Buckle up, buttercup. You’re in for quite a ride!

I have entered Elderland. They gave me the ticket at birth, told me to step right up to the entrance of this amusement park called life. 

First, a brief time in Youthland.

As I entered, I stared in wonder at all the lights and music and people. Everyone looked like they were having fun. It made my head spin. I got on rides, screamed in delight, and ran to get right back in line for my favorites. 

I loved the carousel rides as a child. I would pick a horse and pretend that I and my horse would gallop away to adventures everywhere. 

Then I got a bit older and roller coaster rides became one of my favorites. Scary, exciting, and thrilling to ride again and again. 

Entering Elderland.

Older now, I walk through this park a bit more slowly, paying more attention to the games, the shows, the attractions, the exhibits, the crowds. I realize how this park really is a metaphor for life, full of all kinds of experiences and surprises for everyone.

I have crossed the threshold to the part of the park called Elderland. 

The rides are slower. They still have a carousel, but with more seats for those that can’t quite get up on a horse. The music still plays, although less frenetic. It’s softer now, with melancholic tones at times. 

My ticket has the time stamped on it for when I must exit the park. I don’t know when that will be until it is time for my number to come up. Until then, I enjoy the sights and sounds around me, cherishing each moment more, now that I am aware I am in the last section. 

Elderland has different features and exhibits than I remember seeing before in Youthland. There are attractions that younger guests may not have the patience to go and see, exhibits that require more attention and deliberate focus. This, I believe, is one of the strengths of aging, being able to slow down and look more intentionally, seeing things that we may have missed before. 

So many rides and exhibits!

There is an exhibit hall with all the quilts, home-made jams and artwork done by various members of the community. It’s really peoples’ hearts that are on display. I notice the beauty, time, and love that it has taken to create these pieces. I appreciate them more now as an elder. I see the uniqueness and intricacies of each person’s expression and the courage it takes to publicly display this. 

The Arthur-ritis ride, where we get to experience the various aches and pains that come with aging. We get to keep souvenirs from this ride. The aches and pains come with us. And now more than ever, I realize how important it is to keep a sense of humor. We must keep laughing where and when we can.

The Name that medicine exhibit. We get to guess which medicine each pill is. We get souvenirs here as well, with pill packets to help us remember which pill to take on which day and time.

The Sensuality ride. This ride is slower than the version found in Youthland, and much less flashy. Younger folks would laugh if they saw us on this ride, but since they don’t look at Elderland very much, we are not seen. But we still do ride it. Some of us in pairs, many of us solo. The souvenirs of this ride are often memories that bring a certain kind of smile. 

The Things that you worried about exhibit. It’s a bittersweet exhibit. We laugh at the silly things we worried about and spent so much time on. We are also sad about that and how much time we wasted on these things that don’t really matter in the long run.

The “fun house” called Aging. We step in and it exaggerates our size, changes our skin, making it droopy and wrinkled. It changes the proportions of our bodies, shortening and widening them. It’s a different fun house than the one in Youthland. This one sticks with us. Predicts the future. It’s not one that we can walk out of looking like our original selves. The distortions become our new reality. 

The Scary Monster ride. In the Elderland version of this ride, we get to see what is behind the monsters, which is mostly reflections of parts of ourselves that we have been afraid to claim and to see. The only way to get off this ride is to look the monsters in the face and see them for what they really are. Reflections of our own fears and insecurities. 

The Find the Restroom maze. Fun for a while, until it is not. Elders know what I mean here. 

The Self-judgment ride. This is where we get to see harsh judges we have heard inside of our own heads all our lives. We begin to realize that the criteria that we used to judge ourselves with have been impossible and destined to fail. Once we look at them head-on, these judges crumble. We can finally begin to see ourselves more clearly. 

The Land of Regrets exhibit, where we get to face things that we have felt guilty about and have regrets about. We must be extra careful in this exhibit, as it can become easy to get stuck here. It can be like quicksand unless we can let go of enough of our regrets. We must reach for the tokens of self-forgiveness as we walk through. The trick is that to be able to grab these tokens, we must really believe that we deserve them. This is easier said than done.

The Reality of Mortality exhibit. We get to meet those people in our lives that have passed away. We realize that they are letting us know that we will be joining them in the not-too-distant future. Once we enter this portion, there is no going back. We have approached the beginning of the end. 

A Surprise!

What we have not been aware of is all of the love tokens that we have collected along the way. The light from them glows from within us. We can see them now, with their golden glowing light. They calm us, and give us a sense of peace. This, we now begin to realize, is what this ride and journey have been about all along. Love. Love given and love received. 

Love has been the purpose, but we had to learn that on our own. We had to go through all the lessons that came with that. Those tokens of love stay with us and with all of those that have loved and been loved by us. This, we realize, is our version of immortality. 

This may also be where we find our deepest regret …that we didn’t take the chance to collect many more of these lovely tokens. 

But wait…

Wait, though, we are still alive. We still have time! Let’s go do this while we still can. 

When it’s time, I’ll see you there. Hopefully my light will be bright enough so that you can find me. 

Here, take one of my tokens to help guide you.

Kindness turned my day around.

I am convinced that kindness is the most under-rated superpower of them all. (Do you remember Mr. Rogers on TV? He knew the power of kindness, and his kindness touched whomever watched him. He is one of my super-heroes.)

A Bit of Background

I have been isolated for a few weeks, not feeling my best. I had a bout of RSV, (Respiratory Syncytial Virus) a respiratory viral infection. I am feeling better, and slowly re-entering life.

I volunteer at our local zoo and thought that going back for at least part of a shift this past Saturday would be a good way to start getting into my regular routine. I reassured myself that I could always come home early if I felt like I couldn’t quite last a whole shift.

The Adventure Begins.

