Quiet solitude, Sunday morning blessings

It’s Sunday morning. I wake up and feel the gift of the day before me. Although I am retired and no longer following the schedule of my working days, there is still something special and sacred about a Sunday morning.

I have been doing chores and find myself grateful for the ability to still do those life routines. It is a gift that I do not want to take for granted. I can still change the linens (and look forward to the delight of slipping into freshly laundered sheets at the end of the day), do the rest of the laundry, try and get some of the tree sap off my old beloved car, tighten some screws on the wooden enclosure in my yard. Little things that seem so trivial. Little things that will help me feel better and add to my feeling of self-care. Little things that keep me engaged in life. Things that help me feel that I can still navigate my life with competence. Even if more slowly than before. That’s ok. 

I find, as I continue this aging part of my life, that it is not so much the big things that I used to think were the all-important markers of worth and value, but the everyday tasks and routines. The simple things. The gifts of living life in my own body (the body that I have shamed and criticized so much, yet this body that has served me so beautifully and faithfully), in my own mind (what gifts it brings me with thoughts and ideas and learning), in my own spirit and the indescribable gift of that spirit being me and yet so much more than me.

I connect with friends and neighbors and am delighted. I need those connections. To feel included, loved, seen, and heard. 

Yet, what has always been true for me, is that the connection that I need the most of all is the connection to myself, and to the Divine within and all around. The Divine in the earth, in its creatures, plants, and trees. The Divine of the birds’ songs in the morning. The Divine of the quiet moments before the world begins to wake up, the time I can more clearly hear that Whisper reminding me of who I am. I find that I don’t need to question where that Whisper comes from. I simply need to let it be, and appreciate its presence. I marvel in awe and wonder.

Being older has taught me to see value where I rushed by before, eager to get to the important things. My definition of what is important has changed. I am grateful to be able to see and feel that.

This week has been a bit more challenging for me. I have been sad, which is not an uncommon experience for me. It is one that I work to not judge negatively, but to welcome and ask what it has to tell me, teach me, point out to me.

 I appreciate the experience of melancholy. The joy becomes so much sweeter in comparison. The depth of my sadness seems to carve room inside me for the depth of that joy. 

I feel sad about recent losses, about losses that I know are coming. Loss is ever more part of life as we age. 

Awareness of the loss of our own life, as we know it, looms larger each year. 

I feel sad about adventures not taken, and use this as a reminder to take those that are still available to me. There is yet life to be lived, tasted, enjoyed and marveled at. 

 I feel sad about words not spoken, and hear the reminder within me to speak now where and when I can. I still have my voice, and it is time to use it more, and time to use it wisely. I delight in hearing it and feeling it rise within me. To choose which battles I may need to engage in and which to not accept the invitation for. The balance of that changes as well as I age.

 Letting go becomes more the theme music of my life. Letting go helps me appreciate what is still here, what I still can experience, enjoy, and be a part of. And letting go of what does not deserve my precious time. Precious time that grows short. Let me spend it wisely.

So, on this Sunday morning, as I continue the chores and tasks that feel so good to get done, I am also grateful for the other gifts that today will bring. 

I will spend some time with my neighbor next door for our monthly happy hour. After living next to each other for over 20 years, now finally able to truly get to know each other since we no longer have the crazy, exhausting work schedules that took all our energy and time. Better late than never. 

I will finish the chores that I have planned for today. How delightful that feels.

I will work on a piece of art that I want to finish. I am trying something completely different with this piece. I found a large piece of palm bark at the zoo where I volunteer. And this piece of bark called to me, its shape reminding me of the majestic elephants that I get to spend time with every week. I will share a photo of it when I complete it. It’s such a joy to let myself simply express ideas that I have and not worry about the result or whether I even know what I am doing. I can learn. And I can play. Isn’t that the point? 

I am happy to be writing this and sharing it with all of you. Yet another part of my spirit that comes out more these days, the writing, the part of me that never went away, even when I didn’t feel that I had the time. To connect more with that voice within me. To be able to share thoughts and feelings with you, to perhaps help someone else feel a little less alone for a moment on this journey that we are all on together. 

