I could not do one damn thing today, so I let it be.

Today was one of those days. I had no energy to do anything, not one bit.

So I allowed myself to say no to it all. No.

Most of my life, I have felt compelled to say yes when I didn’t mean it, to try and please others, to gain approval, to bend and twist myself into whatever shape I thought someone might want me to be in. It’s how I learned, at a very young age, to feel safer in the world. I am not here to blame or focus on my younger years, as my parents did what they knew and did their best. 

But I need to let go of that now. It no longer serves me. 

What does that mean, to let it go? I am not always certain, but I have to try to figure it out. 

For today, it meant that I stayed in my house and said no to almost everything. I did not want to go to the gym to exercise, I did not want to be around people, I did not want to do anything that anyone else wanted me to do. No. 

I have never really allowed myself to say no for a whole day unless I was sick. Only being ill allowed me to give myself permission to do nothing, to stop it all and just be. 

So today, I gave myself permission to say no, even though I was not physically sick. But maybe, just maybe, I needed to give myself a day to heal from things other than physical illness. Maybe I needed to allow myself to feel the bruising that we sometimes deny in our everyday lives, to tend to the wounds, or to at least acknowledge them.

Today my boundaries felt thin. Things could more easily get inside me and hurt. When I am like this, I have learned that it is best to avoid being around others. I cannot be social. I cannot do anything except allow myself to stop it all. I need to stop, breathe, and rest as needed.

And rest I did. Napping on and off, I didn’t realize how tired I had been. 

I am retired, the voice inside says, what the hell do I have to feel tired from? 

I am tired. I am tired of the news, of the pain of the world, ot the pain of the earth and its creatures, of the stress of not knowing what will happen in our election. I am tired from the stress of memories that come unbidden from my past.

I feel as if my soul is trying to get my attention and point to where I need to allow some healing to take place. Scars that may have broken open again need to be tended. 

For me, the medicine that I need on days like this is to have quiet and to have more solid boundaries with the rest of the world. I don’t want to talk with anyone, as my experience is that I am too tender right now to expose this part of me, to risk perhaps not having it heard. Today I needed to hear myself completely and allow space for all of it to be heard, validated, and to come out. 

Today I let myself feel all of the losses. I felt grief. I felt regret. I felt the sense of time gone, and going by ever more quickly. 

And yet, there was still part of me that felt that I should get out there and participate more fully and not shut down.

Nope. Not today. Today I faced this in the quiet of my home, alone, not talking with anyone. Today I just let myself feel sad or whatever I needed to feel. 

What might have brought this on? Perhaps lately I may have allowed some boundaries to be crossed that did not feel right, or I didn’t listen to what I might have needed or wanted. Maybe I gave myself away somewhere and the protest has risen inside me, demanding to be heard. 

I felt raw. It’s ok, really. Isn’t that one of the gifts of being alive, to feel? It doesn’t always feel pleasant or joyful or fun. That’s ok. It doesn’t have to. It’s all part of this path of life. 

So, today I was extra sensitive, extra tender, and I needed to say no. Not today. It was what I needed, for me, and that is reason enough. I don’t have to justify it to anyone, including what can be the relentless jury inside my own head. 

If I allow the space and permission for all the no inside me to come out, I can then know and better trust when I want to say yes. I can trust that my yes is authentic and real if I know that I can say no when I need to. 

So, the phone was not answered today. Texts and emails were not responded to, except briefly, so that folks knew I was still alive. The door was not opened. The walls were up and the fortress was closed.

It will open again, but not today. 

Time to figure out what I can no longer do and focus on what I can.

I went on another field trip recently with my local zoo, where I have volunteered for over 11 years. We were going to help put together cages for a rabbit project where the staff are trapping a species of rabbit that has been dying from a certain virus. The trapped rabbits are then vaccinated and released back into the wild. 

This was my second time joining this project field trip. This time, I was the oldest among all that had volunteered. And I felt it.

I needed to sit in a chair to do the work, as sitting on the floor comfortably and trying to do the work was no longer an option. 

My hands don’t quite handle small tasks as well, nor do they have the strength that they once did. I had a harder time negotiating what we had to do with the cages that we were putting together and noticed that I was slower than most in doing what needed to be done.

My eyes, even with glasses, don’t see quite as well as they did. Yes, it may be time to go get them checked again, but they are not the same as they once were.

I felt sad and a bit embarrassed about it all. I was embarrassed in front of these younger people and my not being able to keep up with them. I did what I could and soon stationed myself at one of the tasks that I could better handle, although it was still a challenge to complete. 

I came home tired and soon put myself to bed. 

Awakening to reality and conscious choices to be made.

The next day I woke up thinking that I would not be volunteering for that kind of field trip again. It’s not something that I can do comfortably anymore. My spirit is willing, but my body has other ideas about it all.

It’s time to re-evaluate what I can do and what might be best left to others. I am not giving up on activities altogether, but I am realizing that I need to discriminate more about what I sign up for. I need to consult my body first. 

I need to let go of things like climbing the ladder to get to the roof to clean the skylights or climbing the steep hill on the back of my property. Going up the hill is ok, but coming down is a whole other level of challenge.

I’ve been noticing walking sticks that some other elders use when walking in my beloved redwood park. I am told that they really can be game changers.

Aging is humbling. I begin to realize that if I do not face and accept the changes that are occurring, rather than trying to deny reality, I may get stuck trying to do things that may not be the best, either for me or others. I may lose the opportunities to participate in things where I can more fully contribute and be of service. 

The dance may be slower, but there is dance in me yet. I just need to adjust my steps. 

Self-care is becoming more and more important.

It is true that I need to get back to more stretching and more exercise, which has been more difficult lately due to some issues that I have had with my foot. But I can still do more than I have been doing, and at this age, I realize how important it is to keep moving what we can, when we can. I want to participate as fully as I can in life. So, these days I must take my aging body into account more than I have been willing to admit.

I can keep going to the gym, do what I can with various injuries and try to heal what I can. And I need to work on some new exercises that we elders need to focus on, like floor recovery, in case of a fall. Floor recovery is about working on how to get up from different places where we might fall. Maybe there will be something to grab onto nearby, but this may not always be the case. 

