Competition, gold medals, grading, comparison. Endless messsages that we are not good enough.

I am struck these days by how much competition is part of almost everything that we do.

Gold medalists. First prize. Best of the best. Blue ribbons. 

Not to say that all competion is bad. It can help motivate, create some fun and incentive, and be useful.

But not to an extreme. Not about everything, Not when we use it to further compare ourselves to others and come out feeling less than, feeling not good enough.

I remember the movie about Mozart years ago. Amadeus. The story was told by Antonio Scalieri, another composer of that time, who, not being a genius like Mozart, was continually tormented by comparing himself to Mozart. At one point, with a line that I will never forget, he lamentingly referred to himself as the “king of mediocrity.”

This comparison can be insidious. This validating only the champions can be destructive to our self esteem, if we let it. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love cheering on champions, will root and scream for the home team to win. I am, after all, a product of this society. And it can be fun.

However, there is a dark side that I believe needs to be named. The feeling that since we are not the best, we stop ourselves from even trying to do things that may bring us joy. And that joy should be reason enough for us to try things. 

Since retiring, I am delighted and grateful to be able to do some things that I love. Writing. Painting. 

And even there I find the constant internal comparisons going on. I am an amateur. I have not had formal education or training in art. I have not been in shows, have not won competitions. 

And yet, something comes through me when I paint, and I feel connected to a deeper part of me than I have before. I am allowing that part to express herself. Finally. And there are some who are touched by my paintings. I am grateful.

I love to write. I have not written a book. I have not taken formal writing courses. And yet, as with my painting, something comes through me that feels as if it taps into my very soul. I find that I must write to sort out all the intricacies, for me, of being human. I write to finally hear and express my voice. My Voice. And some respond to things that I write. I touch something in them that relates and resonated with what I write. Again, I am grateful. 

And now I see that this constant comparison can even apply to our process of aging.

There is a good way to look when aging. The best way to age. The models are often still on the gorgeous end of the spectrum. Slim figures, faces still conforming to what are judged as beautiful. Referred to as aging well. It seems that we are even graded on how we age. How did she let herself go?

If we exercise, we should look good doing it. Or be a clown to be laughed at. Perfection or ridicule seem to be the choices offered.

 If we dance, it can be laughable, or cute.

I do not wish to be either. I have not ever, nor ever will aspire to, the label of cute. I am a woman of substance, both physically and in other ways. Not to be taken lightly. Not to be condescended or spoken down to. Not to be cast aside. 

And we are judged no matter which choices we make. If we color our hair, we should embrace going grey. If we get plastic surgery, we should allow ourselves to age naturally. If we don’t get plastic surgery, then the caption can read time has not been kind. 

If we look younger than our age, we are complimented on not looking our age. So what does that say if we look our age? And why is looking our age a bad thing? 

Aging is a competition that cannot be won. We will all age. We will all die.

 Life is a competition that cannot be won. We will all age. We will all die. We may be remembered for a while or not. So what? We will be gone. 

We are here now. In our glorious imperfection. In our amazing averageness. In our imperfect perfection. In our humanity.

For me, I am going to work to express who I am, what I love to do. Judgments be damned. It’s all ok, as long as I am not hurting anyone else. 

I want to embrace each moment of this precious life. And even more so, as the time grows shorter on the road left ahead. 

I have no gold medals, no blue ribbons. I am average. How very delightful. And, to have the company of so many others who are average. 

Others who are beautiful in their own ways. With their own unique talents and perspectives and voices. I am delighted to be among them, champions of life. Each and every one of us. 

Sometimes it’s hard to feel the aloneness

I firmly believe that we need to feel all of our feelings. All of them. In order to live our fullest, most present life.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to feel some of those feelings.

I woke up feeling so very alone this morning. 

It’s not that I don’t have dear friends and a social network. I do, albeit small. I don’t do large groups well. A small network of more intimate friends works better for me.

And sometimes, a feeling of such deep aloneness (which feels very different than loneliness for me) floods over me and overwhelms me.

Like it did this morning.

I feel the vastness of the world around me. The busy movement of life around me. Young people going to work. My young neighbors tending to their sweet families. My older neighbor (as in my age) and her children and grandchildren and all of their partners. 

