Yes, I am very grateful. And I also feel sadness with tears. All at the same time.

It’s April 14th. I turned 71 today. 71. Where did all the years go?

I feel alone, somehow. 

But it is not an aloneness that wants anyone else around right now. It is deeper than that. It is aloneness that defies adequate description. It is an ache. An ache that demands its time, demands to be heard and paid attention to. Not to be fixed, but rather to be fully acknowledged. So here I am.

Well-meaning friends ask me to remember all that I have to be grateful for. I am very aware of all of it. And I am very grateful. Very.

I also have pain inside at times. It’s ok. I can have both. 

And right now, I need to pay attention to the ache inside me. 

This ache is an ache of life going by swiftly. An ache of the sweetness of each moment and the growing awareness of the time when my moments will end. An ache for those that have passed away that I miss, human and non-human. An ache for lovers in my past, chances that I may have missed. Joy felt that I may not have appreciated enough at the time. An ache for the joy that I took for granted of looking forward to the future …the future that stood out ahead of me on a long path. Not such a long path these days. 

Sadness at how brief this time on earth is. Achingly beautiful. To feel it is to feel the awe and indescribable beauty that can pierce your soul. Looking up at the giant redwoods. Feeling them inside me. Looking at the creatures of the earth, making eye contact and feeling the precious connection. The belongingness. The connection that can happen with deep eye contact, even with total strangers passing by on the street. 

And so these tears come. Tears that sometimes have no explanation or reason. But they exist, and that is reason enough to acknowledge them and give them respect. They are part of the gift of being human, after all.

I enjoy the youth around me. Their excitement for life. Their enthusiasm. Their passion.

 I enjoy the new babies that are born. For me, they are hope for the future. A future that I will no longer be part of at some point.

I sit with younger friends and feel how they relate to me as an elder, as they search for the best way to try and connect with me, as if I come from a different country, or even a different planet. It’s interesting, and strange. I don’t remember exactly when I crossed the threshold to this land, but here I am. 

I sometimes must stop myself from giving advice to these younger beings. When asked, I will offer what I feel and think. But I also know that each of us must reach our own awareness and in our own time. 

I walk in the forest and feel myself to be among the ancestors. Those younger than I jog past me as I slowly saunter. I savor each step in this sacred place more these days. I stop and look more. See more. Hear more. Feel more. Soak it in more. Wanting to absorb it inside my soul so that I have that with me when my time comes. So that I have that with me whenever I need to remember what this feels like. So that I have that within me to feel connected. To feel touched and gently held. To feel less alone. 

What a journey this life is. A life that we figure out as we go along. Sometimes with pain, sometimes with laughter. Sometimes with loud excitement. Sometimes with quiet solitude. 

It’s my birthday. I can celebrate and be happy for the chance to have been born and be part of this life. I can acknowledge the bittersweetness at how long I sometimes feel that it has taken me to truly come alive and be more my authentic self. These lessons have taken time for me. Some of them have taken longer than others, especially those that I may have resisted for various reasons. 

And with all of that, I am so lucky to be alive, to still be here to breathe this all in. The bitter and the sweet. The joy and the tears. There is time enough to not feel any of it when we are gone. For now, I will feel it all and be grateful. I am still here for this birthday, and I feel so very blessed. 

I used to be aging like fine wine, but now it’s more like vinegar. 

I ordered some extraordinary vinegar that I saw advertised online the other day. Chocolate balsamic vinegar. Unbelievable. Taste Orgasms, as a college friend of mine used to say. That is description enough, yes?

I have always loved vinegar. I put that stuff on everything, almost.

But vinegar that is formed from wine can sometimes have a bad reputation. It makes us think of spoiled wine. Of wine that is too old. Past its prime. Sour. Not useful anymore. Even the word vinegar comes from the French “vin aigre” or sour wine. 

That got me thinking. Wine certainly has its place. But maybe we can begin to appreciate vinegar and its own qualities and gifts. It has fermented into an older, perhaps deeper, version of itself. Much like we elders have our own qualities and gifts to share that have taken a lifetime to form. 

I can appreciate grapes and enjoy them. They are sweet and plump and full of juice. Youth.

I can appreciate wine and enjoy that. Let the taste linger in my mouth. Enjoy the qualities of it, the fragrance, the pleasant feeling that it can bring with it. Adulthood and midlife. 

And now I can appreciate vinegar and enjoy that more than I ever thought possible. Aging into elderhood. 

Vinegar has its own qualities. Acidic. Some varieties are sourer. Some sweeter. Some pungent. So many varieties of vinegar. Balsamic, red wine, white, cider, sherry, rice, malt, to name a few. 