I started driving to the zoo, and while on the freeway, noticed that the windshield wipers were moving much more slowly than usual. That’s odd, I thought. Then the battery indicator light came on. Uh-oh, I thought. That’s not good. Since I was close to the zoo, I thought I would drive there and if needed, I could call AAA.

Getting to the zoo and parking, I thought I would first spend some time on my regular shift, so I spent an hour with our wonderful male elephant. That made me feel better. Fortified, I walked back down the to my car and called AAA (my car now would not start), thinking that even if it took them a bit of time to get there, it was early enough in the day that I wouldn’t risk being at the zoo at closing time and having to figure out what to do with my car.

AAA showed up an hour later. The verdict? My car needed to be towed to my mechanic, Ok, I thought. I can do this. The tow truck will come and we will head to the shop and deal with this.

Waiting in a dead car.

And there I sat. One hour. Two hours. Coming up on three hours.

I was tired, a bit chilled from the rainy weather. And beginning to get a bit upset. Up to that point, I had been calm, grateful that things happened as they did and that I was safe.

But after a while, my patience wore a bit thin. I wanted to get my car to the shop, leave it there, and get home where I could just relax and take care of myself. And breathe in relief.

The kindness begins.

I called AAA again, and this time was a bit more frustrated although being careful not to attack the person on the phone. They were only trying to help, after all. This kind woman kept me on the line until she could get me an update on when I could expect someone.

She finally got back to me and said that I was next on the list, that it might be up to an hour before they got to me. I thanked her for being attentive, persistent, and for being a kind human being on the other end of the line.

I got off the phone, and just sat there for a minute. I think that all of the feelings and frustration from the whole ordeal, plus still not feeling completely recovered and my usual healthy self, finally got to me. I felt some tears come, and now, at this stage of my life, I know that letting the tears simply come and flow is the best thing to do to help relieve some of the feelings and pressure.

Sometimes, when no one else may be around to comfort us, we need to learn to do that for ourselves. To allow whatever feelings to come up, and we can tell ourselves that it’s ok. That we are ok.

My hero arrives!

15 minutes later the tow truck driver called me. He had a kind voice and a gentle manner, and told me that he was about 10 minutes away.

Once he arrived, we talked as he went about the business of getting my car onto the truck. I found out that he was 70, as am I. That he had done all kinds of work before this, that his eldest son was on the local police force, that he was grateful to be alive and still working, that he enjoyed life. He also talked about having been in the hospital for 33 days with COVID when it first began. And he was engaged at 70, which I found delightful. Love and hope do not die because we get older.

We chatted, we laughed. Ready to now head to the mechanic, he told me more stories about his life. At 70, we have many stories that we can tell, to anyone who might want to listen. These stories can be such gems that can teach so much.

We got to the shop, my car was taken off the truck. My tow truck hero waved goodbye and was on his way. A 70-year-old hero has a special quality, I think. He brought the experiences of his life to that moment and that helped to reassure me. All the frustration of earlier that day had dissipated, as the day turned into a lovely day with unexpected gifts.

I continue to marvel at moments like this. At the power of kindness and gentle compassion. The gift of stopping our busy pace to really hear someone and be there with them for a moment in time. Moments of walking beside each other along some of the small bumps in the road. Moments that bestow gifts on both the receiver and the giver.

This is one gift of being an elder, I think. We learn what really makes a difference. And we can put that into action. A valuable lesson and pearl of wisdom that we can pass along, teach, and model. For them and for ourselves.

Kindness comes through again. As elders, we know that more than ever. Just like Mr. Rogers knew it.

Testing positive for RSV and navigating self-care when feeling miserable.

You have RSV, the doctor’s message read. I had just been tested for COVID, Flu A and B, and RSV. Negative for COVID and Flu. Positive for RSV.

RSV is a common respiratory virus that can become more serious in infants and older adults. 

I have no idea where I may have gotten it. It’s common and prevalent, from what I have read. I had written to my doctor’s office a few weeks ago asking about the RSV vaccine, which was not widely available at that time. I did not fit enough criteria of the higher risk groups that they were recommending it for at that time. 

Then, one morning, I developed a severe cough. Deep down in my chest with significant pain with each cough. Listening to the sound of my loud wheezing, I knew that this was something different, although I wasn’t sure what. 

To be honest, it’s been a bit rough. I am in no way comparing what I am experiencing with those with more serious illnesses, but I also don’t want to discount how different illnesses can now feel as we are further along this aging path. 

I have isolated myself (we have all become well practiced with that, yes?). I don’t want to spread this to anyone else. And luckily, I don’t mind solitude. 

But being sick is a different kind of solitude. I wrote a bit about this in a previous post referring to the humbling vulnerability of times like this. I didn’t know what I had at that time. Now I have a name for it. That helps, somehow, to name things. To know exactly what you are dealing with. 

I had a fever, wheezing, severe cough, and fatigue. The kind of fatigue where you don’t feel like doing anything. Not one thing. Except sit and maybe watch some mindless tv and nap during the day since sleeping at night is not possible due to coughing. 

I am grateful for the relative health that I have been able to enjoy thus far in my life, except for a blip or two. I am grateful to be working my way through this RSV toward recovery, even though the cough feels relentless at times. And I am once again reminded of the fragility of life and the need to appreciate each moment, as things can change in the blink of an eye. 

I have cancelled all appointments, of course. I have stopped all activities that I enjoy. Volunteering at the zoo. Walking in the park. Even getting my hair cut. Meeting with friends. 

I have ordered what I need online. Thank goodness we can do that so easily these days. 

 I feel like my life has been on pause. I have been on pause. I haven’t even had the energy to write much or to paint at all. I haven’t been able to exercise, given that just talking makes my cough act up.

Everything has been on pause. Stopped. It’s as if I stepped off the carousel of life for a bit and am watching it go by, spinning round and round with its passengers, minus me for a moment.