I need to get serious about losing some weight. This will help with movement and my well-being in general. The goal is now primarily for health and much less a desire to look good. 

Fashion is no longer that important to me. I love seeing older women embrace fashion and really look stunning. That doesn’t seem to be my path. Comfortable shoes and clothes have become my priority. 

My aging face is different, as is my body. These are outward manifestations of the truth of aging. Now I face another level, seeing that my functioning is different.

Things I can change and those that I cannot and the gifts in it all. 

 I can lose some of the extra weight that I carry, but the weight of sadness, grief and loss is here with me to stay.

This weight of sadness can also come with the gift of deep gratitude. I notice that I have a deeper appreciation these days for each moment. I can take such delight in loving connections with others, both human and non-human. I feel my boundaries grow thinner as I feel the earth and its plants, trees and creatures all around me and even within me. I am often moved to tears from the beauty of the earth around me and I am so very grateful. 

The freedom that comes with choice.

There is freedom in saying no to things and to people that may not always be in my best interest . There is the freedom to then move to what does nourish me and help me thrive. 

No longer do I need to bear the weight of others’ judgments and opinions. No longer do I have to accept disrespect. No longer do I have to take care of others at my own expense. 

I can stretch my body, but realize that I no longer need to stretch myself out of my being and beyond my boundaries to accommodate that which is not good for me. 

I can slow down in doing what I do. I no longer need to try to live at the speed of youth. I can slow down to the speed of wisdom and appreciation for each sacred moment. Let me enjoy each moment, do what I can with a full heart and spirit, give where I can, and rest as needed. 

I can allow myself to do nothing when that is what I need, as this quiet time helps me hear the voice of the Universe, both within me and outside of me.

 I can keep learning to enjoy the art of being. I can be more conscious to choose what is appropriate for me now and relish each moment. I can appreciate this wonderful body and all that it has given me and continues to give me. 

My heart still beats and loves. My spirit speaks eloquently and softly. I am still so very much alive. 

I will never understand how and why interrupting others became acceptable.

I have always hated meetings, and I am not a fan of larger groups. One reason is that it often seems to be the norm to interrupt each other, with the loudest voice winning, usually (although not always) male voices.

Maybe we should use the Native American talking stick ritual. The talking stick is a wooden stick, often beautifully decorated. At the gathering or meeting, the only person who can speak is the one holding the talking stick. This then gives everyone the space to speak with assurance that they will have the time that they need and the respect given to speak without interruption. What a great idea! 

Why is it that sometimes, even though I am speaking, someone might think that it is ok to start saying what they want with no regard for whether I am finished or not? And when I might dare to comment about how I was not finished with what I was saying, they sometimes take offense resulting in some tension in the room. 

Does the interrupter think that what they have to say is more important that what I have to say? 

Even when I do speak, it is not always heard.

And sometimes, if I say something in a quieter tone, and someone else shortly thereafter may say the very same thing, but louder, that can then result in them getting the credit for saying what I have already said. 

I don’t assume it is intentional. I have noticed how frequently this pattern of interruption and speaking over someone seems to be the norm. Unfortunately, quieter voices can get drowned out enough times that they stop trying altogether. 

I have allowed and given permission to others to do this in my life.

I have a friend who I recently told that I feel like I have to interrupt him to get a word in. We talk about fascinating ideas and thoughts, and the conversations can be lively. But lately I have noticed that I get interrupted quite a bit. Maybe I just didn’t notice this pattern before. Maybe now, as an elder working on finding and using my voice more, I notice these things more. I may have, in the past, given the message that this was acceptable to do, since I didn’t speak up about it. It is sobering to realize just how much I have been silenced and then how much I have learned to silence myself, at times not even recognizing when it is happening.

Time is running short, as does my patience with not being able to say the things that I want to say. I don’t have time for this anymore. I have had enough.

Are senior voices discounted as well?

Perhaps not only is there a disadvantage to having a quieter voice, but also a senior voice. Do our voices, as elders, also become invisible as we do? Are we now heard less, ironically at a time when we may have more to say and to offer from our years of experience. 

So much hunger to be heard and seen.

I know that people are hungry to be heard and seen. And so, at times when they feel like someone might be really listening, once the floodgates are open, they want to let out all that has been inside. 

Claiming our space to talk.

I was watching a video on Youtube recently. Although I cannot remember any of the specific details of the video, one part of it really stood out for me. One man, when he was being interrupted, kept repeating the phrase “I am going to finish what I am saying. I am going to finish what I am saying.” I was struck by how this was a declaration, a statement. I respected that and thought of how often what I have said, when interrupted in the past, has been more of a request, as in “Can I please finish what I was saying?” Can you notice how different each of these feels?

Another issue in this dance of interruption that comes into play is that I sometimes need a minute to compose my thoughts as to what exactly I want to say. There is often no grace given for any time that may be needed, as the silence quickly gets filled by someone else chiming in. I haven’t figured out how to work with this issue yet. I like to take a moment to process my thoughts at times, to state what I want as clearly as I can, and I then lose my turn to speak. 

The earth needs us to listen as well.

I think of this in broader terms as well. The earth is being ravaged, animals are being abused or killed for profit, beings that may not speak as humans do and then get tossed aside, used, ignored. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that I relate to animals so much. Their voices are not taken into consideration. What would they tell us if we could listen to them and understand? Can we stop and listen to the sounds and voices of nature without interrupting them with our own plans, lists, ideas, and goals? Can we slow down and hear? 

My writing is one place I won’t be interrupted.

I think that this is one of the reasons that I love writing so much. I can’t get interrupted. I have all the time that I need to say what I want and to edit it so that I make it as clear as I can. The same holds true for texts and e-mails. I have space to say what I want, although I certainly can’t guarantee whether it will be read or received completely. I have a friend who won’t even read e-mails that are what she considers too long.

How do we deal with all of these interruptions?