Some vinegar can even be used as a cleaner. A green product that can be used for some household chores, like removing soap scum. 

Vinegar can brighten the flavor of a food. It can change the texture of a food, like tenderizing meat. It can be used to pickle food.

So, let me sing the praises of vinegar. Tart. A lovely addition to a meal. Fresh bread dipped in good olive oil and vinegar can be meal enough for me. A delight. Food of the gods. 

Does any of this feel like it may resonate with you? I like to think that we, as elders, add something to all that we become part of. That we have our own unique gifts to bring to the table. That we have aged into something quite special. 

Did you know that certain vinegars, like balsamic, can be left to ferment for up to 25 years? Ah, the good things that aging can bring, yes? 

Am I sour sometimes? You bet! With good reason, mostly. I am reclaiming my right to be sour after a lifetime of sometimes trying to always be sweet and nice. I don’t mean that I want to be sour in a way that intentionally hurts anyone. Just sour in a way that just claims the right to feel however I feel and to have that be ok. 

No, we don’t need to call it a caricature of being a cranky old person. It is merely someone who may have had enough right then and there and is claiming the right to stop whatever it is that is triggering them. The right to say no more. The right to say I have had enough. The right to say you don’t get to say or do that to me. The right to realize that saying no is ok. And that no is a complete sentence all by itself. No.

I may not always be appreciated for what I bring to the table. Yet I can surprise with an unexpected pleasure added to a fine meal, conversation, or interaction,

Am I older and past my prime? That depends on how you define prime. No longer of childbearing age? Yes, that ship has sailed. Sexual object? No, not anymore. And might I add that some relief comes with that. Blessings sometimes come in disguise. 

Am I past my productive years? In terms of the usual workplace, yes, I am retired. Thank God. But am I seen as no longer productive? That depends on how you define productive. If defined as no longer contributing to the workforce in a particular organization then no, I am no longer productive in that way. But can I still be productive in terms of producing something of quality? I hope so. My writing, my painting …I do these mainly for me. And I like to think that they bring some value to a few others at times. 

I volunteer with animals because I love that. And that is reason enough. I contribute to that organization and its purpose. 

I am told at times that I should go and volunteer at some social service agency and put my experience to good use. The fact is that I do contribute, with donations, and that is enough for right now.

Did I tell you that my career was as a social worker? I am done, because I already gave at the office and have had enough of that kind of direct contact at this time. And that is ok. 

I like to think that I am like a good vinegar. Something that is a part of a kitchen/home, perhaps not thought of or celebrated as much as wine may be, but still so lovely and important to the meal. A nice addition. Something that adds depth, flavor, interest, spice, delight, and sometimes pungency. 

Being a senior, like vinegar, is something that can perhaps brighten something. Or tenderize a moment. Or clean away scum built up from a lifetime of trying to please and not set strong enough boundaries.

Yes, it is also true that too much vinegar might not be a good thing. 

Isn’t that true of everything? As I age, I find that everything has a time limit for me. I like social interaction, until it is time for me to go home and replenish my internal reserves. Introvert, ambivert, with an occasional appearance by extrovert. They are all part of me. And they are all ok whenever they make an appearance. 

Its great to add vinegar, but in the right quantity. To enhance, but not overwhelm. To be ok with parting and knowing what the right quantity of something, or someone, is, at that moment. We can know when enough is enough and when the amount is just right. When it is time to be with oneself in solitude again. 

And as to all the different varieties of vinegar. Are we not like that, we elders? We are different from each other, although very much a part of the tribe of elders. Similarities yes. And also differences to those that take the time to see, hear, and appreciate us. 

What might be my individual variety of vinegar that helps define me? 

I am a first generation elder. Born of immigrant parents. Sicilian. Raised with fine food and traditions of old. Learning to speak the language of the culture of my parents and the culture into which I was born and grew up in. Sometimes successfully straddling the two. Sometimes not so well.

I grew up during the feminist bra-burning times, although that practice never really appealed to me. My girls always needed support, I felt. That’s ok, I can still encourage others in their own particular form of rebellion.

 I fought to go to college. I fought to stay in this country, that I loved dearly, rather than move to my parents’ native home. And now at times I am heartbroken when I see the deep divisions in our beloved country. We are all Americans. We can all trace ourselves back to other cultures, except the indigenous people. We are blended with the purpose of rebellion fighting for the freedom to be oneself. 