I watch life go by without me. I watch my neighbors go about their lives. Decorating for Christmas, going on vacation, spending time with their families. And I am not part of it. I don’t feel part of anything right now. It’s an odd sensation. 

It makes me think about how people must feel this who may be hospitalized, unable to participate in day-to-day activities of life. How your life can change in the blink of an eye. How much we take for granted as we go about our lives and worry about things that, when we look at the big picture, are not worth worrying about. 

I am feeling better than I did when this first began, but can also feel that this is not over yet and that more healing needs to happen. And that I need to stay off the carousel a bit longer. To respect the time needed to heal. Something else that I cannot control. 

Aging brings more awareness of that for me as well. How little I really can control so much of what I have spent time worrying about. 

Maybe it’s good to stop spinning for a while. To stop and look around while sitting still. To see with different eyes. To see the world around me when I am not in motion.

Perhaps, as I continue to feel better, I can use this time to deepen my appreciation for the precious moments that I may still have left in my life. Appreciation for the health that I may be granted. For the time to enjoy this beautiful earth, walks in the redwoods, time with the elephants at the zoo, time with friends. 

Appreciation for the time and energy to even be able to go to the store and get things that I need, as well as spend some time with the clerks who greet me as we know each other, in a way that people who see each other in a neighborhood regularly, know each other. Recognize each other. Validate each other’s presence. Say hello to each other, which on some days, may be the only hello that I hear. 

Appreciation for the time to express some things that are inside me with writing, with painting. To hear what is within me and be able to encourage some of it to come out. To express who I am, who I feel like I was meant to be all along. Finally. 

Appreciation for this final phase of life and the gifts that it brings. Poignant at times and bittersweet. Yet the bitter somehow intensifies the sweetness. The brevity makes each moment more alive, more precious, more joyful. 

So I will sit, rest, look around, watch the carousel a bit longer. Grateful for the time to simply rest and be and tune into myself once again on an even deeper level. Sometimes being completely still is part of being alive. And there may be much to appreciate in that quiet space. In still being alive. 

Being sick is a different experience as an elder.

I remember when I was younger that I hardly paid attention to those times when I would wake up not feeling well. Maybe a cold, or the flu. No big deal. It will pass. I’ll be fine. 

It’s not the same these days. I am not the same.

I woke up several days ago with a deep cough that hurt my chest with each cough. No other symptoms, such as a runny nose or fever. Uh-oh, I thought. Could this be COVID?

Straight away I went to take a COVID test. Negative. I felt grateful.

A cold doesn’t seem to ever feel like it could just be a cold anymore these days. COVID has changed our world view.

 And aging changes it as well.

Hmmm, I thought. I have been hearing about this thing called RSV. That’s one vaccine that I have not received yet. 

I made a call to my doctor’s office. I talked with an advice nurse, who set me up for a phone appt with a doctor (my primary care doctor had no openings at the time). The doctor called, and I described my symptoms.

“Let’s get you a chest x-ray”, she said. “To rule out some things, like TB, nodules, tumors, etc. Especially since you have a history of asbestos exposure. And you’re 70.”

It’s scary when they name all the things that they are looking for, and how that seems to change and increase with aging. 

The x-ray came back negative. I was grateful.

“Let’s try an inhaler for a bit to see if that helps calm your lungs.” the doctor went on. “This one has a steroid in it, so make sure that you rinse out your mouth well after each use.” Yikes. Ok. 

My cough is still here, although my chest doesn’t hurt nearly as much with each cough. And the cough, I think, is becoming more productive, which seems to me to be a good thing. 

I am humbled by how different this experience is, the waking up not feeling well and having to address it differently than when I would give it time to pass before I called anyone. 

My body is more fragile now. I must pay attention to the fact that things can be more serious if you are an elder. And I need to call the doctor when I might have waited before. 

The things that they are looking for are different. Elders die more frequently from the flu. I had my flu shot, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. 

I become more acutely aware of the fact that I live alone and that if things need to be done, it’s up to me. Not to say that I don’t have a lovely neighbor, who I am grateful for, that does check in on me via email to see if I am ok. We watch each other’s houses to make sure that there are still signs of life. That never was needed before. We laugh about it, but it’s needed, since we both live alone. 

I have other lovely friends who check on me via text and email as well. I appreciate them all. I feel cared about. That touches me even more deeply when I am feeling more vulnerable. 

Aging brings a deeper awareness of the reality of mortality. We don’t know which bullet will get us, but there will come a time when we can’t dodge the one with our name on it.

I am grateful to be alive, grateful for the health that I have been blessed with so far. Grateful for each new day and each breath.

And I am so much more aware of needing to be more vigilant and pay closer attention to this precious body of mine and when it seems to be having trouble. I can no longer brush it off casually, thinking that all will be well soon enough. 

When we don’t feel well, and we live alone, that can really intensify the feelings of loneliness and disconnection. The need to rest and isolate, which, for the most part is not something that bothers me. I enjoy my solitude and living alone.

This has a different flavor to it when you’re sick. I feel more vulnerable. Not feeling as strong to handle everything. Some anxiety creeping in about possibilities of what may be going on. And an increasing awareness of the growing fragility that aging brings, if we are lucky enough to reach elderhood. 

Lessons to keep learning?

We need community and a support system. I, who have been fiercely independent, must begin to relinquish that rigid version of myself and allow the support and kindness of others. Admit that I need help sometimes, and that this may only increase with age.

We need to pay closer attention to our bodies and what they tell us. It no longer works to just ignore things and hope that they will go away. Maybe yes, maybe no.

Pay attention to each moment of your life, as there are fewer ahead of you than behind you.

Appreciate each phase of life and this aging journey and what you can still do. And humbly adapt to things that you may no longer be able to do, at least not with the same ease of youth.