How do we ensure that a conversation that is supposed to be dialogue does not become a monologue. Human conversation needs room and space for all to contribute and to be heard. 

During some of the political debates in the past, they even had to shut off the microphones of the person who was not answering the question at the time so as to stop interruptions. Is this how we treat each other? Must we fight to get our own words and opinions in without allowing space for others? Is it really necessary to take the center stage, to be the focus, to get the attention sometimes at the cost of another? When did everything become such a competition that does not include respect for each other?

Maybe we need to make space formally in our meetings and in our conversations. Perhaps we can create a designated time to ensure that all who want to say something have the chance. We can even name it something like the the quiet voice segment. We could have a little light in front of each person that lights up when they want to speak. And until that light goes off, they can’t be interrupted. We could even have a wisdom of experience segment, a place to honor seniors and to hear what they have to say.

Of course we would also have to build in safeguards for anyone who might monopolize the conversation, which is a whole other issue. 

We all deserve a safe enough space to speak our truth, to know that we will not be disrespected by interruptions, to know that we are all valued and can all be heard. We all have something to offer, if we stop talking and take the time to listen, trusting that we will each have the chance to speak as well. 

Sadness, grief, and depression each bring their own lessons.

Lately I have been feeling sad, depressed, and in grief over losses. Losses seem to come more frequently these days as I continue this aging path.

I experienced the loss of a dear friend recently. I hadn’t realized that this friend, who I came to know as we volunteered together at the zoo, meant as much to me as he did until he was gone. It strikes me how often this is true.

I visited the mausoleum where my mother’s remains lie on what would have been her 99th birthday. Has it been 14 years already? And with my father, has it already been 29 years? Where did all those years go?

I remember close friends that I have lost and feel how much I miss them. 

I remember pets. That is such a different kind of loss for me, the depth of which I cannot describe adequately. It is the loss of another being where I felt completely accepted and loved, just as I was. No masks or forced smiles were needed. The rawness exposed was ok. 

Losses of parts of ourselves.

There are losses of parts of myself. I can still feel, inside me, the young woman who felt seen in a different way, sometimes uncomfortably so, but seen. And now she has become invisible. 

I remember myself as the worker who felt part of a community as we drove to work each day, slower on the way there on Mondays and speeding home on Fridays.

I remember myself as the younger woman who was not fearful of adventures, not needing to be careful of various body parts and aware of what might not be as safe. It’s not that I took dangerous risks, but I didn’t have to so carefully weigh and measure risk. I didn’t have to take myself by the hand, pushing myself to do things, as much.

I remember myself in romantic relationships, taking my childhood dynamics and issues with me and acting them out there, unfortunately. Now I realize that I really needed to get to know myself better first before entering the dance of intimacy with another. I needed to learn my own dance steps first. I needed to feel where my boundaries were and what space I took up that was sacred and not to be violated. I have finally given myself the space now to learn those lessons, later in life. It is bittersweet. It is sweet to finally come home to myself, and bitter in wishing that I could have learned this sooner, perhaps been better able to negotiate the space of two separate humans being close to each other. 

Grief for parts of our lives. 

I grieve parts of my life that are coming to an end. I volunteer at the local zoo, having had that be part of my life now for over 11 years, with the elephants. We will lose our last elephant soon, as he will be moved to a beautiful elephant sanctuary in Tennessee where he can be with other elephants and live out his life simply being an elephant. No guests are allowed. There are thousands of acres there. I am happy for this wonderful creature to be able to move to this beautiful space, but sad to lose contact with him.

I may try and find another spot where they might need me, at the zoo, or at another facility that helps animals. But I will miss my sacred time with these majestic beings. 

Pre-grief, anticipatory grief.

Not only do we humans grieve, but we also pre-grieve losses that we know are coming.

Even our own mortality takes on a new and deeper sense of reality as we age. We see the breaking down of our bodies over time. We see and feel the loss of our family and friends. We see aging and death, and now more deeply realize that we have been in this dance all along. Our time is coming. The path ahead is much shorter than the miles behind us. 

And so, I feel sad these days. It hurts and sometimes I try and escape it with distractions. But it comes back, not to be denied. 

Sharing carefully.

 I am more careful these days as to where I share my feelings. Not everyone can hear grief and sadness without trying to somehow fix it. We are not taught how to simply sit with each other with all our feelings, to simply be close by and allow one another to feel what they feel and let them know that we are still there beside them.

 I am so grateful for writing here as it is one of my lifelines to myself. I feel seen and heard when I get responses and am touched when my writing resonates with others and they feel less alone, perhaps, for a moment in time. I feel the connection, even though we are not physically together.

Each of us travels this road alone, although we may hold each other’s hands along the way. As Ram Dass so eloquently wrote “We’re all just walking each other home.” But walk this path we must. 

Working through the paralysis that feelings can bring.

Sometimes the feelings are so overwhelming that I have trouble getting motivated to do anything else. 

It doesn’t help that I have had to reduce my walking because of issues with my feet lately. Walking in the redwoods is my medicine and therapy. Today I will wear my orthopedic boot and see how I can walk, perhaps at least a bit, into the forest. I need to be around those sacred beings. I need to feel their wisdom of the years and feel held by them, hear the wind whisper to me through their leaves. It is my church. 

Perhaps then, if I allow the tears to flow in a space where I feel that they are heard, understood, held, and accepted, I can begin to better give that to myself and then keep moving in this life that I still inhabit, for however long that I may have left. Maybe then I can once again immerse myself more fully into my life as I am able. 

 Sadness must be acknowledged and felt, for me, to feel the joy. Death must be acknowledged to more fully participate in this life that we have been gifted with for a while. Grief must be felt to honor the connections and love. Depression can remind me to pay attention to what I might have been avoiding inside of myself. 

So here I am, feeling it all. It’s not fun, but it’s all beautiful in its own way. It is part of the fabric of my life, and I want to honor it. I think that I have been trying to escape it recently, and when I do this, the depression increases rather than simply allowing me to feel the sadness and grief. So, I am diving into it, into this part of my being and life, allowing it to have the space that it demands inside of me. 

