This would have been our 47th anniversary. We’ve been divorced for 35 years.

47 years ago, I walked down the aisle to marry the man that I dreamed I would be married to for the rest of my life. We were so happy, in love, and ready to start our life together.

12 years later we were divorced. 

We lost touch over the years. He remarried a year after our divorce was final and is still married, having had two children as well.

We both went on with our lives. 

I have had several relationships over the years but chose to not marry again. Today I am single by choice as I work, finally, on finding who I am when not in a primary relationship. It seems that I best do that when alone, at least for now. At my age, I may be done with relationships, and that’s ok. If someone comes along and it’s right, that’s great. If not, that’s ok too. 

Several years ago, maybe a decade, I picked up the phone in my office from an unknown caller. Out of the blue, this man who had been my husband and then out of my life for many years, reached out and called me. 

It was lovely and so very healing for both of us, I think. 

Thus began our keeping in touch on birthdays and anniversaries, mostly by email.

I hadn’t heard from him this morning, our anniversary date, so I began composing my email. I began to write, partly giving him permission if he no longer wanted to have contact, that it was ok, that I would always cherish the memories and love that we had and appreciate the enduring love that we will always have for each other. I went on, as I kept writing, to let him know how special he was to me and would always be, whether we kept in contact or not. 

The phone rang.

It was him. And we talked for an hour and a half, as if we had never been apart. We laughed at funny memories, letting each other know that love would always be there, talked about life, about aging, about trusting each other with any depth of conversation. Tears came, a lot of laughter, memories resurfaced, and connections maintained. 

I am grateful to have been married to him. We were both young and really had no idea what marriage involved. We grew apart, eventually, and could not find our way back to each other. 

And now we have reconnected, with love. This may be a different kind of love, without the labels and issues that can sometimes get in the way when those labels are part of your identity. 

He reads my articles, he said. All of them. I am touched.

 He also always supported my art, which meant a lot to me. 

He holds a part of my history and of me that no one else does. Without siblings or any relatives that I have contact with, I miss having that sense of someone holding parts of me from the past, holding those parts tenderly and with love in their heart. 

He helps me to remember those parts of me at times that I may have forgotten. 

He asks how I am, really wanting to know, waiting for my answer. 

He shared how he has been doing, things he is working on, perhaps struggling with, looking forward to. 

And I was grateful to possibly have been able to offer some comfort, reassurance, and feedback from my having known him and patterns that he may struggle with. 

I am touched by our connection and grateful for our phone conversation. I didn’t realize how much that would move me. It was a journey back to some wonderful times, as well as a careful acknowledgment of the painful times with no blame or ill will, and a reaffirming that what we had did not die, only changed forms. What we had between us grew as it needed, to get to where it is today. 

On the anniversary of our wedding, I am grateful for the years we had and the ties that still exist. These are ties that do not bind but hold tenderly and with love. These are memories that are shared and held in our hearts, a bond that is deep and lifelong, even if we had to part. 

This was such a touching anniversary gift, a gift of love that has not died. A gift of love that does not demand anything, but simply is, and endures. A gift of restoring my faith in love, in its deepest sense. 

I can smile at the internal picture I have of that young couple on their wedding day, 47 years ago, and tell them it will be ok. It will all be ok. Your love will last. 

Happy Anniversary, dear one. 

And to myself I would say, you have loved, been loved, and are still loved. That seems to be the only thing that really lasts. And that is enough. 

It can be a skill and a curse.

I have been told in my life that I can endure. 

I haven’t always known quite how to take that. Was it an insult, compliment, or simple observation?

As an elder, I can look back now and begin to see my ability to endure as I am learning to see everything these days. Things can be both good and bad, can be a blessing or a curse. Our traits can be a skill and can also cause self-harm.

As a child, I had to learn how to endure. I was an only child of immigrant parents who were truly trying to do the best that they could, and in so doing, were incredibly strict. Since they were not familiar with the culture and what was a normal childhood here, I was not allowed to participate much in social activities after school, go to other folks’ houses, have sleepovers. I felt suffocated at times. 

I loved going to school. It got me out of the house and made it possible for me to interact with others. I worked hard to get them to like me, as I didn’t feel very lovable and figured out quickly how to get approval from teachers, which I loved. My father was strict, loved me fiercely, but was not all that affectionate or tender. My mother was loving in a way that could be clinging, wanting me to be with her and do everything that she liked and never be against her or be with anyone else much. She felt betrayed when I left to go to college, and even told a friend of mine later, when I was well into my 50s, that she never really forgave me for leaving her. 

Being a child in that house meant that I learned to do what I needed to do to survive until I could get out of there. I got good at enduring. Very good. 

 When it was time, I fought tooth and nail to go away to college, even using my school counselor to help me. I could feel it was a major turning point in my life and would truly determine my future. I got out. 

But I took that skill of enduring with me when I left home, which has not always served me well.

It means that I learned to put up with whatever was thrown at me. Sometimes I learned to feel that this was what I deserved, that I was unworthy and did not deserve to fight, to stand up in my own defense. I learned that I had no control, no right to any opinion other than what was allowed in my parents’ home, that I had no right. 

I even got bullied at home for allowing others to push me around. I got punished for allowing others to do what I had been taught to allow to have done to myself at home. A no-win situation.

Fast forward to adulthood.

What I learned, I applied. I could endure hard times and get through. That can be a good thing. I could endure the pain that life sometimes brings. Strength and perseverance in times of adversity can be a blessing.

I could also endure disrespect. That was not such a good thing. 