Allow time for healing. Ironic, isn’t it? The awareness of less time left and yet the need to allow more time for things.

Treat yourself kindly and gently, as you would a dear friend. Gone are the days of pushing yourself and bulldozing through things. And that’s ok. Maybe even a good thing, this slowing down and noticing things more and giving them the time that they need, that you need.

Keep breathing through all the feelings that come up, the anxieties, the fears. It’s ok. You can feel them and keep breathing. Keep living. 

For me, letting myself do things that I find healing also helps. Like working with art. Like writing this article. Reaching out to all of you to make contact, and to feel a part of this community. It helps to know that others are on the path with us along the way. To feel a bit less alone for a few moments. You matter to me, and I am grateful to be part of this community and grateful for each and every one of you.

Even with myself.

I notice, when I stop to look at myself and things that I do now, having entered the land of elderhood, that I no longer dance. Not even when alone, which I used to do when the music moved me.

To be honest, I don’t listen to music much these days. I seem to prefer silence more often. But I also wonder if that has become a habit and that I may not tune into when my soul may need a bit of music or movement.

I used to love to dance. 

I took hula classes for several years, and loved it. Not the Hollywood shimmery glitzy hula, but the hula that is a sacred dance and prayer. A connection to the earth and the universe. A merging of bodies with the divine. A movement to the music of the sacred. 

What I also appreciated about hula is that one didn’t need a partner. We did group dances and performances, which were great fun. But hula was a dance that you did that spoke to you and to whomever the dance might have been dedicated to. To move your body in rhythms that synced with the dance of life. Your hands mimic nature, paying tribute to water, trees, goddesses of volcanoes, the goddesses within each of us. Maybe even the volcanoes within each of us.

I also used to love ballroom dance. My fiancé and I took ballroom dance lessons in preparation for our wedding. It was such fun. We stopped the lessons after we were married. Too bad, I now think. Maybe dancing that way would have helped us remember how to dance with each other in other ways. In the ways of growing intimacy and loving familiarity. With a steady partner. Our marriage lasted 12 years, with the last year being separated. I feel sad about that, but also realize that we did what we could at the time. He remarried a year after our divorce, now having danced with someone else for all these years. I wish him well.

I have had several relationships since my marriage. I appreciate them all. But dancing has never really been a part of any of those to any major degree. Maybe that was part of the problem.

I write, I paint, I sit in silence. I work on allowing life and all the feelings to move through me. 

I hike and walk in the sacred redwoods. I sit by the water. 

All these are done in silence, usually. And I appreciate them all. 

I try to move my body with exercise, belonging to a local gym that has become like a family to me. I appreciate that and the chance to move and work my body. And I notice that I am not one of those who listens to music while exercising. I enjoy the gym, (especially when I am done!) It is something that I do that is good for my body and good for me. 

But it is not dance. 

Dancing is, it seems to me, a way of celebrating our bodies and lives. A prayer and song sung with our bodies. An ode to joy and life and our wonderful bodies that allow us to experience this magical, albeit sometimes painful, life. 

I have a young friend whose wedding I was able to attend several years ago. Her father had difficulty moving, was in a wheelchair. And yet, he was determined to have that dance with his daughter at her wedding. And he did. With tears all around. Wobbly, needing support to stand, but moving in time to the music and celebrating this marriage of his lovely daughter. With dance. 

Have you seen someone in a wheelchair on the dance floor moving their chair in time to the music? The call to dance is deep within. It calls to us in whatever way that we can respond. 

Dancing exists for itself, for its own purpose. For its own expression. 

Dancing simply is.

When did I stop? I didn’t even really notice. It simply gradually faded away and out of my life. 

Perhaps it took other parts of me with it. The part that was called to move with joy just because. The part that listened to something that my body and soul may have needed, a special kind of movement and rhythm. The part that heard the music and answered. The part that didn’t need a logical reason to do something. The part that was moved by something that is not easily named. The part that could hear the calling of the sirens of the divine. The part that wants me to remember my body and honor it. The part that celebrates life in a physical way that does not need words. 

Maybe it’s time to reclaim those parts of me.

Perhaps the dance that I would be called to now may be slower, may have more movements that include sadness and bittersweetness in addition to the joy, but movements, nonetheless.

Maybe the dance could now help me express, in another way, my continuing participation in this precious gift of life. 

As I find myself coming home to different parts of me on this journey of aging, perhaps dance can be included in that. 

Maybe there are some things that I can try.

I can put some music on and try to see if there is dance left within me.

 I can take a class in some kind of dance that can help me remember. Help my body remember. Speak to that part of my soul. Call that part of me to come back. Welcome that piece of me that I have forgotten, neglected, let go of prematurely. 

 I can stop in the redwoods and hold my arms up to them, to their majesty, and allow my body to express what they stir in my heart and spirit. A gesture of dance, a sacred dance of recognition, relationship, and connection. 

 I can play some music and stand up, even simply sway in time to it. Allowing my body to hear and feel the music in its own unique way.

 I can even walk, when the spirit strikes me, with a spring in my step. A joy in movement. A lifeforce asserting itself.

As elders, sometimes we can be objects of laughter or even ridicule when we dance. Or we are seen with attitudes of condescension and called cute. If we dare to move our hips in sensual ways (we are still alive, after all), there can be smiles and mild laughter at this. We were younger when sensuality and sexuality were perhaps more validated. But it is within us still. We are still here and alive in these human bodies, these sensual containers for our spirits. 

Have we learned to shut down those parts of ourselves in response to this ridicule and condescension? Have we internalized those judgments and stopped this dance that lies within us still, perhaps buried but there, nonetheless. 

Have you watched some of the YouTube videos of young children called to dance and move to the music? I smile when I see them, and think of all the dance within them that is yet to be.