 I will do this with a sense of gratitude for it all, for this gift of being able to feel all these things, for the gift of this precious life. 

Everyone is living a story. Can we take the time to hear it?

How little we sometimes know about the people that we interact with. 

Lessons at the zoo/ lessons for life.

I was speaking with one of the other volunteers at the local zoo, where I have been lucky enough to volunteer for the past 11 years. She and I were having a conversation about our recent loss of one of our dear docents. We all loved him. She and I talked about him, about aging, about life, death, how brief it all is, how lovely the memorial service had been. 

We talked about our elephant, standing next to each other in front of him. He will be leaving us soon to travel to a beautiful elephant sanctuary in Tennessee. We lost our other elephants through the last several years, moved our last female elephant to this same sanctuary last year (female elephants need to be around other elephants even more quickly than males do). Our last remaining elephant needs to be around other elephants as well. So, we will send him off with sadness, love, and happiness about where he will be going. He can have friends there. He can possibly reconnect with our female elephant who used to be his friend here. 

Then she and I stood quietly next to each other, enjoying being near each other in that moment.

She spoke up and said that she didn’t really have any energy today and didn’t feel like doing much. I responded that for me, I have found that it’s important to pay attention to what my body and spirit might be telling me. I encouraged her to take it easy, be gentle with herself. 

I didn’t really know much about her, but I knew that I was drawn to her gentle spirit and kindness and could sense that about her. She spoke again. She went on to say that she was so tired today. I was quiet as I continued to listen.

She told me that she was the primary caregiver for her husband, who is suffering from Parkinson’s and is in a quite severe stage of it. She went on to say that she felt like she had already put in a full day of work before she even came in for her shift at the zoo. Today it got to her. Today she was more depleted and tired. I could see it in her eyes. I could hear it in her voice.

How little we know about what struggles another may be going through. How eager some of them may be to share some of that, to have someone hear part of their story, their life, their daily struggles and challenges. 

I was so moved. Here was this woman, always smiling to others, being kind and reaching out to help others learn about the various animals that they were in front of, with kindness and compassion. And now I heard a bit about what her life at home was like. 

I had no words. There are no words sometimes that seem adequate. I walked closer to her and pulled her in for a hug, sensing that this was ok with her. I tried to communicate with my hug that I heard her and in that moment in time wanted to offer her my kind attention and compassion.

She thanked me and told me that she needed that. After a bit she said that she needed to get back to her shift and walk around the zoo being available for questions. I could see that she was close to tears and that she seemed to want to do that alone. I respected that and wished her well, told her I would see her next time that we met at the zoo.

Elephants and Children. Great teachers.

I have observed the elephants for all of these years, and have learned to stop, move more slowly, really learn to be with another being. To stop and really watch and listen with no preconceived expectations is something that I did not really take the time to do in my youth.

I watch the children at the zoo while on my shifts there. Some of them become mesmerized standing in front of our majestic elephant. We make eye contact. We are together in that moment, and I want to honor the part of them that sees and feels that sacred moment. I want to let them know that I see them, that I am there with them. One little girl, much to my surprise as well as that of her parents, came close to me and worked her way to stand in front of me leaning against my legs as we both watched the mystery in front of us. No words were needed, only what was felt on a level beyond words.

Lessons in everyday life.

I walk down the street and make eye contact with others, smile and almost always get a smile back. I talk with clerks at the grocery store, with my mail carrier when she sometimes delivers packages that do not fit in my mailbox. I talk with folks next to me at the gym. There are so many stories, such courage in life, such challenges that people face, all unknown to most of us. They bravely carry on, sometimes so very tired, and sometimes so sad and needing a kind word or gesture. 

I respond to stories here that I read, and try to respond to comments that I receive on my stories. I am grateful that people take the time to read what I have written, when they let me know that my story may have touched something inside of them. It is such a gift to me. It is one of my hopes for my writing, that I might help someone else feel a bit more understood and a bit less alone for a few moments. 

We are all so hungry to be seen and heard. 

One of the gifts of aging.

As I age, I find it interesting that I want to slow down. When younger, I felt like I wanted to move faster, to get it all in, to do a lot of things, to squeeze in life as much as possible. And now, as an elder, I want to slow down and savor things that I might have rushed by before. I want to notice the present moment and live in it more. 

Now I understand the delight of watching a bird take a bath in my backyard. It is a ballet that is beautifully choreographed to its own music, the movements graceful and mesmerizing.

I really try and listen more to each conversation that I might become part of, to hear what is said and beyond that, to hear what is unsaid, what the eyes and body language might be telling me. 

I go for walks in the redwoods and I walk slowly. The younger joggers and runners pass me by, some wearing headphones and looking intensely ahead, focused on their goal. It’s great, I think, that they get to run in such a beautiful place. I wonder how many of them really see it. 

I make eye contact on these walks with those that are open to that. Our gazes meet and we smile, often, acknowledging that we are kindred spirits in this special cathedral of the redwoods. We are here for the sacredness. We feel the trees and their essence, and can then also sometimes better feel our own essence and that of each other. 

I am in awe of life. I am in awe of all the struggles and the resiliency of the human spirit, of how we can connect and touch each other’s souls in certain moments. I am so grateful to be honored enough to have others sometimes share their stories with me, both in person and here. I am grateful to be able to share some of mine here, as well, with you. 

They can help those of us who are left. 

I attended a memorial service for a dear friend the other day. He was a fellow volunteer that I had the pleasure and honor of working beside at the elephant exhibit at our local zoo. We both adored elephants and bonded over our love of these majestic creatures. We became friends.

You never know where and when you will make an important connection in your life. You might not even realize the importance of that connection until it’s gone. 

That happened to me with my friend that I will, for this article, call Henry. 

Meet Henry.

He was 93. Yes, I know that he had a good life, and I am glad about that. He got to do what he loved until the very end. 

That doesn’t make the pain of losing him be any less. 

He volunteered six days a week, driving himself there. He loved it and would say “What else am I going to do, sit at home?” He would engage with all who walked by him, asking “Who wants to know something about elephants?” It was such a delight to watch the interactions between him and all the guests. 