So, I will go through this day and breathe into each moment. I am here and alive and able to experience it. 

What sacred Sunday morning gifts. 

My spirit seems to have low and high tides in my ocean within.

Aging can bring such an awareness of things within us. Things that we may not have had the time to pay full enough attention to in the busyness of our youth and all that this included. Careers, families, life.

Having turned 70 this year, I am grateful to now have the time to be able to slow down, stop, and pay attention more deeply to the rich complex beings that we all are on this human journey.

I am aware of the moods that I can notice within. I’m not always aware of what may have triggered a particular emotional state. And that’s ok. I don’t need to always know. I just need to notice and allow and honor things that are beyond my control. As I continue to age, I see how much has always been beyond my control. It’s humbling. And reassuring, in a way. Reassuring that I really could not control it all, could not have changed the tides that have been part of my life, that are still there.

I wake up deeply sad some days. Immersed in that sadness and mostly unable to move. 

 I wake up deep in gratitude most days, thankful even for that sadness. 

That sadness is part of life, and I am still part of that life as well.

 Sadness can be about losses, grief. And those losses and grief are a testament to love and attachments that I may have had for a while. Nothing lasts forever. But we can have them for a while. And that’s a gift. 

Going with the tides means allowing the waves of attachments, loss, grief, and sadness to simply be. As if we had a choice. But, in our youth, we may have still clung to that illusion of control. 

I can walk in the redwoods and become completely taken over by awe and wonder. What stories and wisdom that these trees could tell us. What they have seen and experienced throughout their lives. And the wind rustling through their leaves that makes me feel as if I am hearing the voice of God whispering to me. It can make me cry. Tears of joy and being part of this story of life. Being part of this family of the earth and its creatures and plants. 

I can feel out of sorts and angry at times, and again not always sure what the trigger might have been. I try and listen to what I might need to pay attention to, what I need to hear from within. What my voice might need to express, even if only to myself. 

I can feel afraid and vulnerable. Especially as I continue aging. I see my body changing and slowly breaking down. I can feel the path before me growing so much shorter than the path behind me. Fear of the end. The waves of anxiety and fear are also part of this path.

I can feel completely alone and yet, at the same time, deeply connected to all around me. I feel both because I am both. I contain so many feelings and waves of emotion. The vast ocean within. 

I notice that there are also waves and tides in my relationships. Times that a friend may feel closer, times that there is more distance. Neither is right or wrong, good or bad. They are simply part of the flow, the waves, the high and low tides. Souls that can connect more at times, and need to recede at other times for their own growth and purpose. 

During low tides we can explore more, gather more, look to see more of what we may find as the water recedes.

During high tides we may need to step back a bit so as not to be overtaken by the waves. Allowing them to wash over and through us, and simply marvel at their power. 

In my youth, I tried to control these waves and tides. Trying to force my will and efforts through with whatever plan that I had formulated for a particular day. Pushing against the tide. 

That pushing never really worked.

Now I have the blessings of time and age to be able to relax more and check in on the water level and what I may need to do or not do. Honoring the timing of the ocean. Paying attention to the tides. Waiting, if need be, for things to recede and allow for more exploration and action later. Realizing that waiting and being still are an important part of this journey. They have their own gifts to give. 

I sit in wonder when watching the ocean, listening to the crashing waves, watching its majesty. And I also sit in awe at the ocean within, the tides that ebb and flow, the gift of being in this human body with its wonders and treasures. Some buried deep. Some closer to the shore that can be gathered and saved, even if only for a while. 

I have the earth and ocean within me. I have the vastness of the universe within me. And now, I can finally begin to hear it, feel it, and honor it. 

Loneliness brings its own unique gifts.

I am an elder woman, an elder keeper of wisdom (the newest way that I refer to myself in my own head), who has always loved solitude, who best comes home to myself when I’m alone, who only hears my own inner voice when it has the space to speak to me. With no one around to compete with it. In the quiet.

Perhaps having been an only child contributes to this. Or the introvert part of me is coming to the forefront during these times. 