Can we do that for elders? Smile and see the dance that is still within them/us? All the dance that has been there? And what might still be there, needing to be expressed and enjoyed and celebrated? Life still being itself. Life still expressing itself. 

Can we do that for ourselves? Acknowledge the dance that is still a part of us? The movement, sensuality, grace, joy of life that are still so very much there? 

Will you join me on the dance floor? 

Come, take my hand. 

An entire conversation was held without a word spoken.

I saw someone on my walk in the redwoods yesterday. She is of my family, my tribe. I have never met her. And we did not speak one word.

I was going on a much-needed walk in one of my favorite sanctuaries, the cathedral of redwoods in a park that I love. I go there to sustain and nourish my soul, to connect with the trees and nature all around me. Although I live alone and have much opportunity for solitude, there is something very different and sacred in solitude among these majestic and ancient beings, these tall redwoods. They give me peace and comfort. They speak to me of the passage of time, of things that have come and have gone. Of my life doing the same. Of the importance of paying attention to this moment, right here and right now. Of peace and connectedness. Of belonging to this earth and its plants and creatures. 

The deeper into the forest that I walked, the more peaceful I felt. More connected. And more detached from things that really do not matter in the grand scheme of things.

I stopped for a few moments, as I do frequently, to look up and all around me. To take it all in. To breathe it all in. To listen to the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves. Or as I call it, the sound of God whispering. 

I heard music. Not something that I often hear on these walks, as all seem to know that silence is indicated in this sacred space.

This music was one of my favorites. It was close to the sound of a Native American flute, playing beautifully haunting and sacred notes out to the Universe. I looked around.

There was an elder woman, and she was playing what looked like a clarinet, but was different. Possibly an instrument of a different culture, I thought, that I was unfamiliar with. She faced the trees and played her music to them and to anyone around that it called to.

She was not within speaking distance. But she was within feeling distance, within heart distance. 

Her music called to me. I felt drawn in and simply stood there and listened. My spirit drank this in. A melody that quieted, calmed, and yet stirred things inside me that can sometimes go dormant when I get distracted and lost along my path of life. 

When she stopped playing for a bit, she looked my way and waved. I waved back to her.

And then, to let her know what her music meant to me, I touched my heart and smiled.

She immediately touched her own heart in response.

That was a deep conversation held between two strangers (no longer strangers) without one word needing to be spoken between us. We connected and let each other know that our hearts connected in those moments, that I thanked her for her gift, and that she acknowledged this in response. Heart to heart. 

I was moved to tears. I had been feeling so alone that morning and the day before, and this was such a gift to me. I did not need to speak to her at that moment. I did not need to diminish the intensity and purity of that moment in time, that gift of souls connecting for a moment, seeing and acknowledging each other.

I felt, and feel, such gratitude. Two elders expressing what words often cannot. Sharing the feelings that come up. Seeing how each of us received a gift from each other today. Being deeply together in that moment in time, that moment of eternity. 

As I continue this path of elderhood, I begin to realize more and more the importance of these special, seemingly random moments. These gifts that can go unnoticed if we do not take the time to stop, listen, and be present. To what is around us. To whom is around us. To whom may be on the same section of the path right then that we can share genuine connection with. To all the gifts that each day may bring. 

Life is not easy. And there are beautiful moments of grace along the way. 

I am grateful for those. They help me keep walking, especially when there may be a rough patch on the road. 

I remind myself to stop, pay attention, listen to what music may be around me if I only stop to hear it. Grace and miracles are in these moments. Gifts are in these moments. Life is in these moments. 

These words from Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese, touch my soul.

Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese, is stunningly beautiful. And one phrase keeps coming back to me. The soft animal of your body. 

How easy it is for me to forget the basic truth and existence of this part of me. This soft, breathing, living part of me. 

My own internalized ageism tries to tell me that I no longer have the needs that I used to have, that it is too late, that it is over. But that’s not true. I still have those parts of me. 

Including the part that longs for touch. 

I live alone. And I love my solitude, most of the time. 

 I have no pets at this time, still recovering from the loss of several pets that came too quickly and all within a very short period. 

The touch of animals can be soothing and help heal what we need. Some of us, perhaps especially elders living alone, don’t have the opportunity for much human touch in our day-to-day lives. Our animal bodies can respond to other animal bodies. Touching and acknowledging the life within, the lives intertwined. The lives connecting to each other through this magical, sacred sense of touch. 

Yes, I hug wherever and whenever possible, with those friends where this is accepted as part of who we are to each other. I feel the love and connection. 

It does not fill that deep need within for the longing of my soft animal body to be held, to be comforted with that holding. The need to have my cheek lightly stroked. To have a hand resting on my shoulder, letting me know that someone hears me, sees me, reaches out to me. 

I go to a hairdresser and get my head massaged as she washes it. This is lovely. 

I pet animals that I meet on the street, with their human’s permission. And they melt into my touch and I into their fur and wagging tails and bodies. This is lovely.

I wash my sheets and slip into them at the end of the day, feeling comforted. Even more so with flannel sheets in the winter months. Getting under the covers in my bed when nothing else seems to work, and wrapping myself tightly with the covers, feeling held. (I have tried weighted blankets. They can initially feel comforting, but for me don’t work in the long run.)

I sometimes get pedicures, although not regularly. It’s not something that has been a routine part of my life. And there is something about the overworked staff talking to each other that can feel like they don’t see me or feel my presence, but only do their tasks efficiently. Occasionally I have had a special worker who seems to pay attention in a different way, makes eye contact frequently, acknowledges our connection in those moments. That is a gift. 

I take a long hot shower and feel the warmth on my skin, a comfort before I slip into bed. 

I can feel sunlight on my skin, the breeze touching me. I am included in nature and touched by her. I am grateful.