I am an elder who chooses to live alone, while I still can, and am grateful. I have been married and am glad that I was. But I never married again. And that’s ok. I had lessons to learn about being alone, being with myself. And appreciating that, finally finding my voice.

These are the types of vinegar that I relate to and things that have contributed to my own fermentation into my authentic self. We each have our own version, our own story. What is yours? 

Has vinegar found its time? Have I? 

I think so, yes. I am so grateful to have reached the time in life to be able to be all of who I am, and know that there are some others who may appreciate me, and others who may not. And that’s ok. 

Aging like fine vinegar? Absolutely. 

An elder walk, with time to look and see, hear and listen, touch and feel.

Come for a walk with me. It will be an elder walk, so we will walk slowly and stop along the way. A lot. 

It is one of my favorite places. A sacred place and space for me. It is my church and where I most feel the connection to the Divine. 

Are you ready? Let’s begin.

The entrance shows a path, through a children’s playground. Hear them laughing and yelling and playing. Somehow it seems fitting that at the beginning of our walk we see the youth of life. The start. The joy of playing and being alive. The exuberance. The sheer presence and excitement of simply being. Let’s watch them for a moment and delight in their joy and happiness. I am grateful that parents and teachers bring children here to feel the power, see the beauty, feel that they are part of this all. The beauty that this earth has to offer. The things that we want to preserve for future generations.

Remember when you were a child? You still have this within you. It is the part of you that smiles when you look at these young souls playing, laughing, running and being so fully alive. You remember, even if for a moment. 

Ok, time to walk a bit more. See that path off to the side there? Let’s take it. It leads to a place where children (and adults) can use whatever they find in nature to create things. Mostly I see tee-pee type creations. Teepees made of branches found. Instinctual urges to build a home, an honoring of the earth as our home and belonging to it, a recognition.

As we leave this part of the forest, we walk for a while and come to one of my favorite parts of this sacred space. We enter a grove of redwoods. Tall and majestic. Let’s stop here for a few moments. Walk with me to the middle of this small grouping of trees. Now lean up against one of them. Feel it supporting you. Can you feel the connection? 

You may notice that I am crying now. Sometimes touching these trees, who feel like ancestors, brings tears for me. It is a depth of a connection that I don’t have words for, only deep feelings. Feelings that need to come out in tears. I am grateful for that. It is life expressing itself. It is my soul resonating with something beyond description. 

Now, as you rest against this tree, look up toward the sky. Can you feel the amazing beauty and majesty of these trees that you cannot even see the top of? What does that make you feel? What might they be telling you? Can you feel how long these ancient beings have been here, what they have seen, what they may want to share with you, wisdom earned throughout the centuries. 

One more thing before we leave this tree. Step back a bit and look at the bark. Tell me what you see. Can you see a face, perhaps? Other things? Other presences here beside us? Take the time to really look, look with your eyes, your heart, your imagination. Feel it. Touch it. See it. Let yourself play. Let yourself see what might be there, what the every day world may discourage you from seeing.

Let’s go further into the woods. Shhhh…listen. What do you hear? We have had more rain this year, so there is water babbling in the brook. Isn’t that the most soothing sound? Stop and listen to it for a while. Let it sink into you. Stop all the busy chatter in your mind and simply listen. Breathe it in. Have you noticed how much more you take in deep breaths here? Somehow, we are reminded to do that more here. To take in the wisdom and calm of these ancestors. To slow down. And to deeply breathe it all in. 

Let’s keep walking. Off to the right there used to be a church here. Very small, where they would sometimes have weddings. The only thing left these days is the cement that it was built on. The cement is in the shape of a cross. Let’s go stand there for a moment and honor all the prayers and sacred events that were held here. Can you feel it?

Listen again. Do you hear the wind rustling through the leaves? Isn’t that beautiful? I like to call it the sound of God whispering. Stop and let that breeze flow through you and calm you where you need it. Let it sink deeply into you. Did you realize how much you needed this?

Have you noticed, as we walk along, the sound of the others talking among themselves? The sound of their voices soft, then louder, then soft again as they pass by and walk away. Moments shared in time. 

This makes me wonder about everything that these trees have heard through the generations while they have stood here. All the children, parents, elders….each enjoying this sacred forest in a different way. 

Let me take you now to one of my favorite places. See the picnic table there. Let’s sit there a while in the midst of all the trees. Once when I was sitting here at dusk, I was lucky enough to see a barn owl swoop down and catch his dinner, an unsuspecting mouse. It was so fast that it took my breath away. The circle of life, yes? And if I hadn’t just taken the time to sit here quietly for a while, I would have missed it completely. I was thrilled that my presence did not seem to deter that owl. I guess he figured that I had been sitting there long enough and wasn’t going to be a problem for him. I was quiet enough to begin to blend in. As it should be. 