I am alone. I have, for some reason, seemed to work to achieve this in my life. Growing up had some challenges for me, as it does for us all. I craved a sense of peace and tranquility and acceptance of myself. Closeness to others meant feeling judged as less than, as not good enough. 

I’ve been married, and am grateful for that experience and for the sweet man who was my husband. He remarried and went on to have two sons. We, when married, had decided to not have children. Interesting. I’m glad he found someone to share his life with that perhaps matches him better than I could. 

I have always been blessed with dear friends along this path of my life. Some of them are gone now. I miss them very much. Sobering, this death thing.

I now, being retired for almost three years, have time to devote to things that I love. Writing. Painting. Being in nature more. Maybe even a bit of travel to look forward to. I am grateful.

And yet there are times when I find it hard to get satisfaction. From anything. When that dreaded question What’s the point? comes up.

Although I have found that I can validate myself more these days, there are still those times. Times when I doubt everything. Times when I feel lost. Times when I feel frozen.

 Times when I deeply feel my place moving up in that line of waiting to die. 

Times of wondering what the rest of my path will be. What age related changes will keep coming? What do I have to show for this precious life that is winding down? What difference have I made to anyone? To the earth?

I don’t have any answers. Yet I keep moving and keep going on. This feeling is with me, often. 

I know that there are other feelings that are within me as well.

Feeling connected to the earth and its creatures. Sometimes in a way that is deeper than any connection to people. 

Feeling like I am finally letting my soul speak when I write, when I paint. Grateful to still be alive and have time to do those things.

Grateful for dear friends who can hear and share some of these feelings with me. We help each other feel a bit less alone for a few moments. 

Grateful to be able to volunteer at our local zoo with the elephants. They teach me about being in the moment. They bring me comfort and quiet some of the noise in my head.

Grateful for friends who are drawn to some of my paintings. Who see a piece of me in those canvases.

Grateful for readers who comment that some of my writing has touched them in some way. 

Grateful to still be alive and on this earth. Feeling the preciousness of each moment that I am still granted. 

Grateful for all the feelings. 

Grateful for life. 

Finally learning to look Within for approval

I have spent my entire life looking for validation and approval from others. And it has never felt like enough. I have never felt like enough.

Now, as an elder, I am finally able to see more clearly what I need. What I needed most of all. The whole time. 

I could go into childhood issues at this point to try and explain and better understand where this issue came from for me, and I have explored this in depth. It was helpful to begin to put the pieces together in the puzzle of who I am.

But childhood is long gone. So are adolescence, middle adulthood, and the feeling that there was so much more time to work on all of this.

I am older now. And I don’t want to spend any more time looking outside of myself for validation. 

Although I appreciate support and love from my friends, the deepest support and love that I need is from my own self, as well as my Higher Self, Spirit, God/Goddess Within and Without. 

So here I am. Faults, challenges, blind spots, triggers, fears, anxieties, depression, lumps and bumps, eternal comparison to others, and oh so many more challenges. 

These parts of me seem to be hard wired. They’re not going away, but their power has greatly diminished. Including the power of the external shaming, critical voices that I mistakenly adopted and internalized as parts of myself. Thank God I never finalized that adoption. 

I can embrace these parts of me and understand that they have served a purpose for me. I learned certain beliefs and behaviors to try and cope and to feel safer in the world. Now it’s time to let go. 

It’s time to softly and gently tell those parts of me that I understand why they are there. What they have tried to help me with. And that they can rest. I’ve got this now.

What a liberating feeling to realize that I can let go of attacking myself and trying to hide these flawed parts of me, even though I am not, nor ever will be, anything close to perfect. I am ever so human. Ever so flawed. 

I no longer have to berate myself with these flaws as proof of my unworthiness. I no longer have to beat myself up in hopes that I will be better. You cannot beat someone into perfection, because perfection does not exist. 

I claim all these parts of me. And I am doing my best to love myself, including these less than pretty parts.

These parts are what make me human, what help me to understand the humanity of all those around me. 

You’re too sensitive, I am told. My new response : You say that like it’s a bad thing. 

You’re too quiet. There is much power is in my quiet presence. 

You’re old and finished . I’m not dead yet and have much to offer, to those that can see.

