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. 

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.