I place my hands on the trees on my walks in the redwoods and feel a depth of connection that is hard to put into words. These sacred ancient beings standing steadfast and with so many stories that they could tell. We are together at that moment in time. 

I feel the sensuality of my skin and body come up at sometimes random times, triggered by things that I may not have been conscious of. It is a delightful feeling to sense this aliveness still within me, and bittersweet in that I often feel as if this piece of my life is over with. I don’t know that for sure, but as a 70-year-old woman, the odds suggest this could be true. 

I am grateful for all the touch I have and have had in my life. 

And my warm and soft animal body still hungers for more.

It is a hunger that I have tried at times to feed with food. That serves only to numb things for a while but does not really help the need beneath the want for very long. 

So, here I sit in my soft animal body. Acknowledging its wants, its needs, its hunger for touch. It’s ok, I tell it. I am here. I know how you feel. And I am here. I allow the feelings to simply be and flood through me. It is a form of touch, if you will, to hear and see and validate myself and whatever is going on inside me at the time. 

I think that perhaps we may have a need for hug parlors. Not massage parlors. I am very particular about massages and often don’t feel comfortable with the level of touch, pressure, and false intimacy that can be triggered there for me. I often don’t feel safe enough. I am glad for those that can make use of this. I am not one of those. 

But a hug parlor? Now I could possibly get into that. 

A place to go to simply be held for a while, allowing feelings to come. Tears would be ok and would not frighten anyone away. Tears are the feelings finally coming to the surface and being acknowledged. Tears are my soft animal body shivering with relief and comfort at a touch that feels safe and loving. 

We inhabit these soft animal bodies for a short period of time. How lovely they can be. To feel everything that they allow us to feel.

And as we age, we may not be able to fill the needs of these bodies as easily as we did in our youth. 

Perhaps our aging bodies can scare those who would rather not see what the future holds for them, if they are lucky enough to live long lives.

Perhaps there is a false idea that elders don’t have the same needs that we did when younger. The needs may have shifted form, but the need is still there. 

My body may be less firm, less strong, more wrinkled, saggy and less attractive in society’s eyes. But it is still my soft animal body. It still has warmth and softness and aliveness within. It still breathes and hungers and desires. It is still alive. I am still alive. 

So, I will go for a walk today in the trees, feel their bark, and listen to the wind whispering through their leaves. I will breathe in the connection.

I will go and get my hair cut this morning. And feel the kind hands on my head and scalp, and allow the comfort of that to seep within me.

I will wrap myself in a blanket and hold myself quietly, acknowledging my needs and feelings. Breathing compassion and understanding into myself.

And I will intentionally love and cherish this soft warm animal body that is mine for such a brief time. 

And he sang one of my favorite songs.

A 92-year-old docent at the zoo where I volunteer recently sang to me, and I was mesmerized. 

This gentleman, who I will refer to as John, has been volunteering at the local zoo for 30 years, mainly at the elephant exhibit (which is where I also have been volunteering for over 10 years.)

He told me he had been an actor in his career, and traces of that were still apparent in his speech. I could see the performer that he had been, and still was. 

I ask him about his life. He seems eager to talk. 

He lost his wife, as well as one of his four children, years ago. The deep grief is still there. I can see it in his eyes when he tells me about them. I can hear it in his voice. I reflect to him how painful those losses must have been for him. He responds with his voice, his eyes, and his very being. 

And there is so much more to him. 

I had heard from other volunteers, as he is famous among all the volunteers there, that John also sings. I asked him about his singing.

To my complete delight, he immediately broke into a beautiful version of one of my favorite songs ever. Although the sound of Louis Armstrong’s unique and wonderful voice will always be one of my timeless memories of this song, I now have another version to add to the list. John’s version. 

What a Wonderful World

(composed by Bob Thiele and George David Weiss) 

I see trees of green, red roses too, I see them bloom, for me and you..and I think to myself…What a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue, clouds of white, the bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself…What a wonderful world. 

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky, are also on the faces of people walking by. I see friends shaking hands, saying “How do you do?” They’re really saying “I love you.”

I hear babies cry. I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know. And I think to myself…What a wonderful world. Oh yeah, what a wonderful world. 

Can you imagine the feeling and emotions coming from a 92-year-old man singing this song? He sang from his heart, from his years of wisdom and years of living life in this world. It’s apparent that he still has the love of life inside of him and still sees the amazing beauty all around him. It’s not that he has not struggled, or felt pain, or deep loss. It’s not that he is not so befuddled by some of the things going on in our world today. We talk about all of that. He shakes his head and says he just cannot understand it all. 

And here he is at the zoo. Almost every day. 

He still is in awe of our elephants. He loves to tell people about them, shouting out “Would you like to know something about elephants?” as people come up to the exhibit. Most people respond with a resounding “Absolutely!” 

And, delighted, he begins his speech. A well practiced speech. Full of laughter and anecdotes. Like the true story about the little boy, who upon seeing our well endowed male elephant, shouted out “Look at the baby elephant’s trunk coming out of that elephant!” Laughter all around, the deepest from John himself. 

His song was such a heartfelt tribute to this wonderful world. He was singing his truth, wisdom, and wonder. Gifting me with one of the best concerts that I have been to. Gracing me with the love and joy of life that still radiates from him.

He talks openly about aging. He laughingly tells people that although he may not look 92 from the neck up (he doesn’t at all), if they were to see him from the neck down, that would be another story. More laughter, with him leading the chorus. 

He talks about his skin, and how must be careful as it tears so easily. He wears long sleeves all the time to protect his arms, is glad that he doesn’t ever really feel too hot with those long sleeves, even when the temperature rises.

 He compares his own now more fragile skin to the sensitive skin of the elephants that he so loves. 