I could endure being treated less than. I sometimes didn’t even recognize when I was being abused emotionally or being bullied. I learned that lesson well at home as a child. I realized that it was time to let that lesson go. 

Now I am in elderhood, and I see that I need to look at this skill of endurance and assess when it is working for me or not.

I have new aches and pains. Are they part of aging, and I just need to deal with them and keep going? I recently finally went to the podiatrist for some foot pain and found out I have something that I can treat and help get better, something called metatarsalgia. I had just kept going thinking that this was the newest pain to learn to live with, but then, thankfully, thought that maybe I should get it checked out just in case there was something that I could do to help it. Now I have an orthopedic boot to wear, and physical therapy exercises to do. 

I used to endure what is less than disrespectful behavior and attitudes toward me. 

Now I know better. I don’t need to accept this toward myself. I don’t deserve it. I can choose to not be around that in whatever way works. I can ask the person to stop that and let them know how what they said or did was hurtful to me. If they can listen, hear that, and change, great. If that doesn’t work, I can choose to no longer have that person be a part of my life, or at least not as close. I don’t want to wish them any harm, but I also don’t have to accept that as part of what comes toward me that can get inside me. 

I have even learned to treat myself the way that I was sometimes treated. I now realize that I don’t need to do this and that I can do something different. I don’t have to accept and repeat those behaviors and attitudes toward myself that I learned to somehow think were what I deserved. I can stop that internal chorus of shame and blame inside my head. I can thank the internal jury for their service, as I know that I learned to do this as a way to try and protect myself, to beat others to the punch. I don’t need to do this anymore. 

I am no longer in a home (external or internal) where I have to repeat and accept things coming toward me that are not respectful or nurturing. I create my own home, external and internal, and I can choose what crosses the boundaries of those homes. 

I don’t have to accept comments about myself, my body, my ancestry, or anything. And I don’t have to accept that I should be able to take a joke. No, I don’t. Not at my own expense. No more. Jokes often carry hostility in them, and then get disguised as only kidding. 

I am working on a new skill, the skill of unlearning an old familiar pattern of always enduring. I am learning to tell the difference in what I should accept, and when I can say no more. No more always enduring. No more never speaking up and being quiet. No more silence in the face of pain. No more. 

We have enough to learn to accept and deal with as we age. We don’t need to add any more to that. We can set limits. We can endure what we must, and change what we can, live as fully as possible, and be our own best advocate, finally.

And now I find myself irritated with science-splaining.

Education is important. As they say, when you know better, you do better. Except when you don’t.

People are more than a collection of facts and information. We are a complex, delightful, and sometimes frustrating species. I know that I find myself to be that way.

We have emotions. We have feelings. And those feelings need to be addressed and heard before we can even sometimes open our ears to anything new or contradictory coming in. If we don’t feel heard and seen, we may have trouble seeing and hearing anything that anyone else is trying to tell us. This can especially be true if a lot of our feelings are connected to whatever the issue may be.

The trigger for writing this article.

I recently was sent an article by a friend that explained how the brain works in response to art and then somehow used that to justify our need for art and the value of art in our lives. This article made some valid points and had some insightful facts. Yet, I found myself bristling a bit at it, which I found both odd and interesting. Why would this be at all irritating? Here was an article talking about the value of art and even how it works in our brain to improve our lives. What could be wrong with that?

So, as I have finally learned in my elder years, rather than berate myself for my reaction, I dug deeper inside to see what might be going on.

What I found was that my reaction was one of feeling like I was being “science-splained” to (as in man-splained, only this time with scientific facts.) 

Don’t get me wrong. I love science and love learning about all the wonderful and life changing discoveries. I am a huge fan of science. It has given us so much over time, and will continue to do so. As an elder, I am amazed at all the changes and gifts that science has given us over the years. 

There is more than knowledge and education going on here. 

 However, I am not a fan of feeling like we must justify why things bring us wonder and why they bring value to our lives. 

My friend, the one who sent me the article, is an executive consultant. He has found it helpful in having his business clients accept what he is teaching when he backs it up with science and facts. He teaches the science behind why teamwork is better, why paying attention to feelings can help their employees and teams, and can help their businesses thrive even more. He speaks their language and then makes it more acceptable for them to get comfortable with this idea of feelings, teamwork, and cooperation. That’s great!

Now this same attitude of explaining why art can be valuable came through in this article.

I love to write. I love to paint. I love to walk in the redwoods and feel the wonder and awe that happens for me there. It sometimes is beyond words, although I do try and write about it to share the experience. But it is not the same as experiencing it. I want to enjoy it and feel it and be in awe and wonder about it all. That experience itself is a gift. Not having an explanation for everything can be a gift.

I can cry at the beauty that hits me when I look up at an ancient redwood. I feel mesmerized by a photo or painting, not always sure why, but enjoying the moment completely. Yes, it is interesting to know what is firing in my brain when all this happens. It helps explain how, but not why. I don’t want or need to know why. I want to be in the moment and experience it.

Doing our own inner work can help.

What’s interesting as I explore my reaction to the article is that some of my irritation was really directed toward my friend, who was sure that I would absolutely love this article that he sent me. We have had long conversations about many things over the years, and it seems like he would know this about me, my reaction to having to have everything explained or reduced to scientific terms and how that makes me bristle. I love the wonder of it all and want that to be acknowledged, these mysteries of the Universe, the questions that can’t be answered, only felt. It dawned on me that I didn’t, in that moment, feel that I had been heard for who I am. I found it interesting to notice this within myself, and it took some of the irritation away once I got this insight. 