Isn’t it lovely just to sit and be here? No place to be, nothing to do. Listening to the bird songs. Did you hear that hawk in the distance? I hear them often while walking in these woods. The sound is hauntingly beautiful to me. 

Time to get going. Let’s head back, slowly. 

Look at that lovely meadow over there. I sat here quietly once and was lucky enough to see a fawn nursing from its mother. In the quiet, nature being itself. For those that stop and take the time. 

I’m glad that you came on this walk with me. That you took the time.

 Time grows ever more precious for me these days, with the road ahead being so much shorter than the road behind me. So, I take time much more now to stop along the way, to see what is there in front of me that I may have rushed by before. To hear and listen to the sounds of the earth and all that live here. To touch other beings and life forms and feel the depth of that connection. We are all of this earth. We are together, living, being, walking this path together. 

Stop. Listen and hear. Look and see. Touch and feel. Life is here. You are here. 

No advice, no suggestions, just the gift of sitting with me and listening, please.

How difficult it seems to be for us to really listen to each other. 

Have you noticed the urge to offer advice, suggestions, or share your own version of whatever the speaker is talking about?

It seems to be an urge that is difficult for most of us to control.

And yet, I believe that one of the greatest gifts that we can give to each other is to simply listen quietly. Emphasis on quietly.

To pay attention to the words, the facial expressions, the tone of voice, the things not stated between the words…all this takes concentration and focus. This is even harder to do when we are busy trying to think of what our next response will be, even before the person is done saying all that they want to say. 

I think it is well-intentioned for the most part. To want to help, to fix, to lessen someone’s struggle or pain. I get it. I can fall into that trap easily enough myself. I appreciate the compassion that people can express in their attempts to offer advice and possible solutions. I appreciate them reaching out.

And yet I know that what I really need is for you to hear me. Hear what I am saying and maybe some of what I am expressing not only with words, but with other parts of me. Look at me. Pay attention to my face, my voice, my eyes, my feelings. Stop your own internal chatter as best as you can and listen to me. Give me the gift of your attention. Your deep and pure attention. 

As an aging elder, I see even more these days how precious and rare of a gift that deep listening is. Distractions abound. Distractions like those pesky phones that are always in our hands or on the table right by us. When you place your phone right by you on the table when we are together, you are letting me know that we may be interrupted by that device. That you listening to me is only guaranteed by what I can fit in before you receive a text or an email or a call that you feel compelled to answer right away. 

So, whoever is on the other end of that phone is more important to you at that moment than I am. 

Sometimes you, in your desire to show me that you relate to what I am saying, jump in with your own story. But I wasn’t done with mine yet.

How do we quiet our own internal voices and chatter enough to simply be with someone? We are not taught that this is enough, the act of being with someone and hearing them. We don’t need to jump to action or suggestions or advice.

Is what I am talking about when I want you to listen to me perhaps making you a bit uncomfortable? Perhaps you think that I am asking for a solution when I simply want to share an experience and the feelings that I may have about that. My feelings may be uncomfortable. That’s ok. Feelings sometimes are. You don’t need to try and fix them. I just want to share them with you.

If the story I am telling is one that you believe that you have an answer for, please first notice if I even asked a question or not. 

The issue of aging can add even more to this struggle.

Is the fact that I am older now negating the importance of what I might be feeling or struggling with? Does it, do I, matter less because of my age?

Does the fact that I am retired from work somehow translate to being retired from life and negate all the experiences that I have had when working? Experiences that I could share. Lessons learned, sometimes the hard way. 

Do you understand that I also struggled with being heard at work, when louder voices prevailed and interrupted me mid-sentence. When male voices, deeper and louder, commanded attention away from my softer voice. When they might have said the same thing that I was saying, but they were heard, and I was not. 

Does the fact that I am older and alone make you forget that I was once young and in relationships that I also at times struggled with, and at times so very much enjoyed? Perhaps you think that I have forgotten everything that I may have learned from them, that I have forgotten what passion feels like, or betrayal, or the heat of the moment and the love that leaves us in awe. 

Can you hear me when I am struggling with having a difficult day? When sometimes the weight of the world becomes a bit much for me to bear. When I need to vent and get some of this out to feel a bit less alone with it all. Can you allow it and give me some quiet space so I can work on letting it go. A process that gets interrupted when you jump in. 