Elephants don’t wear long sleeves, but they do throw mud and dirt on their skin to protect it. He relates to this. I relate as well, surprised these days upon noticing the occasional deep purple bruise on my arms and having no idea or memory of where I got that. My skin is thinner, more sensitive. 

As is my heart more sensitive to all that is around me. As I also sense is true for John’s heart. 

I have his song in my head and in my heart now, with his voice and face. And that magical moment that came out of nowhere. Because I asked about his singing. 

What might we learn from others, further ahead on the path than we might be now, if we only ask? What delightful gifts might we be given? What surprises might come our way if we only stop, ask, and listen?

And what gifts might we also have to share that we may not realize the preciousness of? What things might we discount about ourselves and our own life experiences that others might want to hear and cherish?

John volunteers at the zoo 6 days a week. He talks about not wanting to stay home and do nothing, when he could be at the zoo, sharing knowledge and community. He has a purpose. He is needed, and feels significant. He is seen and heard. And enjoyed. And he is even still able to drive himself there. 

I will always hear his song in my heart. And I will forever be inspired by him as I continue my own path of aging. 

I turned 70 this year, and that has felt significant to me. And here is this lovely man who is 22 years ahead of me on the path. The years that I am now aware of will go by in the blink of an eye. Time seems to pass so much more quickly these days. 

Let’s take time to listen to each other along the way. There is, amid all the pain and suffering in our world, much beauty still to enjoy and appreciate and stand in awe of. Including in each other. Let’s hear each other’s stories and enjoy each other’s heart-songs. 

What a wonderful world….. oh, yeah. 

Early morning solitude has its own ache….and gifts.

I’m up at 3am again. Two nights in a row now. 

Although I mostly sleep quite well, when I do wake up, it seems to be around 3am. There is something about that hour.

The world is silent. Palpable silence. Silence that I can feel deep inside my soul.

So many feelings. Loneliness, but not the kind of loneliness that being around another human can fill. It’s deeper than that.

Quietness that mimics, in my mind, the quiet that we will all come to when our time on earth is done.

I think about that more these days, now being an elder.

It is a quiet that I must honor. Noise cannot help. Music cannot help. I must hear the silence. I must hear what is inside of me.

It can be painful sometimes. 

I wander around my home, looking at all the familiar possessions and yet they all somehow feel strangely alien and apart from me. I have come to a time of life of beginning to let go of things, passing them along to others who may also find them precious for a while. 

I make myself a hot drink. Something about a hot cup of coffee or tea in my hands can be soothing. Sometimes. 

Not this time.

I feel an ache in my throat and tears behind my eyes. I feel a deep aloneness. So deep that it feels as if it has no bottom. An abyss.

I cannot focus on reading. I don’t want to distract myself with my phone, or tv, although there are times when I use those to ease the depth of some of the feelings. I believe in feeling all the feelings, that they are a gift of being human and being alive. But I must admit, there are times that the gift feels a bit too raw. A bit too overwhelming.

 I breathe.

I want comfort, but there is none that I can find that works at this moment. So into this abyss I allow myself to go, feeling my way. 

It’s like a cave. Caves are not my favorite. I can get a bit claustrophobic. But into it I go. 

I sometimes have a vision of a cave appear when I visualize an internal spiritual journey in my mind. A journey to my core. This cave always has a fire burning deep inside of it. There are always animals around that fire, sitting as if they have been waiting for me.

These feel like spirit animals. Animals that call to different parts of my soul. Animals that may have something to teach or tell me.

There is always a bear. This feels important, although I don’t always understand or have words for it. I even created a painting of a bear a while ago. Her eyes have depth to them. They see into me. They see my rawness and sit with it. And encourage me to do the same. Encourage me not to run. Remind me that even though I am now an elder, there is wildness still within me. 

The ache in my throat grows. The tears come closer to the surface. Tears of love lost. Tears of life past. Tears of deep aloneness. Tears of still inhabiting, for however much longer I may be blessed to have, this very human body that we are loaned for such a brief time. Tears that sting, and cleanse. 

Right now, they just hurt. 

I feel sad. Sad for the pain in my life that I have experienced. Sad for the separation from others that I sometimes feel. Sad for the awareness of mortality. Sad for all those that I have lost, that have died. Sad for what I didn’t do or say. Sad that I cannot reach out and touch them, talk with them, be once again by them, if only for a moment. 

I feel their presence around and within me. I welcome their spirits. I talk with them, in my heart. 

The tears flow more freely now. They need to come. I cannot contain them any longer. 

I am here. At 3am. Alive. Alone. 

I know that this too shall pass. So, let me be here in it while I can. 

The pain of our world is also something that I feel more deeply inside of me these days. The pain of the earth and the world. The suffering. Climate change and extinction of species. Wars and everything that they bring. Innocent lives lost before they can even begin. Leaders that focus on more on power than on humanity and caring for those that they lead.

I ache. Ache even to hear the chain saws that our entire neighborhood has been hearing for the past several weeks as the preparations for another winter are made and trees that may fall are cut down now to prevent possible injury and damage. I talk to the trees by my home, empathizing for the pain of losing some of their family. I know they feel it. If I feel it, how much more must their roots feel the pain of life cut down?

It seems that I feel everything more deeply as I continue on this path of aging. A bittersweet gift.

There is also the exquisite beauty in this life that cannot be stilled, even in the midst of all of this pain.

The sunrises. The sunsets. The forests, oceans, animals, life all around us in so many forms if we stop and look. Beauty that takes my breath away. Awe inspiring. 

Babies are being born and growing. New life to carry on. Hope for the future. 

Acts of kindness that I see every day. Love expressed simply because. 

Elders are still sharing their wisdom to whomever may listen. Still participating in this very precious life while they can. 

The earth is still splendid, even with all that we have done to her. 