He would tell the many stories he had accumulated over the years. Some of them poignant as he educated people about the ivory trade and how elephants are killed for this. Some of his stories were funny, like about the little boy who yelled “Look at the trunk of the baby elephant coming out of that big elephant!” as he watched our (very well endowed) male elephant. There would be such laughter from the guests. 

Henry and I would chat in the mornings before the guests began to arrive, and we began to get to know each other. We would talk about the zoo, the guests, and he would tell me about his life, his wife who had died some time ago, his acting history, his thoughts about aging ( he was continually amazed at how thin his skin had become, so much so that he wore a jacket or long sleeves all the time as his skin tore easily with any bump or scrape). I understand more and more what he was talking about as I continue my own aging path. 

He loved seeing and hearing all the languages and races and ethnicities of people who visited the zoo and would always say how lucky we were to live in an area rich with so many cultures and differences. 

He would talk about times past and things like what the price of gas used to be back in his day (10 cents!). He was grateful each day that he was still alive and still able to do what he loved. 

Pay attention to the gift of this present moment in time. 

One day, our elephant was determined to work on a particular pile of branches that were on the far upper side of the exhibit, opposite where Henry usually stationed himself. Since my job is to observe and record, I didn’t get to walk close to Henry for a while. By the time our elephant moved, Henry was busy with guests, so I didn’t get to talk to him that day. 

I’ll catch him on our next day together, I thought. 

That was the last day that I saw Henry. I heard that he went home after his shift and had a major stroke. 

Note to self…Each time that you see someone may be the last time that you ever see them. Remember that. Don’t assume a future. 

I visited him in the nursing facility where he was sent after being released from the ICU at the hospital. The staff at the rehab nursing facility had worked hard with him that morning with the various therapies (physical therapy, speech therapy). He was exhausted and didn’t wake up while I was there. I had brought a few photos of our elephant and asked the nursing staff to hang them up in his room so that he could see them when he woke up. 

His family, after a few days, let the zoo staff know that they had brought him home and that he was in hospice now. We were told that our zoo staff and volunteers could visit him at home.

Unfortunately, I had to isolate and quarantine myself as I got COVID for the first time. So, I didn’t get to visit Henry at home. By the time I finally tested negative for COVID, he had died. 

Lesson repeated…Treat each time that you are with someone as if it is the last. It very well may be. 

The memorial, which really was for all of us to come together and share.

The family had a memorial service held at the zoo, in a beautiful building that they use for special events. 

I had never met his family. Yet here we all were together, his biological family and his zoo family, coming together in our sadness and pain. I forced myself to stand up and speak at his memorial, although this is not something that I usually am comfortable with. I wanted to share my experience with Henry, to let his family know about yet another piece of him. I looked around at all those that loved him, honoring and celebrating his life and who he was. I shared how very grateful I was to have known him and to have had him be part of my life for a while. 

How little we sometimes know about some people in our lives, about the rest of their lives, about their history, about what others love about them, about who not only they are in front of us, but who they have been to others, about the whole of them. We may not know how loved and cherished they have been, how special they have been to so many. There is so much to each person that we encounter, each soul that stands in front of us. There are so many stories that we do not know.

So, I got to hear more about who Henry was. His son spoke, his daughter spoke, his grandchildren were all there as were his great grandchildren.

Some of the other volunteer docents spoke, sharing their own memories, and especially about how Henry would always get up and sing at some point during their meetings. He sang once for me, his favorite song…What a Wonderful World (composed by Bob Thiel and George David Weiss). I will never forget that. Now I have two voices in my heart that sing that to me, Louis Armstrong and Henry. 

Hung all around at the memorial were photos of him as a child, as a young man, as a young husband and father, and as an actor on the stage. His son had also put together a video, where we could not only see him through the years, but hear once again his wonderful baritone voice. There were tears and smiles all around. 

The memorial was beautiful. It was to honor Henry. It also was for those of us left here on this earth at this moment in time, to honor our love for him, to honor our loss and grief. It enabled us to come together and bring some comfort to each other, knowing we were together in this deep human process of grief, acknowledging that we each face this with family and friends that we will lose, and that eventually we will be the ones who leave. 

I miss Henry. I came to love him. And I am so grateful to have been able to be part of the memorial that honored and celebrated him. It helped me feel a bit less alone for a while. 

Henry, I will take your spirit with me so that we can be together once again in front of our wonderful elephants. I am so very grateful to have shared a bit of this path with you. 

Sending elephant trumpets and rumbles, my friend. 

Both feelings are intertwined in this later stage of life. 

It’s Sunday morning 3am. 

Waking up feeling such sadness this morning, and unable to go back to sleep, I find that I need to write.

I will attend a memorial for a friend this week. I will call him Henry. Henry was a fellow volunteer at the local zoo where I have been volunteering for 11 years. He was there for over 30 years. He was able to keep doing this, talking about elephants to all who were interested, up until the day that he had a stroke about a month ago. At 93, he would drive himself to the zoo 6 days per week. He was an inspiration to me. 

We are going to be moving our last elephant at the zoo soon to an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee. He will have elephant friends there and also be able to see another elephant that we moved there last September. They can reconnect. It will be good for him. I remind myself of this when I feel the sadness at no longer having him be part of my week, my routine, my life. Sanctuaries are so much better for those elephants that cannot be in the wild. Even though our zoo loved him and provided the best a life that we could for him, this sanctuary has thousands of acres compared to our 6 acres. We have slowly lost all of ours over the past two years. We had 4 when I started, then 3, then 2, now 1, soon none. 

Henry used to wonder what he would do when our last elephant moved. Well, that’s no longer a concern. He left before the elephant did. 

Here it is again, the circle of life, the certainty of death, the lessons of age. He was 93. Yes, he lived a good life, and thankfully was able to do what he enjoyed up to the very end. But I still miss him, and I am still sad. That’s to be expected and normal. 

I lose more friends as the years go by. Even celebrities that I grew up with, when they die, have a huge impact on me. I am watching this generation leave to make room for the next, who will do the same when it is their time. 