You’re too emotional. I am so grateful for all my emotions. How sad it would be to not have those passionate, colorful, alive parts of me.

Your art is not good enough. You are an amateur. Yes, I am an amateur. And I still have the right to express myself and paint. 

Your writing is not good enough. Who do you think you are, writing about your feelings? I am a human being, traveling this life journey and path of aging, my feelings are valid and I have the right to express them. As a matter of fact, others may even be able to relate to some of them and find some comfort there, perhaps feel a bit less alone in their own travels.  

You’re out of shape and overweight. True. But that does not mean that I need to hide or hate myself. I can keep working on those things. And I still get to have my life right now. I get to like how I look right now. 

You don’t know how to keep a partner.I have had some wonderful relationships that I will always be grateful for. And I needed to let them go. I am open to new potential relationships, should that happen. But, the best partner that I now have is myself. Finally. That relationship has to come first. And it is enough. I am enough. 

You have hurt others in your life and have much to regret. Yes, I have hurt others, unintentionally. But yes, I did. And I am sorry for that. And I keep trying to do better each day. I get to forgive myself for my past. And I get to move on. Do better.Keep learning. Keep on living. Here and now. 

You shouldn’t submit this piece. Watch me. 

The deep hunger to be seen and really heard….at any age

I believe that there is a deep desire within us to be seen, heard, and truly understood. And I believe that this is one of the most genuine and deep forms of intimacy that can exist between two people. 

This desire does not go away with aging. In fact, I think that the hunger may become more real, since it can be more challenging to even be noticed in the first place, given some of the feeling of invisibility that can come with being older. 

We are not taught this skill of listening, although it, in my opinion, should be on every curriculum and in every lesson plan. 

There is a voice inside each of us, a voice that expresses who we are. Our spirit, our desires, our fears, our angers, our passions, our soul.

I am struck by how little listening that I really observe in the world. And I notice within myself how easily I can also get distracted and pay less attention that I would like. It’s humbling, this being human. 

Deep listening takes slowing down and stopping to focus on the other. 

It takes shutting up our own busy mind so that we can hear what is being said, what is being expressed, what is being put out there for us to hold in our hearts. It is someone saying, while holding out their hands, Here is a piece of me, of my heart. Please hold it gently and with tenderness 

It takes a true presence with the other. 

It is more than hearing what is being said, although that is important as well. It takes more. 

It takes listening to not only the words, but the tone, the inflection, and the music of the voice. Hearing the volume, and seeing the expressions of the face and the eyes that accompany the words. Noticing any movements that can also add to the symphony of the message. 

It takes attending to the whole being in front of us. Hearing their plea for us to see who they are in this moment, in their vulnerability of sharing a piece of what is inside of them. 

Deep presence and listening can be one of the most intimate forms of connection that there is. And we need it more than ever as we get older. 

 I can show you my body, which is very vulnerable, especially as I continue to have age related changes happening. I have changed on the outside, and I am afraid that those changes will not let you see who I am on the inside. 

I can also show you my soul. I can put a piece of myself out there in front of you and be so very vulnerable. My thoughts, feelings, fears, desires, things that bring me to tears, things that make me angry, things that make me laugh, things that I am shy to tell you about myself for fear of judgment. Things that hurt me. When I share these things, I realize that I am giving you something that you may be able to hurt me with, and trusting that you won’t.

And I am afraid that my feelings about aging may scare you and may not be something that you can hear, because I am your future. A future that may be too frightening for you to see right now. 

And yet, this deep need and desire to be heard seem to only intensify with my getting older, as time grows shorter for me to express who I am, what I feel, what is inside of me and all that I have experienced for all of these years. 

So when you ask me How are you? , I want to know that you really mean what you are asking, that you really want to hear how I am. That you will take the time to stop and listen to my response. 

You don’ t have to do anything to fix any pain that you may hear. I simply need you to hear me. Really hear me. 

It is not a lifelong commitment. It is a deep commitment to this moment in time. 

If there are more moments, that’s great. If not, I will hold this moment inside me as a cherished gift. The gift of being witnessed deeply. Of being heard. Of having felt that sacred connection with another being. 

 Can you hear me in this piece that I have written?