I think this giving of information and facts is a pattern in many of us. I can get caught in the cycle myself and must watch and catch myself. It helps when I notice that whoever I may have directed all the vital facts that I have to slowly starts to get that glazed look in their eyes. Information overload is happening, as well perhaps as not feeling seen and heard. 

We can see so many examples of how we flood others and ourselves with facts in hopes of solving problems.

Does information help with dieting?

Take the example of dieting, for instance. I know a lot about dieting, about calories, carbs, behavior management techniques, all of it. But somehow it doesn’t seem to translate into action most of the time. I still do what I know is “wrong”. Hell, I could probably write a diet book, so it isn’t more education that I seem to need.

Don’t get me wrong. I think that knowing about things is vital. I appreciate all the education and classes that I have attended that teach about what to do, how to cope, ways to try and work with the issue of overeating and the frustrations of gaining weight, and of the challenges of losing it. 

Do I criticize myself for not doing better? Oh yes. Does that help? No, it only seems to make things worse.

When we try and solve pain with information and facts.

I can think of other examples in today’s world, as I am sure that we all can. We try to teach others and educate them about facts about things, about people, about the world. Does it get in? Sometimes not. On my pessimistic days, I think that mostly it does not get in.

Notice what can happen with explaining facts to someone about what they may be going through right then and there without addressing the fact that they are currently in tears, emotional, and cannot hear us. At that moment they are on the planet of feelings and must live there for a while before they can move onto the planet of intellect and facts. They are vulnerable, raw, fragile, and open in a way that needs to be heard, respected, comforted, acknowledged and given space. Then and only then, I believe, can we allow facts and information in, because we feel heard, seen, and accepted for where we are in that moment. 

Maybe we need to do that for ourselves. Now that I have explored my reaction (with gentle curiosity) to the article sent by my friend, I can go back and better appreciate the truth and positive aspects of the article. I can do this perhaps because I took the time to notice my reaction and hear myself and my soul’s feelings. I can now hear more of the facts. 

And maybe, just maybe, as we learn to do this more for ourselves, we can get better at doing this for others. 

Perhaps we can all learn, by listening to feelings with encouragement and understanding, what we are trying to say to each other. We can learn to hear each other before jumping in with facts, information, and the answers to questions that were never even asked. 

Volunteering for a project, taking my own internalized ageism along for the ride.

The zoo, where I am lucky enough to volunteer, partners with other organizations. There are field trips scheduled at times where our staff and volunteers go and help that organization with their needs and with some of their field projects. 

Recently there was an email sent about one such project. It was about an organization that is working to help the rabbit population (a particular and endangered species of it) in an area where that population was severely reduced by a virus that was going around. So, the staff there is helping to capture the rabbits at night in special cages that they set out so that they can vaccinate the rabbits against this virus before releasing them the next morning. 

They needed help building more cages. This involved wire cutting, fabric cutting, putting cages together. It was about a 2-hour drive away to a place that was usually much hotter than where I live. It turns out that the day that this field trip was scheduled for was during one of our first heat waves, so temperatures were predicted to be in the triple digits. 

Yikes, I thought. Although the field trip sounded like something that I would enjoy participating in and being part of, I wondered if I could handle it. Was I too old now to be able to perform whatever the tasks might be that were needed in order to make these cages? Would I be able to handle the heat, as seniors were told to stay indoors if possible (and now I found myself in that group that had to worry about such things, things that I would never have given a second thought to before when I was younger.)

I have written before about trying to be aware of how it becomes easier for me to watch and allow my world to shrink, to perhaps go out less, to sign up for fewer adventures that I knew nothing about, as I continue this path of aging. It’s too easy for me to do that, and I want to be aware and not automatically rule things out just because of my age and my fears about whether I can meet the expectations or task. 

I signed up for the trip. Anxiously I drove up to the zoo parking lot that day, where we were to meet and carpool, and was relieved to see about 4 others in my age group who were also there waiting. The rest of the 13 or so of us were younger, and I was grateful that I was not the only elder in the group. I took some comfort in this, although of course I wondered if my level of stiffness, and what seem to be daily new aches and pains, might get in the way. 

Off we went. I was relieved to be in a comfortable SUV with three other seniors. With large comfortable bucket seats, great air conditioning, and good company along the way, we were on the way to our adventure. So far, so good. 

Work Begins.

We arrived, and our main task at this point was wire cutting. We had to add another level of smaller gauge wire around the cages to help keep the rabbits safer from predators who might be able to reach into the cages and hurt or grab them. This new wire would prevent that. A noble task indeed. So, as the first step, we had to cut the smaller wire to the specified measurements. This was needed for 50 new cages. 

Wire cutting doesn’t sound like it would be that hard, does it? But, to hands that are older, have carpal tunnel syndrome, and less strength than they once had, I could see and feel the difference compared to what I might have been able to do in the past as well as the difference in speed. It was also easy to begin to compare myself to the younger staff who didn’t seem to struggle as much. 

But, I thought, I am here, so let me do what I can. And I found my own rhythm and speed and worked at a steady pace. I was not speedy, but steady. What a metaphor for aging, I thought. I might not be as speedy with things, but I can still be steady. I know how to keep going and persevere. God knows that aging teaches us that, among other lessons. 

So cut wire we did. And I found myself being one of those who kept working until the very end, watching some of the younger folks having stopped when it got closer to the time to leave. Again, this can be another gift of aging. We know how to keep going, as this is what we are doing in our lives, yes?

Making It Through!

Was it hot? You bet. Did I know how to keep hydrating myself? Oh yes. And you can bet that as soon as I got home, it was into the shower and then onto a good night’s sleep! No partying for me after this, unlike what I imagine some of the younger folks might do. I just wanted to get home and rest. And that’s ok. 