I love my solitude.

I love my friends and community as well. I need them in my life. 

And I need a significant amount of alone time and quiet space.

 Not that I don’t distract myself with social media, tv, trips to the refrigerator to try and fill a hunger that is not for food. I’m quite human with all that. It’s humbling. 

And even with all that, I still crave my own company.

This loneliness is the hunger inside me, perhaps, to really hear what my spirit is trying to tell me. It’s the restlessness that will continue its inner rumblings until I stop and hear it and try to name it. 

I felt that loneliness today. 

Today was a day that I very intentionally spent by myself, feeling like I had done enough “peopling” this past week. I reach a certain quota of socializing and find that I then need to schedule time with no one else around me. My head literally feels like it’s buzzing after being with others for a while. I try to listen intently and deeply to others, and then need to be alone afterward to absorb and to quiet all that I have taken in. 

It’s an interesting phenomenon that with this need for solitude, I notice this loneliness inside me. It can be a bit confusing, to both want to be completely alone for a while, and yet feel this deep loneliness. 

It’s ok. It is, I believe, a part of the human condition. It’s a deep feeling, this loneliness, and one that I can even feel in the company of others. Sometimes even more so in others’ company as it becomes clear that this is a longing that others cannot fill. 

My loneliness is a type of sadness for me, an ache. For what, I am not completely sure. Sadness about the human condition? The brevity of our life span? The time it has taken me to finally find my voice, now at the age of 70? To finally be able to put myself at the top of the list of who to please? And now able to erase the rest of that list, for the most part.

It is also, at least, partly a longing for connection, a longing for a deep connection. A connection to my own soul. A connection that I seem to feel most these days when I express my voice through my painting or my writing. 

Or when I walk in the redwoods. 

Or when I watch the elephants at the zoo, where I volunteer. As I slow my breathing down and sync myself to their life rhythm, to their being in the moment. Animals teach me much about being present, living in the here and now. 

I feel the aloneness of this human journey we are each on. The aloneness of the final days of the trip that we will all take. The final step being one that we each take on our own. Stepping into the unknown darkness. Letting go of this life as we know it.

I notice wistful longing for things that were not part of my life, intentionally, but that I still can wonder about at times. A marriage that ended after 12 years. What might it have been like to grow old with someone that has known me for that long?

I chose not to have children. What might that have been like to see life going on in generations to come, of my bloodline? Watching a friend and his excitement about his first grandchild coming. And detecting a bit of wistfulness in his eyes, a memory of having his own first child, that child who will now become a mother. 

Do any of those things that I have mentioned really make a difference in this final solitary journey that we will each take? 

I wonder about life’s purpose and what that is. Have I expressed this in my life? Is my writing and painting now coming close to helping with this? What have I done with this one precious life? 

Have I loved enough? Have I appreciated it all enough? Have I followed my heart and passion? Have I lived, truly lived? Is there time left to do any of that anymore? 

I talk to all those that have died when I visit my parents’ crypt at the mausoleum. What would they share with me? What was their life like? Who remembers them? I greet all the new residents there each time. We will each have our date to join them. 

So, here I am, this evening, sitting quietly with all these thoughts and feelings. Sitting quietly with myself. Breathing into it all. Letting it all pass through me. 

I’m grateful for it all. For life, for all the feelings. For the poignancy of this human condition. For our precious lives. For the space to share some of this here with you all. For the connection that this brings me to others who may read and resonate with what I write. 

I get sad. I get lonely. I feel joy. And such awe at the wonder of it all. What an amazing gift that this life is. With all its ups and downs, joys and pain, gifts, and challenges. What a journey. With questions, a few answers, and some that will never be answered. 

Even loneliness can be beautiful. Haunting, poignant, rich, and full of life. I am still alive to feel it. I am still here. 

A touch of the wind on my cheek, senses and memories re-awakened

I was standing outside the other day when a light breeze came up, a breeze that brushed my cheek for a second, a moment in time. 

How much power there was in that gentle wind, that slight breath of air blowing on my face. Nature’s touch that does not discriminate because of age or shape or size or time. 