I love this time of the morning, even in the struggles. I can hear the voice within. In all of its beauty and raw pain. In all its awareness of mortality, aging, and time passing more quickly as the years go by. Awareness of this exquisite gift of being alive. Feeling deep, sacred gratitude. 

 But sometimes it takes a bit of time. Sometimes I must sit in the dark and wait for the light. And listen to the quiet of 3am and all that it has to tell me. And breathe into it all, while I still can. 

Art imitates life. Value your own work. It’s a part of you.

The inner critic has been a strong presence all my life. It is well practiced and ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. It humbles me. But if I have learned anything from this journey of aging, it is resilience and patience. When triggered, I have learned to take a breath, step back, process what might have just happened. Learned to try and see my part and what may need to be adjusted. And learned to try and see what is just fine and needs to be not only left alone but valued and defended. Let me share what happened to bring on this latest epiphany. 

I have been enjoying art and painting since I retired over three years ago. I have no problem acknowledging that I am very much a beginner. I did not study art, have no degree in art and have only taken several adult evening classes to learn some basic techniques. 

I love it and I love what shows up on the canvas. It feels like it is something that comes through me, not from me. Like my writing feels at times as well.

I even joined an art association. This has pluses and minuses.

Pluses. I get to be around other artists, learn things, be able to be part of art exhibits and shows where I can be among those who display their work in public. That’s wonderful. Scary, but wonderful.

Minuses. Comparison to others. Daring to allow my art to be on the wall next to theirs. Fighting all the inner critics and voices that ask me who do I think that I am. Voices that tell me that I have no right to be there. 

I am 70 now, and I have decided that it is high time to seriously talk back to those voices and inner critics. Because time grows short. Because there is a limited time when I can paint and show those parts of myself to the world. It is me on the canvas or in the piece of art standing before me. It is like a child of mine.

 It is me in the written words on the page.

 It is me in this life, standing before you. It is me. 

And that is good enough. 

I recently submitted a three-dimensional piece to an art show, as part of the association that I belong to. It is the first time that I have tried this type of work. And I treated myself and even got this piece framed and am having a base built for it to give it a more stable foundation. The frame and foundation were not cheap. 

I have no idea how this art measures up. I only know that it is a very special piece for me. It feels like a signature piece. It feels unique. And I want to honor it. Even if only for myself. I have no illusions that I can compare to great artists, but I am also very aware of how much art is in the eye of the beholder. As is beauty, yes?

I submitted this piece to the gallery where it will be exhibited, if accepted. I still have several weeks to edit my submission in case I want to change anything, which relaxed me and gave me more permission to go ahead and begin the submission process. Part of the submission process is listing a price for each piece submitted. 

 Yesterday I received a text message from a board member of the art association who was part of reviewing all the art submitted. In their message, they asked me if I had really meant the price that I quoted for this piece. Without saying it directly, the implied question was that this must have been a mistake. To be fair, it was more than I have ever asked for any piece before. But this piece was also different than anything I had ever exhibited before. 

Oh, how the chorus within me loved that question in this text that I received. The voices in my head jumped right on board with their comments of See! I told you so. Who did you think that you were? You should be embarrassed and ashamed. Go back into hiding. Get out of the light. 

For most of my life, I have struggled with not feeling as good as, as skilled as, or good enough. I won’t go into the background of this right now, but it has been one of the major issues in my life.

And now I have reached elderhood. And I am sick and tired of giving in to these voices and messages. Of allowing others to have that much power over me. Of allowing others the right to declare what I am worth or what something that I created may be worth. 

Aging is a gift that brings responsibility with it. A responsibility to oneself to finally say ENOUGH. I am good enough. I have had enough. I deserve to be among others. I have a right to be here and to show who I am. I have a right to dare to value myself. Just because. 

And so, I wrote back and told this person that, given the cost of the frame and the base alone, that yes, this was the price that I had written. 

I hope to at some point be even stronger in my responses to questions like this and make no excuses for myself, but simply to state Yes, that is the price. Yes, I meant that. No, it was not an error. And maybe even add and how rude of you to ask me that. 

I am not there yet. I will work on that.

It makes me think about how much power I have given to others all my life. It is time to take it back. Before I no longer have the chance to do that anymore. Before I die. To dare to be seen, claim my value (if only to myself) and stand strong in that. 

Am I still struggling with this issue? Do I feel like withdrawing this piece of art or bringing the price way down? Yes, I do. 

Will I do that? 

I will think about what a fair price might be, and allow room for some flexibility. Allow that the price may need to be a bit lower and that I do not need to pass on the exorbitant cost of the framing process to the potential buyer. Will I reduce the price by as much as half? No, I will not. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t sell. It might not sell even if I significantly lower the price. The point of my art is not to sell it, although it’s a lovely gift when I do. 

It would cost me in other ways if I were to lower that price too much. In ways and costs that I am no longer willing to pay. So I will live with my discomfort and allow that price to be displayed as is, once I decide how much, if at all, I will reduce it. Will I regret daring to have a price that others may think is too high? Maybe. I don’t know. But I must try. 

How much do we all put parts of ourselves out there and not have them valued or seen or appreciated? How much do we allow others to dictate what value we put on ourselves? How much of our lives do we give away and not live fully? How much of ourselves do we not care about and treat preciously and with love out of fear of what others might think? What experts might think.

I am feeling the pain of all those years of berating and discounting myself. 

I am feeling the self-doubt. I am feeling the shame and fear.

I am feeling the anxiety and desire to run away from showing any part of myself. 

And I am still here. 

 I will show this piece and learn from this experience. 

Isn’t that the point? To show up and learn? To experience life? 

So, I encourage you all to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever your heart calls you to do. Just because. Just because you are alive, and it is in you. And you deserve to be seen and heard and valued. Especially by yourself. 

And that is priceless.