The point is that I made it. I signed up and went, kept my commitment, although I was tempted to drop out when I heard about the weather warnings. And I cut wires. Maybe not quickly. And I stopped and rested my hands when needed, drank water, took care of myself, and enjoyed the laughter and camaraderie among us all. Maybe I have a few bruises and blisters, but that’s a small price to pay for the adventure and experience. And it’s a small price to pay for the validation that I can still participate in things like this, still participate in what calls to me. 

One thing that I noticed when we all introduced ourselves and stated why we were all there was that we, the elders among us, would talk about wanting to learn things, about wanting adventures, about wanting to help, about enjoying the experience. Alternately, some of the younger folks, being in a different place in life, of course, might have been working there to see about possible different job or career options that might be available, about adding this to their list of experiences and knowledge. But we could still all be there together, with my reason no less important than anyone else’s. 

On the drive home, back in the same comfortable SUV, I was delighted, tired, and happy to have made it. I felt happy to have felt still part of the group, still part of life, still able to help out, even if at a slower pace. I was happy to have taken a risk and pushed myself a bit to do something out of my comfort zone and to have thoroughly enjoyed the whole adventure. 

I think we seniors can keep doing this for ourselves. We can keep trying things (as long as they are not truly dangerous for us). Keep participating. Keep moving. Keep being part of new adventures. Keep being part of life where we can, doing the best that we can. And we can give ourselves some grace for perhaps not being as speedy or productive than we might have once been. We can celebrate what we can do, and that we can still show up. 

Helping with the cages, and getting so much more in return!

Not only did I help with the project, but I got to enjoy some very cute bunnies who seemed interested in what we were doing, hopping by quickly and then disappearing into the brush.

I got to see the young women who were staff there doing something that they loved. They were not bound by some of the more sexist rules that might not have made their jobs open to women in the past. Watching them do a wonderful job and be so excited to share about it, I got to thank them for what they do and give them praise and encouragement to keep doing things that they love, things that they feel committed to and that they feel make a difference.

 I got to be an elder woman encouraging these younger women to be who they are, do what they want, go for the lives that they dream of as much as they can, like I try and do with the young women zookeepers that I so enjoy working with during my volunteer shifts at the zoo.

 I don’t have children, but I can still encourage those younger than I and let them know their value and how appreciated that they are. And I can be beside them, modeling that we can still be alive and participate in life as we age. 

Maybe they will remember this as they continue on their own life path. Maybe it will make a difference. 

Meanwhile, I have already signed up for the follow-up field trip where we will continue to work on this project. Why not?

A friend, turning 80, finally allowed others to help him celebrate his birthday.

I went to a gathering last evening. It is a small group of us who get together occasionally for dinner and for some time to enjoy each other’s company.

This time was special. 

One of our small group was turning 80.

He had never really celebrated or allowed anyone to celebrate his birthday much. He had a rough childhood, learned at a very young age to take care of himself, and did not want to participate in any kind of holiday, especially his birthday. It was not something that had ever been part of his life, and he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

His wife, who loves parties, respected his wishes, and did not push him.

This time the group knew of the birthday and talked about acknowledging it at the gathering we were going to have, asking him what his choice of meal would be. I was lucky enough to be able to bring dessert and was told that he liked pie, any kind of pie. He seemed to accept our offerings of his favorite meal and of us being able to acknowledge his birthday. 

So we gathered, and as it grew closer to time for dessert, we prepared the cards, the dessert (two kinds of pie and good vanilla ice cream, of course!), lit the candles, and gathered round him to wish him a happy birthday. The woman who was hosting the gathering this time had decorated her house with lots of birthday balloons and banners. It was lovely and so festive. 

He seemed to be doing ok with it all. He read his cards, cut his pies after blowing out the candles, and enjoyed the laughter and well wishes all around. His wife was thrilled to have had some help with something that she had wanted to do for such a very long time. 

It was time to go. He stood up, looked around as we talked about how happy we were to be able to have been included in this special celebration. He stood there for a moment, unable to get the words out, and then he began to cry, just a bit. After all of these years, all of the having done what he felt he needed to do to get through, he had stopped and let in some birthday love. He let himself be overcome in that moment. The tears came, ever so softly. The feelings came, feelings that were inside of him for such a very long time.

What an honor it was to have been part of this. What a sacred gift it was to have witnessed this lovely man allowing others to express their love and celebration of him, their gratitude for his presence on the earth and in their lives. 

We toughen up and do the best that we can in figuring out what we need to do to survive and get through what we need to. He had done this very well. 

And yet, just maybe, while there is still time, maybe we can stop and let in some of what we have feared to let in. Maybe we can feel all that has been inside of us for so long. Maybe we can allow the possibility of others’ love to enter our hearts and souls. Maybe there is still time to feel it all, still time to heal. 

We are alive. We are still here.

What behaviors and defenses can we look at now, with compassion, in our own lives, that we may have used to survive? What might we have shut out to get tough? What have we not allowed ourselves to feel, to receive? 

There is still time to celebrate who we are and to celebrate being alive. There is still time to let others in. 

There is still time to have a happy birthday. 

There is still time. 

Why must any story about an older woman refer to her as a grandmother, when that has nothing to do with what the story is about?

Have you noticed that stories about older women often include their reproductive histories, even when that has nothing to do with what the story is about? 

A 70-year-old grandmother ran the marathon.

A 65-year-old grandmother completes her PhD. 

Have you noticed that the same is not often true for articles about men? You may read about a 70-year-old man winning a race, but you won’t often read whether he is a grandfather or not. 