In that moment, I was transported back.

Back in time. Remembering summers with the warm sun on my face and breezes carrying scents from summer. Flowers close by. Suntan lotion lathered on bodies lying all around. The salty scent of the ocean. Food vendors with their delicious scents beckoning. The sound of laughter of families and children playing. Waves crashing into the shore. 

The feel of the sun slightly burning my face. The breeze cooling my skin. Feeling all the joys and presence of life around me and within me. 

So very much within me. 

Feeling myself so alive in my skin.

Remembering my youthful sensuality back then heightened by adolescent waves of hormones. The future was ahead of me. My body was young and with so much time to look forward to. Enjoying this one beautiful day of summer. Free. Safe. Happy.

The memories came flooding back to this face, this face now 70 years old. This face that still can feel the gentle breeze. My skin still reacts to it, enjoys its caress. My body still feels its warmth and delight. 

This body, not touched as much these days by others, still feels the sensuality of that gentle caress from the wind. That warm embrace from the sun. And every cell rises to grab it all. Remembers the delight of it all. 

Body memory. Not forgotten, if perhaps faded and out of sight most of the time these days. Yet in this moment, re-awakened and quivering with the delight of recognition. The delight of remembrance. The joy of having all of this within me still, even if no one else sees it anymore. 

I feel it still. And it makes me cry, both with poignant sadness and joyful passion. I am still alive. My skin still feels touch. My senses still react and rise to meet life. No one else may see it. No one else may recognize it anymore. 

But I felt it then and I feel it still. And I can tremble yet with the joy of the memories and the still exquisite feel of that touch from nature. 

That whisper of a caress that surprised me, one that I didn’t know that I needed so very much.

Life and its memories and senses are within us still. All it may take is a gentle touch, a light caress, a warm breeze reminding us that we are still so very much alive, so very much here. Still so alive to the passion and delight and invitations of life. 

Still here to feel the breeze on our cheeks. And to cry and to smile at it all. 

Breaking down decluttering into smaller bite size pieces

I am drawn, as are many of my friends at this stage in our lives, to declutter and release things that no longer nourish or serve a purpose. Traveling light seems to be a goal that we reach as we age. Getting ready for the last trip of all, which allows no luggage. 

When I think about how much stuff I have, it can overwhelm me. And it has for quite some time. Not only do I have a house that I have lived in for over 20 years, but I also have things that were my mother’s, and things that used to belong to an ex that he no longer wanted. And a garage to also help with hanging on.

Yikes.

What happens to me when I get overwhelmed with something is that I tend to freeze and avoid the whole thing. That has not been helpful in the goal of decluttering, to say the least. 

It’s time. Because I notice that the clutter around me is also reflected in my mind. When I let go of something, I literally feel lighter and clearer. 

How about, I ask myself, if I do one small thing at a time? The inner critic, always ready to chime in, laughs and belittles the idea. What will one thing do, she asks? Do you realize how much you have to get rid of? You need to just do it all. Just hunker down and keep going until you get it all done.

Not possible. At least not for me.

Especially when I get to things like the box with the old photos in it. What do I do with these, I wonder? Photos that hold memories for me but mean nothing to anyone else. I don’t have any family that I keep in regular contact with that would have any interest in any of these snapshots of my life. 

I look at the photos one last time, decide which I can really let go of (most of them, actually) and put them in the box for the garbage collectors. How many times have I really looked at these photos over the years? Hardly any. And yet, I have hung onto them. Hung onto pieces of my past. Pieces that I can remember fondly, but that I don’t really need souvenirs from. 

Next, the closets. Filled with clothes that I either do not wear anymore, since retired, or that no longer fit and that I need to admit will probably never fit. And if I did get to the point that they fit, would I really want to wear most of them anyway? No. Slowly, I put them (the ones that are still in good or even new condition) into the donation bag. Hopefully someone can use them. 

Once I have done that, I now look in the closets as I walk by and see if there may be one more piece that I can add to the pile. There usually is. Into the pile it goes. Even if it’s one shirt at a time, it’s better than none. Slowly, I can begin to see the closets lightening up. (Maybe that will help motivate me to lighten up myself, physically? One can hope. That’s the one thing that I hope to keep growing in this stage of life….my sense of humor. It becomes more vital as we age, yes?)