 If I tell you that I will be 70 soon, will you hear this differently? Will you take a moment to see me? And know that you have given me a precious gift?

 And will you know that I, although older, can perhaps give you that gift in return? I want to hear what you have to say as well. Who you are. How you feel. 

We may have years that separate us, but our experoience on this journey of being human is one that we can share. 

So, will you hear how I am? And will you tell me how you are and who you are? Can we simply be side by side in that moment in time, acknowledging each other? Seeing each other? Really hearing each other? It will only take stopping for a moment in time. A moment that can feel like gift of eternity. 

Entering the winter of my life

I am struck more and more these days, as I continue on this path of aging, with how the metaphor of the seasons really does feel like it applies to my life.

Spring and youth. Blooming flowers. The hope of everything new. Beginnings. Sparkly colors, beautiful pastels. All lies ahead to be enjoyed and experienced and delighted by. So very much to look forward to. So much hope and anticipation. Plans made. Dreams born. 

Summer. Entering the full colors drenched in the sun and the warmth of life. Summer fun, play, full life living. Laughter. Careers, family, friends. All reflect fullness on every front. 

Autumn. Leaves begin to change. Their most brilliant colors take my breath away. And I notice that they become the most brilliant before they drop to the ground, dry and brown. Ready to be reabsorbed into the earth and the cycle of life. 

Winter. Colder temperatures and more call to go inside by the hearth. Fires burn internally. Houses look warmly lit , when looking through the windows, in contrast to the colder outdoors. We elders, like these houses, also have warmth, if someone looks into our windows, our eyes. Days are shorter, nights longer. More darkness prevails. 

There is a call to focus internally, more inside myself, as well. Memories flood through me of seasons past. Thoughts of life and all that I have experienced. Decisions made. Paths taken and those not chosen. Awareness that this is the final season, however long it may last. Awareness that spring, summer and fall are gone. 

My body reflects the winter. Everything going south, I say, and laugh. Yet there is truth to that in more ways than simply various parts of my body dropping.

 My thoughts and feelings seem to go deeper as well. They include more darkness, which I am learning to become more comfortable with. The increasing presence of loss and grief. Loss of others. Loss of parts of myself. I work to not let it frighten me. Well, not as much. Sometimes.

And my looking and seeing is slowed. I notice more around me than I used to, not having had as much time for this in the earlier seasons of my life. I see nature in all of its awe and beauty. I see the miracle of life in all of its forms every day. I stop and look and take it in. It can, and often does, bring me to tears. Tears of joy and gratitude. 

My joy is deeper, my appreciation so much richer. Perhaps because I am aware of the temporary nature of it all, aware of the fact that I have fewer miles ahead of me than those behind me. 

In my winter, I carry all the seasons that I have lived and loved. I feel them all. I hold them all. I remember and appreciate them all. I do, at times, miss the earlier seasons. I also try to stay present to be able to fully appreciate the season that I am now in. This final season. This most rich and poignant season. This winter of journeying within to find my soul and fire and Self. More deeply than ever before. 

And so, I embrace this winter season of my life. I sit quietly in it, looking and listening to what it has to teach me. Feeling all that it brings with it. Understanding that this is the final season, and perhaps can be the richest of all, if I have the courage to face it, feel it, and immerse myself in it. To fully live it while I am still here. 

Early morning visits to the land of melancholy

Waking up at 3am in tears. 

Oh, here I am again. The melancholy, sadness, grief, sense of loss, and other feelings that have no name. Darkness around me. Darkness within me.

It’s a familiar place, this land of melancholy. I think about Susan Cain and her description of the melancholic personality. I resonate with this description. 

It’s interesting, because I am basically an optimist. And mostly feel positive about life and all of its precious gifts.

 I also often feel sad. Both pieces exist within me. Simulaneously. Being human is complex, not easily categorized. Shades of gray. And lots of other colors. 

Sometimes the sadness is connected to something. 

Like aching for human touch.

 Or aching for the comfort of furry animal companions long gone.

 Or feeling the losses that having lived almost 70 years brings. Both internal and external. Parts of myself. Others who remember my name and parts of my past, my history, my story. 

Feeling the pain of the earth around me, the trees, the creatures who have become extinct or soon will be. 

