify with my house (which is two years younger than my 69 years). And I can laugh at myself when I talk with the various appliances and things in need of repair. I understand, I say. I truly do. 

I may need to get servicing more myself as I go along, perhaps getting my pipes cleaned out and various things tuned up that can be tuned up. I need to keep using this body to keep it running. I need to get it checked a bit more frequently by the body mechanics and repair folks, also known as my doctors.

And at some point it will be the point of no return. For my washer and dryer. For me. 

So, until then, let me keep living and breathing and appreciate each moment of this amazing roller coaster ride of life. I am so very grateful for it all. And even more so when I realize the reality of mortality, the brevity of life. The preciousness of each moment. Each smile. Each laugh. Each tear. Each and every feeling that makes us human. 

Grief and mourning come in waves

I woke up with tears this morning. They come when they like. I have learned to simply be with them. And learn from them. And talk with them.

I just got back from a lovely week in Oregon. I traveled with a friend whose daughter lives up there. This sweet friend usually has full time grandmother duties when she visits Oregon. She loves her two grandsons, but also never really has had the time to see this beautiful state. This time she played tourist with me.

Lush green breathtaking views greeted us everywhere. Oregon gets rain, so waterfalls are abundant. Living in California, rain has become more and more of a precious and rare gift. 

So the voices in my head tell me that I should feel nothing but happy after a lovely time away. They criticize and judge me for my sadness. I talk with those voices as well, continually.

We feel what we feel. 

Yes, I had a lovely time. 

And I am sad this morning. 

Both are true. Both these feelings and experiences can and do co-exist. 

I am sad and mourning my youth. Traveling and noticing that I feel so much more invisible than I used to. Two older women on an adventure, but older women. Looked at differently, if looked at all. There can be advantages to this, and there is also a sense of loss. 

Traveling and feeling the sand in the hourglass moving ever more quickly. How many more trips might I have left in me? How many more adventures? Getting ready for a trip seems to take more energy these days. Negotiating a new place seems to bring a bit more anxiety. The self confidence of my youth seems to have decreased. 

I think about where I want to spend whatever time that I have left. Oregon has called to me for quite some time. Yet I wonder if I have the energy to move, with all that this involves, at my age and stage of life. To start over again somewhere new. 

This is such a bittersweet time of life. 

I appreciate the bitter as well as the sweet. It is all important. It is all part of the experience of life. It all adds richness and depth. 

I am grateful for it all. Even the tears. I couldn’t have tears if I wasn’t still so very much alive and still didn’t have the capacity to feel. What a gift that is, to feel. All of it, all part of this human journey that we are on.