 I look around at my furniture. Mostly I live in one room, and, of course, my bedroom. Do I really need all these pieces of furniture? Do I need the china cabinet type thing that stores things inside it that I no longer use? So I begin to lighten up what is inside this cabinet, and think about when and where to let go of the piece itself. I don’t need it. And the open space would be lovely.

I am thinking about, at some point, moving into a retirement community. That would also involve a lot of downsizing. I might as well start now, yes? 

I am grateful for all that I have had in my life thus far. And am grateful for each new day and for waking up each morning. 

What brings me joy has nothing to do with most of the things around me. What brings me joy is my writing, my painting. My connection with friends. My walks in nature. My volunteering with the elephants at the zoo. My solitude and rich inner life, quiet and with space around me. Space that I can breathe in. 

The rest? The rest I can begin to let go of. I don’t need most of these things. They get in the way sometimes, and clutter my mind and spirit. 

And at this stage of life, my spirit wants to be free and have space to breathe and tell me who she is, who she has always been. 

Space to express my voice, both in the written word and on the canvas. Space to breathe in the vastness of the earth and its amazing creatures. Space to enjoy those around me and the love that we share. 

Space for memories, not stuff. 

Space for life and living it.

Plans with yourself are just as important as those with others.

Ah, the benefits that I am continuing to discover on my aging journey.

During my past, as an introvert, I would struggle to come up with reasons to not attend something social if I didn’t feel like it.

I am not saying that we should never be social. We need each other, we need our communities and friends. I am grateful for them all.

However, in the past, if I had made any kind of plan for what to do for the day, alone, plans that felt important and like something that I really wanted and needed to do for myself, those plans never felt as valid as if I had made plans with someone else. If anyone called and invited me to do something else with them or with a group, and they asked if I had any plans, I thought that the honest answer was no. No, I didn’t have any plans. 

To be honest, I may have lied in my past, making up some excuse if I really did not want to go to a particular function. But I never felt like I had good enough reason to decline anything unless I already had plans. Plans with someone else. There was always a twinge of guilt for saying no for what I thought was no good reason.

What a way to refer to myself! 

With aging, I have come to a deeper appreciation of time, of each moment. I now can feel the truth that there is a limit to the number of moments that I have left. And I want to be more intentional as to how I spend the remaining moments of this precious life that I have been given. 

So, the answer to others’ questions of whether I have plans or not is yes, I do have plans. I have plans for and with myself. And that’s valid enough reason. I now know that it’s just as important to keep commitments to myself as I believe that it is to keep commitments with others.

I am not referring to easy kind of free-flowing plans that I sometimes make that are open to change. Accepting an invitation might be the best thing to do in those moments. Opportunities to connect when that feels like it might be a good thing to do. 

And there are times when I know that I need to do whatever it is that I have planned, and to do it by myself. That I need that time with me to center, to quiet myself, to get grounded, to hear my voice inside and what it is saying to me and what it may tell me that I need. To hear what has been going on inside me lately. To listen. Quietly. To my own truth. 

An added benefit of this is that I am then able to be much more present when I am with others. Because I have filled myself. 

So yes, today, I have plans. With a dear close friend. With me. And I am looking forward to catching up. Being quiet and listening and hearing. Breathing into the stillness. Breathing into myself. 

Seeing all that we are, have been, and the stories that our faces contain

I am always fascinated while looking at the painting by Sergi Cadenas that portrays a woman aging . When you slowly walk from one side of this painting to the other, you see the aging process in this woman’s face. The young girl that she was, the woman that she became, the elder that she grew into. Not only is this a brilliant piece of work, but also such a metaphor for how we can begin to see each other more deeply. And ourselves. 

I now, when I look at older people, begin to better see many of the different faces that might have been theirs when they were younger. Perhaps it takes elder eyes to be able to see all that is contained in a face. Maybe I have now grown into those eyes that can see more deeply. A lifetime of experiences, of joy, of pain, of a life lived. 