Feeling the pain and suffering of the world and its people. War, violence, hatred, division, hunger, thirst, homelessness. So many different names for pain. 

And sometimes it has no name, this feeling. This darkness. This heaviness within. 

There is no escape, try as I sometimes might. 

So I am learning mostly, to simply breathe into this place, this sadness, these tears. And listen to what they might have to talk with me about yet again. 

And I learn. Slowly, sometimes resistantly. I learn.

 I learn, each time on a deeper level, that this is part of the human condition. And that this comes ever more often with aging. 

I seem to have earned enough frequent flyer miles to the land of sadness that find myself there without even having booked the flight myself. But, here I am. So let me look around. 

Loss, grief. They are all part of life and especially even more a part of aging. 

Knowing that I will turn 70 in a few months makes it all so much more real. 

The reality of mortality. The knowledge, now very visceral, that I too shall leave this earth and this life as I know it. 

That although I enjoy writing and painting and finding my deeper voice now that I am older, that this too shall all pass. 

I hear the voices within that sometimes ask what the point of it all is anyway. Why bother with anything? What does it matter that I write or paint or do anything? What does any of it matter? Who cares?

And yet, I am still here and still alive. Still breathing. Still part of the population of living beings on this planet. 

So I go to the laptop and begin to write. Perhaps someone else may relate to some of what I say. Maybe it can help someone. It seems to help me to get it out of me and into the written word. And, when I write, others who are in this land of sadness with me sometimes respond. We feel less alone for a moment. 

I pick up the paintbrushes and paint a few strokes on a painting that I started weeks ago, but have not felt the urge to work on. It feels like the beginning sketch that I see on the canvas will never become anything. I have to have faith that maybe, as I have experienced before, that with each stroke of the paintbrush, the image will begin to come to life and speak to me. 

And maybe this is what life is. Maybe this is one of the lessons that aging brings us. The gift of the wisdom that can come from this pain. 

Maybe the lesson is to get up, through the darkness, and keep writing, painting, or whatever it is that brings us joy or feels as if it needs to be expressed. Because we are still here and our voices, in whatever form that they take, still clamor to be heard. 

There are things to write. Canvases to paint. Songs to sing and dances to be danced. Life to be lived. 

Visiting a horse ranch and finding healing there

I got the chance to visit a horse ranch yesterday. And I can’t stop thinking about it.

This is a ranch where horses are boarded, some of them rescues. And they also have a type of somatic therapy that they work on the horses with. Therapy to help with aches, pains, injuries, and arthritis. 

I am a volunteer at our local zoo observe the elephants there. Part of the Behavior Observation Team. The somatic practicioner who has worked with horses for decades has, for a while, also become very interested in elephants. Serendipity/the Universe caused us to meet. 

I booked a session with this practitioner for myself first, since she also works with humans. I wanted to experience some of what I might then talk to the staff at the zoo about as possibilities for our elephants. And I jumped at the chance, when she offered it, to watch her work with horses at this ranch. And I have begun the process of hopefully facilitating her meeting the zookeepers that I work with to see what might be possible. 

All that set aside, as I drove into the ranch (thank God for Waze and GPS- but that is another story), I could feel my shoulders drop. I tend to raise them almost up to the level of my ears without even being aware of it. How often we carry stress around with us in our bodies, so much so that it feels normal.

I began to take deeper breaths. Various horses, a donkey, a mule, and several dogs were all around me. All curious about me and not shy about showing their curiosity. Coming up close to get a sniff to determine if I may be friend or foe, and if I may happen to have any treats on me. How open they are, how clearly they communicate and make a decision about you. How much of an honor when they accept you.

Tilly, the donkey, was quite forward in demanding attention and pets, rubs, and back scratches. She is not shy, I was told. Rather the opposite! And I love how direct she was with her wants and needs. No hesitation or need for translation there. 

And then there was Maggie. A beautiful horse who the owner of the ranch warned me about. She, I was informed, could be very skittish and shy about allowing others to approach her. 

I was also told that all of these lovely animals right in front of me, especially the donkey and mule, loved ear rubs. 

To give you a bit of my resume with this skill set, I have lived with cats who loved ear rubs and who taught me the best way to give those. And I have interacted with dogs who also helped train me in the basics of this service that I could provide for them. 