Don’t get me wrong. I loved my grandparents. I miss them, those that I was lucky enough to meet and get to know at all. I loved my great grandparents and how sweet their relationship was right up until the very end. I loved how they helped me feel loved and included.

I respect and appreciate women that have had children and now have grandchildren. (I chose not to have children). Many of my friends share their joys about their grandkids. I collect their photos and enjoy watching these tiny humans grow so quickly.

Women deserve to be described by all that they are and not immediately categorized so that readers may know which box to put them in, perhaps not hearing the rest of who they are and what they have accomplished. Might referring immediately to someone as a grandmother be another subtle form of ageism or a way of somehow changing the quality of what they accomplished?

I don’t need to be called granny, as I am not a granny. Yes, I am old enough to be a granny, but the truth is that I am not a granny. 

Yet I am still an elder of worth, even if I did not choose to reproduce for my own private reasons. 

Women are very blessed to be able to give birth, but this does not have to be an automatic first line descriptor of who we are. We are more than our capability to reproduce. We are more than any adjective that defines what choices we may have made in that arena. We are more. 

We are elder women who have survived and made it to this point in our lives, and that is an accomplishment. 

We are elder women who may have wisdom to share that may have nothing to do with parenting.

We are elder women who have stories to tell about our lives, our desires, our battles, our pain, our joy, our very selves. We have stories that may not have anything to do with being mothers or grandmothers.

There are some of us that did not have children. For some, sadly, the choice was not theirs to make. I do not mean to discount that pain at all. It can be heartbreaking, I know, as I have been with friends who have experienced this struggle and deep sadness.

But, as an elder who is single by choice, childless by choice, and very much alive and with stories to tell, I really don’t need to always see grandmother in front of every article about women my age. 

Perhaps we can look beyond the labels that then can categorize someone and inadvertently help blur out other parts of their lives. Maybe we can allow some time to hear about all that they may have done, or what happened to them, or what a written article may be sharing about them without having to define them as grandmothers? Does it change what they did, them being grandparents? Does it bring more or less value to what they did? Does it somehow become more surprising to know that this elder woman was also a grandmother and that she accomplished something wonderful? 

I like to give people a chance to learn a bit about me before I tell my exact age. I think that this allows room for more of me to be seen before I get quickly categorized, before my stories are more easily dismissed or perhaps put into the cute category. Of course, people know that I am an elder, as my appearance lets them know. Yet I think that the exact number of years, our age, can be used to categorize (and sometimes dismiss) us or what we may have to share. 

I may read that a 70-year-old grandmother was able to start painting and open her own gallery in her later years. Or I can read that an elder woman only started to paint later in her life and now has a gallery. Or I can read that there is a new gallery in town with paintings by a relatively new artist whose paintings are reflective of the bittersweetness of life. And oh, by the way, this woman is 70. And she is a grandmother. 

Can you feel the difference? Can you feel perhaps your interest and how it may differ depending on how this woman is presented? What if I had not included that it was a woman. Perhaps that may have changed your initial perception even more.

I believe that structure and categories are important, can help us organize our thoughts about things, and can help provide some order. But let’s not box things or people in too quickly, before we even have a chance to see who they are and all the richness and complexity within them. 

Now that I think about it, maybe we don’t have to box ourselves in this way either. Maybe I don’t have to automatically fit myself into what an elder should be or what someone old enough to be a grandmother should be. Maybe that has nothing to do with who I might be inside. 

And maybe others can begin to see all of who I am that has nothing to do with whether I reproduced or not. 

Celebrating and appreciating ourselves and allowing others to join in!

I used to work with a group of therapists teaching a 13-week course on helping others look at their patterns, their childhoods, their current lives, things that they could work on to become more fully themselves and all that they could be. I’m not talking about becoming all that we can be in the societally defined productive, efficient sense. I’m referring to becoming all that we can be in the fully inhabiting our lives and loving who we are sense, in shutting up the critical voices inside us that no longer serve. These voices were taken on as a way to protect ourselves from more pain, but have since outworn their usefulness, are no longer needed, and can rest now. And perhaps now they can be replaced with kinder, more compassionate voices.

This was an intense course that brought up many feelings, pain, intense memories, and challenges to face. It was a work of love and so rewarding to see people blossom before us, to see them learn to support and love each other and encourage each other along the way, to see them reflect to each other the beauty within that they may not have been taught to see. 

The Ta-Da! Exercise

One of my favorite exercises in this course was called the “Ta Da” exercise. On this evening, each person was invited to stand up in front of the others, face them and look at each one of them. They were then invited to do something, anything, that they could do. It could be a talent, like a magic trick. It could be reading something that they had written. Or it could even silly things that were fun to do and to watch. When they were done, they were to say, “Ta Da!” and then stand there.

The job of those watching, after the performance was done, was to clap wildly and enthusiastically. They could whoop and holler if they liked. They could give a standing ovation if they felt moved to do so. They were to let the person standing up there know that they were special and that what they did, who they are, is great and that they deserved applause, deserved to be celebrated and appreciated, deserved to be seen, heard, and loved. This applause was not for whatever they performed, but really for being there, showing up, and letting themselves be seen. 

So, each person would get up and stand in front of the others. We teachers would watch them transform into shy children in front of our eyes and see them then begin to glow with delight at the applause. What may have sounded silly to them when the exercise was described then turned into a feeling inside that so many of us have been hungry for. What sounded like an artificial exercise became real. This group of people had been through a lot together, so the applause and appreciation were genuine and heartfelt. They had seen this person’s struggles, had heard much of their story, had witnessed their vulnerability, and had come to love them. 