I look at the face of an older woman and can catch glimpses of the young girl that she was once, the young woman that she grew into, and the now elder keeper of wisdom that I see in front of me. Oh, the stories that she can tell me. I want to hear her stories. I want someone to hear my stories too.

I look at the older gentleman who is a regular at the coffee shop that I frequent. Still a striking figure, I can see the muscles that worked a lifetime, the broad shoulders that carried so much. The face that turned heads. The walk that belies a lifetime of hard work and experience, burdens, and the passage of time. 

When I look in the mirror, it is sometimes a shock to look at the changes that growing older brings. I don’t feel the same age that I see reflected in the image before me. The inside doesn’t seem to age at the same pace as the outside does. 

Walking from one side of life to another, as with the painting, time takes a toll. And invisibility can often come at the end of the walk. 

Yet there is so much to see. So much to hear about. So much to feel about the stories contained in each face, each set of eyes. 

I think that there may, at times, be fear when looking at an elder’s face with its lines, wrinkles, and spots. A knowledge that we will arrive at such a face ourselves, if we are lucky enough to live that long. An awareness that we are looking at a future version of ourselves. A bowing down to the reality of our skin losing its youthful glow and elasticity, our bodies losing their firm curves and tight skin, our eyes losing their clear vision, our ears not hearing as well, our steps becoming more measured and careful.

It’s not easy to face this (no pun intended). Yet it is the truth of our humanity, our life cycle, our present and future. 

Yet another stark reminder of the reality of mortality. The final version of the portrait of who we are, have been, and will become. 

So what can we do with this knowledge about life, about aging, about decline? About wrinkles, sagging skin, and the life cycle ending?

It is what our lives are. Perhaps we can learn how to use this knowledge, these lessons, this vision of our life, to better live each moment along the way. To embrace each prism in our own individual portrait that reflects who we are right then, with the knowledge that more change is coming with each step that we take.

And seeing all the faces, realizing that they are us, can this help teach us about living? Finally taking in the knowledge that beginnings always lead to endings, can we embrace the time between?

Have you read the Zen story about the man traveling across a field who encountered a tiger? 

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him. Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away at the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!(Translated by Paul Reps (Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, New York: Anchor/Doubleday, 1958, pages 22–23).

What a metaphor for life, yes? We know the end will come. Do we fret about this ? Or do we grab the pleasure and lusciousness that is in front of us and enjoy it while we are able? Do we see and eat the strawberry and the gift of its ripeness and delight? Even sweeter as we know that we are close to the end of our life. 

When our time comes to face those tigers, will we choose to live fully until we must let go? Can we embrace who we were, are, and will become? Can we reach and taste the strawberry of this moment in time? Can we taste its exquisiteness with the knowledge of its ending? Can we embrace now?

So here I am. Looking at this moment in time of my own portrait. Taking a deep breath.

Today I am going to my volunteer shift at the zoo. Observing the elephants. Saying goodbye to one of our elephants, Donna, who is going to be transported to an elephant sanctuary soon so that she can be with other female elephants her age. She recently lost her close elephant friend at the zoo, Lisa, who became old, ill, and was euthanized. Donna, and all of us who work with these majestic creatures, are still deeply in grief. So I will go and spend time with Donna while she is still with us. 

I think I’ll stop at the Farmers Market on the way home. And buy some strawberries. 

Nostalgia for special dates, acknowledging losses and grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now here I am. Living alone. Intentionally. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have lost my former definitions of myself. 

My career. No longer calling myself a social worker. 

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

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

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

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

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

Letting go becomes a major focus as well these days. 

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

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

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

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

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

So, I feel sad today. And it’s ok. 

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

And still in wonder of it all. 

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

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

How to work with this, I wondered. 

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

Breathe.

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

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

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

Breathe.

I write the list. So many things on it. 

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

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

I can work on decluttering one drawer, one closet. 

Breathe.

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

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

Breathe. 

It’s ok. I’m still ok. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 I felt suffocated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am coming home. To me. Finally.