Why not try it with these amazing animals right in front of me, I thought. So, the first was Tilly. Success! Ear rubs received and accepted. More demanded. 

I noticed that Maggie was hovering close by. 

I thought, why not offer this to her and see what happens? After a bit, she came even closer, and I slowly put my hand up to her left ear. She didn’t immediately move away. I moved my hand a bit closer and started to rub her ear ever so gently.

 To my utter delight and surprise, she moved her head in closer and took full advantage! I was over the moon! She stood there, leaning closer into me. I reached for her other ear, and began gently rubbing that as well. Maggie and I were face to face, her eyes closing a bit, as this magical interaction continued. What a gift! I felt like I was in heaven. 

Kathy, the owner, was amazed. “You have the touch”, she said. “That doesn’t happen with everyone!” I couldn’t have been more thrilled. And honored to have Maggie’s trust for that moment in time. We connected. 

Isn’t that what we are all looking for, those moments of deep connection? Moments that can take us by surprise. Moments that can bring the deepest of joy. I notice the importance of these moments more and more as I continue on this path of aging. These moments can mean so much. These moments that may have gone unnoticed earlier in my life. 

And that moment was exactly what I needed. Maybe Maggie too. 

The day before that horrendous video of the beating of the young man in Memphis had been released to the public. Haunting images that kept replaying in my head. Images that we do need to remember and pay attention to so that we can work to change the wounds and violence all around us.

These incidents are traumatic, for all of us. Unspeakable pain for the families and friends of that poor young man. And trauma for the rest of us seeing what happened, over and over and over again. The pain that we humans can inflict on each other. The indescribable horror of watching a life taken, a family and community shaken, a country in shock. So much violence. So much pain. So much horror. So much deep and inconsolable grief. 

We need to be present to this. And all the horrors and suffering in the world. Its people, its creatures, its climate and plants and air. Existence itself.

And to keep moving on, we also need to find ways to get a bit of solace and comfort from it all. A breath between the constant barrage of pain. A connection to the earth, to its inhabitants, to each other. A breath to enable us to carry on and keep going. To get grounded and more centered again. So we can keep working to do better. 

Maggie, that very special horse, gave me that gift. And allowed me to give her the gift of some touch and connection. 

We never know where these gifts and connections will come from. We only need stay open to them, to drink and breathe them in as the sacred gifts that they are. To keep healing. So that we can keep also trying to give healing to others and our world. One moment, one breath, one ear rub at a time. 

How to even write about such senseless violence ?

I am simultaneously so very deeply saddened and horrified.

We have had several recent mass shootings here in California recently. One after the other after the other. Yet another one this morning. 

When will this stop?

Then yesterday the gut wrenching violent video from Memphis was released to the public. A horror that I could not make myself look away from. The dark depths that human cruelty can reach. The unspeakable pain we can cause each other. The violence and murderous rage that seem to have no end to them. I am unable to even imagine the depth of a mother’s anguish at losing a son that was trying to come home to her. A son that she will never see again. 

How do we even begin to write about this, talk about this? 

 I found myself crying along with the congressman who was unable to speak through his tears as he tried to address what had happened. How those tears spoke volumes more than any words could. A grief that is best expressed as sobs and heaving shoulders in trying to contain the waves of deep, inconsolable pain. 

There really are no words adequate for something like this.

And yet, we must try and name this more. Name the darkness that we can descend into so that we can better know it, understand it, and then hopefully not act from it. Perhaps find a way to express these frightening parts of ourselves without having to hurt anyone else. 

What is it that can cause people to hate others because of their race, their religion, their gender, or a thousand other things that make someone the “other”? What gets triggered to tap into the primitive part that reacts and loses all reason? What causes someone to shoot groups of people? Innocent children? How do groups feed on each others’ rage and frustrations to then do unspeakable things they might not possibly do as individuals? 

How do we begin to train those that are meant to deal with people in the most difficult of times and circumstances? How do we teach them to know themselves and things that may get triggered so they don’t act from these places inside of them? How do we address that these things are part of the human condition that we must all learn to deal with? 

I see much love and kindness in the world, and I try to spread those things as well, in my own small way. 