Maybe we can apply this everywhere?

How delightful it would be if we could witness each other in our lives this way more often. 

I think, now as an elder, I watch a bit more closely, listen more deeply, see more clearly at times, given all my years on this planet and all that I have learned. I think that this can especially apply to the painful lessons I have had, as they help me see and feel the pain that others may be going through more deeply. I remember and I can empathize and offer support.

 I see how resilient we humans can be, what we struggle through, and what we survive. We all have had some traumas that we may not always speak about, or even recognize as traumas. But they left their mark on us. 

How amazing. We make it through a lot to reach where we are. Maybe we can begin to remember to celebrate each other even having made it this far in life.

At 71, I have managed, with the grace of God/the Universe, to have lived this long. I am grateful to have been lucky enough to still be alive and to be here to deal with the lessons that aging is bringing for me. I can see others in this tribe of elders who are on this same path. I can begin to acknowledge them more, appreciate what they have come through to be here now and appreciate the special being that they are, standing in front of me. Aging brings better inner vision, even as we may have decreased outer vision. We have inner vision that can see deeper, if not crisper. I can better appreciate the everyday heroes. 

Witnessing a Ta-Da! moment at the hospital

I got to witness a security guard at the hospital the other day, while I was there getting some lab work done, that took time to be ever so gentle and kind with a crying woman who was so upset that she could barely speak. She had been there since 6:30 am and for some reason they would not acknowledge her appointment. I don’t know the details. She might have even shown up on the wrong day for all that I know. All I heard was that she had been there, having been transported by her senior living facility, for several hours. She was sobbing loudly and inconsolably. 

This guard walked with her to wherever her appt was. At that point I left to go and get my lab tests, and when I came back out, he was back at his desk and she was in front of him, no longer crying, and now expressing her gratitude. I asked him what happened. He said that they worked it out to help her be seen today. He had gone above and beyond to help her, to ease her pain. Two human beings on this planet, one hurting and the other acknowledging the pain and trying to help. One was a young Black man, the other an elderly Asian woman. Age and race did not matter. 

This was a Ta-Da! moment in my book. Here was an everyday hero just being who he was and being kind. A quiet hero, but a hero none-the-less. 

I went up to him and thanked him for what he had done. I told him that I had seen and appreciated how he had been so very kind. He gave a shy smile in acknowledgment. If I didn’t think that they might have carted me off to the psych ward, I might have applauded, whooped, and hollered right then and there! 

Yes, he was doing his job. And yet, it was the way he did it, the tone that he used, and the way he interacted with this distressed soul in front of him, that stood out. 

Kindness is the stuff of heroes and heroines. 

It matters how we do what we do. It is applaudable, to me. It is heroic. It can bring out the best in us and others. It can help us remember our common humanity.

Perhaps we can all look around to see more of these wonderful moments and can see how everyday heroes are all around. 

Living life takes courage. 

Showing up for ourselves and others takes courage.

 Celebrating ourselves takes courage. 

Maybe we can help each other hear the chorus of Ta-Da! everywhere, if we only stop, look, and listen. 

We are all so hungry to share our stories, to be deeply listened to, and to have our feelings heard.

I went to see my dentist the other day. I love my dentist. He is a delightful young man who is starting his own practice, and I followed him there from his previous job. It’s a longer drive for me to get there, and I am totally ok with that. When you find someone that you trust, you stick with them.

We have had conversations over the past few years, and I get the privilege of hearing about his young family (a new baby, now 1 year old) as well as occasionally getting videos of his wonderful new daughter and lovely wife. The delight in both her and her parents’ eyes and smiles are wonderful to see. As someone who has no family in this area, I find that I tend to adopt families. Like my young neighbors and their children. Like anticipating my newest neighbor to be, who is due to arrive in May. Like my dentist.

He worked on my chipped tooth and the filling that fell out. Since it’s on my front tooth, this has been a more than one-time replacement. It’s ok. I get to see him and visit.

At one point, he was done with the work. He had begun talking a bit about his problem of finding a good dental assistant. His last one, after receiving some feedback about what might have been a bit less than professional conduct (she spoke about a patient who was still sitting right there in the chair), got very offended and walked out at lunch and never returned. 

We don’t always think of the effect that this type of incident may have on the one who was left, on the boss.

Here was this young man, clearly troubled by what happened, and who found himself questioning what he might have done wrong, why she would just walk out and not talk about it with him. He talked about being tearful about this after it happened and a bit shocked. He felt abandoned, especially since he had to reschedule some of the remaining patients for the day as he could not handle them all by himself. His wife usually helps in the office and was not able to be there that day due to childcare issues. So, he was completely alone. 

I was honored that he shared this with me, that he shared this vulnerable piece of himself. We spoke a bit about some of the issues, about some of what might have happened, about some of the issues of the difficulty that some folks have receiving feedback. Even what may be constructive feedback (even when done in private) can still feel like an attack to some people.  

He went on to talk about the pressures of starting a new business, how he loves what he does and his patients, and how he hopes that things settle down in a bit.

As I was leaving, I noticed that there happened to be a young man in the waiting area who was there for an interview as a possible new dental assistant, and who I felt good energy from. I later heard that my dentist would offer him the job. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

And now the insurance agents

Then this week I needed to call my insurance agent.

In California, as some of you may have heard, many insurance companies have been pulling out of the state altogether, due to fire hazard issues. And many companies who may still be here are refusing to renew their clients’ homeowners’ policies. This happened to me last year. So, I called another agency when this happened and this young man on the phone helped me navigate the maze of applying for other insurances. There are insurances of last resort, but at least it’s a policy. 