There is the daily grief of aging. My body doesn’t do what it used to do. New pains and aches, new conditions, new issues to deal with come up regularly. It’s humbling. 

The face and body that I see in the mirror are not what I am used to yet. I struggle with trying not to compare what I used to look like with what the reality is now. It can be pretty harsh, jarring, shocking. I don’t look in the mirror as much these days. 

My energy level is not what it was. Granted, I am recovering from a bout of COVID, so right now that has really changed. But even before that, naps seem to be a common part of my routine these days, whether I intend to take them or not. 

I now look around my home to see what I can let go of next. It’s a time of life to reduce belongings, to simplify, to declutter. Accumulating things no longer has any appeal. I don’t need more stuff. Less is better and helps me feel lighter. I am trying to lighten the load before my final trip, a trip where not even carry-on baggage is allowed. 

Grief is my constant companion now. We will finish this journey together. 

And yet, there is more. 

I am in awe when I take a walk in the redwoods at the beauty and sacredness around me. Touching one of these wondrous trees as I walk by can bring me to tears. I feel a connection, a kinship, a feeling of being understood and held somehow.

I take delight in watching the birds bathe in my backyard. It is one of the best ballets that I have seen. It feels like a gift to be able to provide the space for them to do this, to provide water for both baths and thirst. I am delighted and grateful.

I can feel such a depth of connection even with someone that I don’t formally know when we walk by and make genuine eye contact and smile. We see each other and time stops for that moment as we connect.

Deep conversations with friends bring me satisfaction and a feeling of being heard, really heard. 

I can cry at the kindness of others. A kind word, a helping hand, someone reaching out to connect can touch me beyond what I can describe. Even online, the connections are moving and important to me. I am grateful once again. 

I appreciate the beauty of the earth around me, even more as I am now more aware of a time when I will no longer be here to see it, feel it, be in it. Where did all those years go? How did I get here so quickly? I breathe it all in. For this moment, I am still here.

I am still here. I am still alive, still experiencing all of this, even the sadness and grief. How lucky I am. How wonderful, poignantly bittersweet and wonderful this life can be. 

Aging seems to be a place where I can learn more and more to contain all the feelings, even those that seem to contradict each other. Life is not simple, not black or white. Neither are we. 

What a gift it is to be here still, to be conscious of this life, of its end, and of the exquisite pain and joy of being alive. 

We are flooded with trauma after trauma, both personally in life, and in the news. It takes a toll.

Life is a journey, one that contains trauma. 

The older that I become, the more this seems to get inside of me and can sometimes even immobilize me.

We each have our own personal traumas. We come from different childhoods, different experiences. Life happens. There can be injuries, illnesses, accidents, losses in every shape and form. Some of us are born into more severe trauma right from the start. We each have our own wounds to heal from and to work through. They are all part of life.

Earth in Trauma.

The earth is in trauma. Climate change is wreaking havoc on all of us. Plants, animals, all of us are suffering from it. Species are dying, disappearing. Weather patterns are killing so many of us. We see more and more turmoil in the form of hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, draughts, extreme heat, fires, disasters. 

Human created trauma.

There are wars, hatred, division, death, human-made trauma. We feel conflict brewing all around. 

Mass shootings are becoming a regular part of our news. We feel the pain of children dying, children shooting children. 

We have so much political name calling, with lies, further dividing all of us into we and them. It all serves to accentuate how we are different. And fear is fueled, the message given that the difference is to be feared, destroyed, and conquered, assassinated. 

It can feel like too much. I feel powerless in the face of it all. Like I was powerless in my childhood, so I now feel. 

The trauma of aging.

Aging brings its own traumas.

Our bodies are declining, some more slowly, but still declining.

We are viscerally faced with the reality of mortality, the realization that we have an expiration date. Add to that the fact that we don’t know how functional we may remain until that date comes. It’s scary, this thought of loss of independence, loss of things that we took for granted, loss of who we have seen ourselves to be, with time exacting its cost, a cost that will not be denied, for anyone. 

How do we cope? Owning the darkness within.

Partly I think that one way that we sometimes try and cope, a way that in my opinion doesn’t work so well, is to try to separate the dark that is within us all and see it as outside of us. 

It’s so much easier to see and reject the darkness in others rather than shine the light onto our own shadow. It is my belief that we all contain the darkness within us as well as the light. We must come to know and understand our own darkness, own it, so that we can better control when it comes out. I must accept that I can contain rage and hatred at times within me. If I do not admit that, it can control me rather than vice versa. If we teach our children about all their feelings and how to deal with them, contain them, regulate them as needed, accept them but not have to act them out, perhaps we can change some of what is happening all around us. We contain it all. We are it all. It is the darkness that can help us grow, can help us see what is inside that we can work on, understand, and learn from. It can help us understand and empathize with each other’s pain.

As I see the darkness in others, let me look in that mirror and see what part of myself is reflected to me that I may be reacting to, that I may be blind to within myself and project onto others and then blame them without seeing the part of them that is also in me. 

I hate isms. Yet I need to look at the isms that may exist within me, even toward myself, internalized and so much and for so long a part of me that I cannot see them. I can be ageist toward myself. I have been sexist toward myself. I have internalized isms that I am not even aware of, that can still inform and influence my decisions and actions. 

The sensitivity, a blessing and curse, of the wisdom of our years

And now, as an elder, I see it all more clearly, feel it all more deeply, sense the sadness of it all, the poignancy of it all, and more. 

I cry more easily these days. And that’s ok with me. Tears allow for some of the pain to come out and not completely take over. Tears are a release and a gift. They help me to feel the humanity, the pain, the sadness that is part of this life. There is time enough to be dead to it all when we are dead, yes?

I can barely drive by a poor creature killed on the side of the road these days without feeling some tears come up. I feel how their life was cut off in an instant, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, hit by a car rushing by.