And I also know that we are more than that. That we must come to know and own our darkness so that we can then be more conscious of all that is inside of us. So we can have more choice in each moment. So we can learn ways to feel what may be going on inside and find a way to deal with it in the moment. In a way that doesn’t have to include taking others’ lives, shattering families, shattering communities, shaking us to our very core. 

Can we find a way to have unspeakable tragedies bring us together in our grief and humanity?

Can we find a way to come back to working together, to finding what we have in common with each other instead of the differences? Can we find a way to learn to understand and accept and even appreciate those differences?

Can we find a way to own our fears and rages and primitive reactions so that we are the ones directing the actions and not them?

Can we find a way to not create any more tears than life already brings us?

I have lived long enough in this aging journey to know that these questions have no simple answers. 

And I also know that we have to keep asking them. Until we can find our way back home to each other. 

Ongoing surprises that come with aging (Writing prompt for Crow’s Feet)

Aging is such a roller coaster ride, yes? And it brings all kinds of gifts and surprises. Some fun, some funny. Some not so much. 

I look down at a body that I don’t really recognize. Things aren’t where I remember them being. Things don’t look like they do in my memory. Who took my body and left me with this version? 

I make sounds that I surprise myself with. I creak and groan sometimes when I get up out of a chair or bed. I hear crackles in my knee when it moves. At the gym once, I heard these crackles and thought something was wrong with the machine that I was on. Not the machine, it turns out. 

I don’t always recognize the face in the mirror. Where did those lines come from? I still feel like a younger version of myself, but that is not what is reflected there, not what I see, and not what others see. It seems as if the inside of me does not age at the same pace as the outside does. 

I am surprised by how quickly it feels like I got here. And how quickly time seems to have gone by.

I am surprised with how intimately I need to know where each restroom is located on any path or hike that I may try to take. (Is this what they really mean by golden years? The amount of focus on peeing? )

I still get surprised that I qualify for senior discounts. And that I am now a senior in everyone’s definition. For a while, 50 was something to play with in terms of not being 60 yet. Then 60 was here, but it still wasn’t 65. And now I approach 70. A senior in everyone’s book. 

I notice that I can be invisible to others sometimes. It seems that because I am older, assumptions are made about who I am and what my interests now are. Assumptions that I have forgotten my youth and who I was then, even though those parts of me are within me still. 

I see how much more emotional I can be. I have always been sensitive and emotional, and have been criticized for this at times in the past. And now, I am delightfully amazed to find that these qualities are actually precious parts of myself. Sacred gifts. Gifts that help me know myself, and help me relate to and understand others on a much deeper level. 

I am in awe more, as time continues to march on, of how much beauty there is around me. How I can delight in a moment in nature and simply gaze at a tree, or watch an animal, feeling totally present with each. How I can still feel the gorgeous sensuality of life. How I can feel more at peace in those moments than I could ever have imagined. 

I am pleased to discover that I don’t worry so much anymore about what others think. My opinion has now moved to the top of the list. How delightful. Finally.

I now know that I can be choosy and picky about who I spend my time with. I don’t have to try and like everyone. Nor do I have to work to get everyone to like me. And it’s all ok.

 Time is precious. I get to spend it with those that I want, those that feel nourishing, those that speak enough of my language so that I don’t get exhausted trying to translate myself for them. It’s ok. 

I have learned to cherish brief encounters with random others and the depth of the connections that can be felt, even in those brief moments. And I can appreciate those moments and also let them go, not trying to hang on to make them something more than they are. They are enough. 

And now, I am surprised to hear, more and more often, friends talk about how they have lived good lives. 

We have come to that point in our lives where we look back and remember, evaluate, and appreciate what we have had. There is more gratitude. More wonder. More bittersweetness and poignancy as we see that the time remaining is much shorter than the time we have already had. 

Gratitude is a major theme. Slowing down seems to be the pace. There is a desire to let go of of things that were more important to us in our youth, but we find we may no longer need. We’re getting ready to travel, and to travel light. 

And that, perhaps, is the biggest surprise of them all. How real it becomes that there will be an end to my life, and how I want to truly cherish each moment. And to live each moment as authentically and genuinely as I can. To finally claim and honor who I have been all along, but tried to change . To come full circle back home to me. Before I go. 