I called my agent again recently to clarify some papers that had been sent about the renewal of the policies that I now had, and found out that the original agent that I spoke with last year had resigned. He couldn’t take the stress of all the cancellations of policies and clients’ anxiety about what to do next. 

This young man that I now spoke with talked about how difficult it has been for all of them. It’s been very difficult for all the clients, but also for the staff. He shared about how stressful it has been for them to try and help their clients and what an ordeal it is to help them try to get new policies. I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. He went on for a bit about how he got to bear the brunt of the anxiety and complaints when it was not him that caused this all. I reflected that this reminded me of a waiter getting the complaints about the food, something that he had nothing to do with. 

After a bit more of venting, he apologized for releasing all this and talking about it to me. I immediately asked him to please not apologize, that it was helpful to let this out, and that it was totally ok with me for him to let it out and vent. Go for it, I said. So, he vented a bit more.

Next come the grocery clerks.

I go to the local grocery store and so am familiar with and to the clerks there. They share with me if they are having a bad day, how tired they are. One of them pulled me aside to talk about the puppy that he had adopted but had to let go, because he couldn’t afford the vet bills for medical care needed. (Hopefully this sweet puppy found a new good home). The clerk was sad about this, had become attached of course, and was grieving.

The basic need that we all have, and that elders may be able to provide. 

As an elder now, maybe I have more time to be present and listen. Maybe I have slowed down enough to really be able to gaze into someone’s eyes and see that they are going through something, to hear the catch in someone’s voice, and to offer some minor comfort and care. 

I think that we can all offer this to others, especially we elders. As we have more time to reflect, perhaps, on life and relationships and issues that we may have had, we can perhaps hear more of the depth of what others may be struggling with. We can offer that ear, that open heart, and that reassurance that they can get through this, that they are ok, that they probably are doing the best that they can, but sometimes it’s hard. Really hard. 

We can ask someone how they are. And listen. Give them the gift of being present with them, of being witnessed, seen, and heard, of an emotional hug. We can give them the gift of holding who they are with our attention, the gift of someone hearing them from further along the path than they are, offering comfort, care, and elder presence. 

 I can’t fix most things for anyone, but I can listen. And sometimes that is the best gift of all. 

I find that I must push myself to do things that were easier before.

I took myself on a short road trip. It’s about a 3-hour drive. 

It’s a drive that I used to do often when I was younger. I travel to a place in northern California called Sea Ranch.

I stop along the way, usually at Bodega Bay, to say hello to the sea lions that often hang out there. This was a special day, as you can see in the photo above, when one of them came onto the ramp below where I was and checked me out, as I was checking him out. An intense connection that was sheer delight. What a way to start my trip! 

Onward to Sea Ranch

Sea Ranch is a stretch of coastline with houses and cabins you can rent. There are miles of trail by the ocean and in the trees where you can walk for hours. There is a small town that you can drive to if you need to pick up any supplies, or if you need a bit of human contact at the local coffee shop or in any of the small local stores there.

Otherwise, it is a place to have solitude in the beauty of nature. 

The drive is beautiful as well, ending up on Highway 1 which curves beside and above the ocean. The views are stunning and awe-inspiring. 

Age brings new feelings to experiences

In my younger days, I would feel nothing but anticipation and excitement about these trips.

These days, I noticed that there were other feelings mixed in with those feelings of excitement and anticipation. I felt some anxiety and fear. I hadn’t gone anywhere since the pandemic, so it had been a while. And I hadn’t driven on that curvy highway since then.

Off I went for my three-day road trip. I was anxious about the drive, anxious about finding the house (it’s a different rental company that I found to work with this time), anxious about the directions on how to get to the rental company to pick up the packet with instructions, anxious about getting to the house, and even anxious about being able to open the lockbox to the house. 

I notice that simple things feel more complicated now, for some reason. My confidence is not as high, and I do not have that ease and self-assurance that I used to have. I can feel the effects of aging and the larger space that fear occupies in my head. When did that happen? 

So, I was pushing myself to do this. Pushing to show myself that I can still do things like this. Proving to myself that I am ok and still have the skill set to do this, that I will be fine and that I will enjoy this, that I am not ready to have my world shrink that much quite yet. 

I have always loved going there alone. There have been a few times that I have shared a home there with someone else (a romantic partner or a friend), and those times reminded me why I have always preferred being up there alone. It’s easier to listen to the voice inside me that is sometimes harder to hear in the day-to-day routines of life or when anyone else is around.

I noticed that I felt some fear about that aloneness as well. What?? I don’t remember feeling that before. I live alone and enjoy that. I have always enjoyed going away by myself. It was strange to feel some anxiety about being alone. 

Determined, off I went on my adventure. I took my fear with me and decided that we would talk along the way. I thought that I could treat that fear with compassion but also let it know that everything was going to be ok. I took a journal, and a bit of art supplies should I feel inspired. I wanted to create a space during this trip to allow all the feelings to come up… a cleansing, if you will. 

Sacred Spaces

There is a beautiful, tiny, non-denominational chapel up in Sea Ranch that is stunning with gorgeous stained-glass windows, beautifully designed. It is a work of art sitting there for all to visit. It offers a quiet place to sit, pray, think, feel, and simply be. Sometimes I have felt like there are spirits of ancient ancestors within that sacred space that will speak to you when you are quietly sitting there. They calm and reassure you somehow. 