I cry at commercials. It’s painful to see photos of animals suffering everywhere, to hear stories of elephants being killed for their tusks, to make trinkets and things from their teeth. Rhinos are killed for their horns. Animals are being used for entertainment and then abandoned when they no longer serve that purpose. Animals are abused and neglected. Animals are hunted and their heads mounted on a wall as a trophy. Proving what? 

I see children being killed in wars, in shootings. Children who have not yet even begun to live their lives. It’s heartbreaking beyond description. 

I hear about children in this world and their parents starving and dying of thirst. I see photos of their huge wide eyes filled with pain and longing, not understanding why they are going through what they are going through. 

I am overwhelmed by it all. 

And yet, there is still kindness and love

And yet I still have hope inside that we are so much more than all of this. We have love and kindness inside of us that I see evidence of every day all around me, if I look. 

I see strangers helping others, people being kind to each other, people asking how someone is and taking the time to hear the response. People volunteer to help where they feel called to help. People contribute what they can. 

I see children playing with each other, not seeing differences until they are taught. 

There are people trying to save the earth and its creatures. People are trying to reach out and extend a hand of help when they can, empathizing, trying to understand, trying to slow down and stop all the hatred and division. 

Love shows itself. I think that we are all in trauma these days, and it can almost begin to feel normal. We don’t have to accept that. First, we can acknowledge the depth and reality of all the trauma we all feel. We can be kind to each other, be gentle to our fellow trauma survivors. 

We can work to harvest the richness of kindness and love that we all have within us. We can come together instead of apart. We can join hands, across the chasm of words that may separate us, trying to at least understand each other rather than attacking what may be different. Maybe we can be like the lotus who grows out of the dark mud to form a beautiful flower. Maybe we can keep going, keep hoping, keep trying, keep reaching, keep loving. I hope so. 

I am humbled by the spirit to get up and keep going.

There are heroes all around, everyday heroes, with the courage to keep going, keep trying, keep living.

There is much turmoil in our world. We have wars, mass shootings, election traumas, suffering, pain of the planet and its inhabitants, divisiveness, conflict, hatred, chaos.

And yet, if I look around, there is much loving spirit and kindness. 

There are people who have been in tremendous struggle. As a former social worker, I have witnessed much trauma and struggle in my various jobs. I have seen much unspeakable pain. Yet I have been awed by the spirit to go on, to keep laughing when we can, to keep loving when we can, to keep living while we can. 

My own personal struggles recently seem minor in comparison to the suffering in the world. Yet, I believe, they can be a small example of how we keep going, how we can get knocked down temporarily and get up once again, until we do not. 

I have had a few foot issues lately which have stopped me from walking much. Taking long walks in the redwoods is my therapy, my cathedral. I get scared that I won’t be able to get back to it, this piece of sanity for me in this crazy world. These majestic beings, these redwoods, speak to me of calmness, reminding me to stop and breathe and simply be. I am reminded to be in their presence, to be in my own presence, to stop the chatter.

So, I have been coping with that recent issue and doing my best, hoping to heal this enough to take long walks once again.

The next challenge.

I woke up one day not feeling well at all. So I tested myself, and I was positive for COVID. Somehow, I had managed to not get COVID up to this point, but here I was. And my own quarantine began. I am grateful for the treatments now, for the vaccines that I have taken that I am certain have made this case much milder than it might have been, for the Paxlovid, for the time to heal and be quiet as I heal. But it got my attention as it stopped me in my tracks. 

And another.

I got news that a friend who I volunteer at the zoo with (with our wonderful elephants) had a stroke. He is 93 and had the stroke after one of his recent shifts at the zoo, doing what he has loved to do for over 30 years. He was not doing well, I was told, and his family had brought him home. I will visit, if possible, once I get out of this quarantine time, if he is still here. I know he is 93, but that doesn’t make this any less sad for me. I miss his presence at the zoo. I miss his laughter and song and resilient spirit. I miss him keeping the light on for me as I continue my own aging path. 

Our elephant, Osh, the remaining one that we have, will be moved this fall, to a beautiful elephant sanctuary in Tennessee. We moved another of our elephants, Donna, there last fall when she lost her longtime companion, Lisa, who became too ill to keep going. Female elephants need to be around other female elephants. Male elephants can be solitary a bit longer, but they eventually also need to be around other elephants. Hopefully Osh and Donna will find each other. They will have elephant companions there. And guests are not allowed to visit the elephants. Donna and Osh will just get to live out the rest of their lives being elephants in a huge sanctuary (thousands of acres) with friends. I am sad to lose him, sad to lose my time volunteering with these elephants that I have been blessed enough to have enjoyed for the past 11 years. And I am happy that he is going to go to such a beautiful place where he will be well cared for and no longer alone.

 I don’t know if I will continue to volunteer at the zoo. Time will tell. It may be the end of this era for me, which is poignant and bittersweet. And yet this is part of life, this letting go, this continual changing and shifting and loss of what we have known. 

Changes everywhere.

I watched the presidential debate. I don’t want to discuss politics here. I simply want to acknowledge the poignancy of the relentlessness of Father Time taking who he will when he will. The march of life. The path of aging that we each take, not knowing what may come next, not knowing when the beginning of the end is. Our spirit may be strong, but time marches on, bringing what it will. Is this reality? Yes. And yet it is still heartbreaking to watch in front of our eyes. 

I visited the mausoleum recently on what would have been my father’s birthday. I visit often. I feel like I get to know some of the others who are “residents” there. I have always noticed a crypt next to that of my mother. There lie the remains of a woman whose husband left a beautiful memorial to her, talking about their love and wanting to spend eternity with her, with the grace of God. His name and photo showed up on the crypt the other day. He had recently died and was now lying next to his beloved wife. Somehow, I felt like I knew them both a bit, felt their presence and deep love. I quietly sat and honored them there, wishing them the togetherness and reunion that he had prayed for. 

I have felt knocked down recently. Things add up inside of us. We all have lived with much trauma, both personally and collectively. It takes a toll. I feel it. Sometimes I just lie down and feel it all. Sometimes the tears come for a while. It’s ok, it’s part of being human, and I am grateful to feel it all. 