Some feelings become even more exquisite as time passes

Aging is at times seen and referred to as a diminishing of things. Yes, some things diminish. Changes happen. Losses happen. Bodies change. Things can drop, spread and sag, I joke. It’s true. And we can laugh about it. It can be funny, but not always. 

I can look down at my now almost 70 year old body and see all the not so welcome changes there, as well as in the face that stares back at me in the mirror. 

I remember my father joking about himself “Who is that old man in the mirror?” 

We would all laugh at the time. But, it’s real. So very real, this aging journey.

We elders sometimes talk about feeling invisible. 

I have had the experience of younger women, who worked alongside me and would be sitting right beside me at a table, talk about experiences, clothes, and other delights of their bodies. 

It was as if I wasn’t even sitting at the same table with them. Like I didn’t even exist at that moment. Like I would not be able to relate to anything that they might be talking about. Like I had never been their age, but had somehow always been the age that I now was. 

I have entered into the winter of my life. 

Yet I realize that I still have all those old feelings inside me. Perhaps the intensity is not the same, or it is not directed in the same direction as it once was. Yet, it is still there. I am still there. I am still here. 

Passion and sensuality are still here within me. Sexuality is still here.

I have intentionally not been in a relationship for several years, so I cannot speak of that particular issue of romantic partnered sexuality at this moment. 

I have friends, though, who are in relationships and who talk about passion and sexuality being very much a part of their life and of who they are. Still. Maybe even more than ever. Appreciated even more. Delighted in even more. Wonderfully surprised by, even now. 

I can, however, speak of my own sensuality. And how I feel every small thing so much more exquisitely and deeply. How I can look at the beauty of a rose and marvel at its texture, its colors, all that it brings to the world if we stop and see it. 

I can watch animals outside, birds bathing and delighting in the water, splashing and doing their own form of a water ballet. I can viscerally feel the delight that they take in this dance. 

I can observe the elephants, where I volunteer at the zoo, and watch their own form of sacred beauty that never fails to elicit comments from the guests who come to see them and who are quieted in awe. I can watch the elephants reaching out to touch each other with their trunks, making physical contact, saying hello with their bodies. The way I, perhaps, touch a friend on the shoulder to make that connection beyond words, offer a special kind of comfort that only a kind touch can bring. 

I can look at my own hands, also wrinkled and saggy, like my elephant friends. I can see the years in them, the work that they have done, the tender touches that they have given and received, the drawing and painting and writing that they help me to express. The reaching out to others in a way that is far beyond what any words can do. 

I can see my face in the mirror or in photographs taken. Sometimes I am shocked by how much time has passed and how I see that time reflected. Yet, I can also look into my own eyes and see the life lived, the passion reflected, the tears shed both in pain and in joy. I can see every age that I have been reflected in that image in the mirror, even if others cannot. 

I can look at my body and see the way that its shape has shifted. Dropped. Spread out. 

And I can also feel the embraces that it has known, the pleasures and pain, the light and dark. The sexuality that it has been overtaken by at times. The abandon. The melting into another for a brief, exquisite moment in time. 

 I can see the young bride that I once was, and the single elder that I have now become. 

That young bride is within me still. 

As is the little girl who loved to reach out and touch everything, much to the displeasure of my mother. 

My touching everything back then, I now realize, was my way of knowing the world and the things in it. How they felt. What I felt when I connected with them. A knowingness by touch and feel. A knowingness beyond words. A knowingness with our bodies, with our senses. 

I touch everything still. I reach out to others to make that sacred kind of contact. I delight when someone reaches out to touch me on the arm, on the shoulder, or with a hug. Especially in the world today since the pandemic, where touch has become even more rare, dangerous, frightful. 

I still inhabit this very human, physical, sensual body. I live and breathe and touch and feel. I feel so very much, as aging allows a kind of slowing down to savor each feeling, each touch, each breath. 

And I want to remember all those feelings for myself. Even if no one else sees it, to remember and cherish those parts of me. To honor those parts of me. They are not dead, because I am not dead. To be alive is to be sensual. To be alive is to touch. To be alive is to be here, now. With each other. With ourselves.