Friends, Human and Other

There are beaches where you can see the harbor seals and sometimes their pups. This was pupping season and I was delighted to be able to see the mothers and their pups lying next to each other on the beaches. These special beaches were protected from human visitors by docents stationed there on the cliffs above making sure that no one climbed down to try and be closer to the seals. People can scare the mother seals and they might then abandon their pups. Guests simply stand on the cliffs in awe and delight. 

The more I drove, the more relaxed I became and remembered that this part of me is still there, still ok, and can do what I love to do. I was grateful to be doing this and realized that I want to do what I am able to for as long as I can, making more memories while I still have the chance. 

Meeting members of my new tribe of elders

During this trip, I met several elders who have moved to this serene place for tranquility and peace. This is where they want to spend whatever time that they have left. It’s a slower pace, a way to relish more of what is around. 

I spoke with an artist who worked at the local gallery. She was working on her painting while tending to the gallery. She had moved there 9 years ago and said that her only regret was not moving up there sooner. 

There was an elder who volunteered as a seal docent who talked about how she loved being able to share knowledge about the seals with visitors. As we spent some time together, she talked about aging, about realizing that her body was slowly breaking down. She was honest and real about it all, stating that she was not happy about this breaking down process, but it was reality. She went on to say that this only made her more determined to appreciate each moment. We agreed about how much gratitude is one of the sacred gifts of aging. It can be a bittersweet gift at times, but a gift, nonetheless.

I came back from this trip refreshed and reminded of who I have been and still am, of what inspires me, calms me, and nourishes me. And of what is inside me still. 

 Let us live and do what we can, even if modified, live as fully as we are able while we are still here, and try not to let our world shrink too quickly. There is so much yet to see, hear, touch, feel, and experience. Yes, we are elders, and we are still alive, still here. 

Going to a local restaurant that welcomed me as one of their own, when I needed that the most.

It was my birthday, and I felt like being around family. I felt lonely for some of what I had grown up with. I felt lonely for a place where I felt like I belonged. Where people look like me. Come from the same culture that I grew up in. Use gestures and their hands like me when they talk. 

Enter my first time trying a Sicilian restaurant that I heard about. I asked my friend, who wanted to take me out to dinner for my birthday, if we could try this place. So, we did.

I entered the place, saw a man standing behind the counter when I walked in. This man looked like he could be related to me. Looked like some family members of mine. My friend even said that we looked alike. 

I am first generation Italian American. Sicilian to be specific. My parents were both born in Sicily, met in the US (Boston) married there and then I was born. No sisters, no brothers. Only me. We had friends around who were Italian. When I was 10, we moved to Michigan to be closer to some relatives who were Sicilian. My father struggled his entire life to find family, given that his mother died when he was very young and his father was never around. 

Time moved on for me. In my rebellion and trying to separate myself from my very close (over-protective) family, I moved away from most things Sicilian. But it is still in me, and in my blood. I find myself coming home to that more and more as I continue this path of aging. 

Funny, isn’t it? How we try to get away from things when we are young that we then find ourselves coming home to later. So it is with me and my Sicilian heritage and roots. 

I was missing belonging to a family on this, my 71st birthday. My parents are both gone, and I don’t really feel connected to my family in Sicily, as I didn’t grow up with them. I also have lost most of the language, although I find that I can still speak a bit of it. 

I went up to this man at the counter, asked if he was one of the owners. He was. I told him that I was also Sicilian. And we connected. He was kind, attentive, and brought drinks to the table for my friend and me. He spoke a bit about his own family in Sicily. He recommended some specialties, which we tried. The entrees were amazing. A taste of my childhood. A taste of things past, but things that can still be stirred within. The taste of family. The taste of one of the tribes that I belong to. I may have denied this in the past, but I now come home, eager to taste it, feel it, be in it, be of it. Be held by it. Be welcomed by it. 

Dinner was wonderful. And of course we ordered the cannoli for dessert (what the photo shows above). My friend, unbeknownst to me, had told the staff that it was my birthday. My cannoli came with a candle and the Italian version of happy birthday sung to me by 5 of the staff. Applause all around. 

Such a treat in so many ways. 

This was exactly what I needed on this night. What I needed on this birthday. What I need to do more for myself as I age. Become my more authentic self, reclaim my roots, reclaim tribes where I feel at home. Reclaim all of me while I am still in this body, still on this earth. 

This wouldn’t have happened if I had not tuned into what I wanted and needed, what I was missing. If I had investigated where I might find some of what I need. If I had not spoken up about wanting this and asking a friend to share this experience with me. If I had not gone up to this man, a stranger who felt like family, and introduced myself to make myself feel more seen, heard, included, and welcomed. 

It is another lesson on this life path. It is important to go inside and ask ourselves what we might need and dare to feel the pain of what we might be missing. And then to see how we might be able to give that to ourselves and take the action needed to try and get that. To tune in and to speak up and to go for it. It might not work all the time. But it will certainly never happen if we don’t try. 

It is never too late to try and come home to ourselves. It is never too late to find where we might belong. Where we might be welcomed. Where we might by recognized and seen and heard. And given a kiss on the cheek, as this man did as we left. A kiss on the cheek that almost brought me to tears. 

A lovely dinner with family, served with a side of unexpected love, acceptance, and inclusion. 

I am finding my tribes. Yes, I am still often a loner who enjoys her solitude very much. Yet I also need my tribes. My tribe of Italians, of Sicilians. My tribe of artists (I have joined a local art association). My tribe of writers (as are all of you, dear Medium members). I can still be a loner, very independent and love my alone time. And I can still find where I belong, on this very human path, where we all need each other. Where we can all feel that sense of finally being welcomed home.