After a while, I get up. I take out the garbage. I put things away in the kitchen that I didn’t have the energy to do before. I pick up a paintbrush and continue to work on a canvas. I stand in front of the laptop and begin to write again. 

I am humbled by that. I see it all around me. People slowly get back up and carry on. Others sometimes step up to take someone’s place to carry on the work, the battles, the purpose, the life force. 

While we are here, we carry on. And at some point we pass the torch along to the next in line. And they carry on. 

Maybe we can take some comfort in that, that life and love are resilient, that life goes on, that love goes on. 

Things seem to be falling apart one by one by one.

The changes keep coming. The losses keep coming. My body is succumbing to time and wear and tear. I continue to age. And things keep happening.

Footloose? Not so much.

The latest is my feet. They hurt. Walking is now not the easy, don’t think about it, form of therapy that has been so important to me. 

One of my cathedrals is the redwoods. A walk in the redwoods is my visit to a place where my soul can breathe and talk to me, and where I can better hear her. It helps heal me and soothe me. The trees speak to me. I touch them and feel their essence. I feel comforted. 

It’s not a huge illness. It’s something called metatarsalgia. Inflammation of the metatarsals in the foot. It feels like my socks are bunched up, except it feels this way even when I am not wearing socks. 

Rest, ice, reduced walking, even wearing an orthopedic boot are supposed to help. I admit that I don’t wear the boot all the time. There are places that walking with the boot would most likely result in a tumble and rolling down a hill…not pretty. Not safe. 

I sttuggle with weight, and now reduced activity adds to the struggle.

I notice that I walk more slowly. Get winded more easily. Exercise is needed, not to be fit these days, but to keep moving and keep functioning. A necessity. And I miss it right now as I try to do what I can to help my foot heal.

But even more, things that I didn’t think about before now require some thought. I am slowed down, stopped. And I am frustrated. And sad. Because I know that my body continues to break down.

I don’t need to be reminded to be grateful, please. I am grateful for still being here, still being alive, still having the health that I do at this moment in time. I still have a right to feel the sadness as well. It doesn’t negate gratitude, but it needs its space to be. 

So, I am sad. And feeling loss all around me.

I lose parts of my life that were taken for granted until I was forced to pay more attention to them, and not in an easy way.

Visiting a 93-year-old in a nursing rehab facility.

I went to a rehab facility to visit a 93-year-old friend, a fellow volunteer at the local zoo who has been volunteering there for over 30 years. He voluntees with the elephants, where I also spend my time. We chat when we are there together. He has shared some of his stories, which are wonderful. He is a former actor who can break into song easily…most often singing “What A Wonderful World”. Poignant, to say the least.

He had a stroke the other week. He is fed with a feeding tube and is getting physical and speech therapy. He was sleeping when I visited him, as they had worked him hard that morning in therapy. He didn’t wake up when I tried to gently see if I could wake him. He needed his rest. 
So, I spoke softly to him, just in case any part of him could hear anything, as I gently stroked his hand and forehead. He looked so frail. I don’t know what the prognosis is. He is 93. I took some photos of our elephant and asked the staff to tape them up where he could see them when he was awake. Maybe they can bring a smile, a good memory. I hope so. 

I noticed how bruised his skin was from the IVs. I notice how much more easily my skin bruises these days. Sometimes I am not even aware of where I got some of the bruises, as it doesn’t take as much at all now.

Elephant size grief.

We have one elephant left at the zoo these days, and most likely they will be moving him so that he can be with other elephants. That will be good for him. I will miss him terribly. I have been volunteering with the elephants for the last 11 years. It is another of my sacred spaces, standing in awe in front of these majestic beings. When I stand in front of this wonderful elephant, I get quiet. I feel his essence and I hope that he feels mine. There is a connection there between two beings living and breathing in the same space. I am so grateful to have been able to do this in my life. It is such a gift. 

Memories of my parents.

I remember watching my parents age. Now I understand on a deeper level what they were going through, what I could not really grasp at that time, but can now see and feel in myself. 

Aging is high maintenance.

I must plan better these days for outings. I must think about things that I might need to stay comfortable. Spontaneity is not always an option. I think I may have to figure out a “go-bag” designed for myself as a senior, so that perhaps I can simply have a bag ready with things that I might need and can simply grab it and go more easily. 

I need to stretch in the mornings. I need to plan to go to the restroom for preventive peeing. I now think about how much I really need an item that may drop onto the floor. I think about how best to get up from a chair, or practice how to get up from the floor if I end up there at one point. Floor recovery is what they call it in PT, I believe. Who knew?

I need to encourage myself to go and do what I can, even if I have to revise how I might have done that before. Maybe I can take myself to the park and walk a little way in and sit on the benches so as not to further injure my foot.

I need to be more aware of protecting my skin. My 93-year-old friend talked about no longer being able to use band-aids, as they can rip off his skin when he removes them. He would tell the lab staff this each time, as this was not something that they might think about. 

I am more aware of walking on uneven surfaces. Falls are a danger. I hear about elders taking a fall and the difficulty sometimes of recovering from those falls. 

I still go to the gym, but need to be aware of what my body can tolerate, and which machines might not be on the list for a particular day. 

I watch elder classes and realize that I have arrived at this stage. Now I better understand the modifications in exercise or dance. 

Fear/Courage….Just keep moving as you can.

I must admit that I feel afraid sometimes. I’m afraid of what is coming, afraid of the unknown, afraid of what the journey to the end will be like and how to best plan for that, while trying to keep living as fully as I can while I am still here. I want to keep embracing each moment, even with stiffer arms, taking it one step at a time, even with sore feet, keep reaching for things, even if more stiffly, keep learning continually about letting go….breathing, letting go, and still loving while I can. Sometimes loving means saying goodbye, like with our elephant. I want the best for him, even if it means the end of our occupying the same space together. 

I am here. Creaky, sometimes injured, wrinkly, saggy, walking slowly, being invisible to many, except to those of my elder tribe. I am grateful for each moment, even if those moments carry more pain and heartache. I still feel joy, I still breathe, I am still alive.