Even when I write, I get answers to questions that I did not pose. The urge to offer a solution when all I was doing was sharing an experience and how I felt, hoping that someone might be able to relate to it and feel a bit less alone. I was not asking for answers. I was asking to be heard. 

I do not need to be told to appreciate things more and stop complaining. I am not complaining by expressing some of my feelings. I am simply sharing my experience of being human in that moment. Talking about feelings of pain does not mean that I am not grateful. These feelings can co-exist. 

I make people laugh these days as an elder who speaks my mind more. Trust me, I tell them, (when I am feeling bolder), When I want your advice, I will ask for it. But…don’t hold your breath. They laugh. I’m serious. 

I notice this even at the gym. Working out…and someone (usually a man) comes by to offer advice on how to work out on a particular machine. Funny, I don’t remember seeing his badge identifying him as a trainer. 

When I express a feeling, I sometimes get the response Oh, don’t feel that way, and more words to tell me why I should not feel what I do. Words to negate my experience and make me want to shut down immediately with this person who cannot hear me. Who will not accept my feelings for what they are. 

I volunteer at the zoo. I am on the Behavioral Observation Team with the elephants. I have learned even more the art of being quietly with another, to learn who they are, to get a sense of their presence in the world. So many lessons learned by simply and quietly observing another being living their life and being lucky enough to be in their presence. 

And even then, I hear some of the guests at the zoo express how they may want the elephant to do something different, do something fun to watch. Well, the truth is that he is doing something. He is being an elephant. Can you learn to see that, hear that, feel that, appreciate and honor that?

Must this elephant perform to get attention? Must we? 

At the same zoo I hear the parents chiding their children for not attending to what they think that they should be attending to. Look at this, not that. I brought you here to see this animal, not that squirrel on the ground. Pay attention to what I want you to see, not what catches your eye. Pay attention to what I want you to, not to what draws you in that moment in time. 

I have told a story before about a shoe salesman who I think I might have scared a bit. He was helping me with trying on shoes, and when I started to express what I was looking for, he stopped and said, Go ahead. I am listening. What? Did he just say that? I told him to please don’t take this the wrong way, that I was not coming onto him, but if he said (and meant) that phrase more, he would endear himself to any woman. Go ahead. I’m listening. 

Being human is extraordinary. An experience with so much to share about it. And those of us with more years lived may have even more to share. 

What if we could say to each other…. So, what is it like for you right now? How are you at this moment? Tell me. I am listening. I want to hear what you have to say. What you feel. Where your joy and pain are. I want to get to know you. Tell me. I am listening. 

My dermatologist retired, I didn’t even know about it, and I’m sad.

Our modern society has streamlined a lot of things, made them more efficient. Especially in the healthcare system. I see this in the HMO medical care system where I am a member.

I always tell people that you need to know how to work the medical system and if you do, then you can get your needs better met. You almost must be your own primary care doctor.

I have learned how to do this fairly well.

And yet, things with my HMO can catch me by surprise. Is it because I am older, and I still expect things that may not be the standard anymore these days? Perhaps.

Is it because, even though I have a variety of specialists, that I still form relationships with them as I try to see the same doctor through the years?

So, when I called to make an appt with my dermatologist that I have been going to for years, I was saddened to find that he had retired. Glad for him, certainly. But sad for me. 

It was a time that I was looking for his reassurance. I have a spot on my skin that we have been watching through the years for any changes that might be of concern. I recently looked at it and thought perhaps that I saw some changes, but I’m not sure. I wanted to see this doctor, who has seen this spot for a long time, to get some answers. He would know if there was anything to worry about. He had history with me and with my spot. 

And now he is gone. 

And there is, I must admit, some sadness inside me that I didn’t get to say goodbye. That there was no notice given to what may have been his regular group of patients so that they would know that he was leaving and could then deal with this in whatever way that worked for them. 

I would have liked that. I saw photos of his children on the wall of his office. I watched these photos reflect them as they grew up, from small children to now young women making their way out into the world. This doctor and I would talk about how quickly time passes by. 

I trusted him with what felt like very vulnerable appointments. Baring myself to get my skin checked, moles checked. We were growing older together. He was familiar and comfortable for me to go and see.

Now I will make an appointment with a new doctor. And start all over again. 

I didn’t get to tell this now retired doctor that he made a difference for me. That he made something that is uncomfortable for me more bearable because of who he was and how he was with me. That he created a safe enough space for me where I could be vulnerable. 

I find myself reflecting on our society and how perhaps we don’t have the same goodbyes that we used to have. We don’t seem to always make space for the many feelings involved, both in forming and then having to end relationships. To honor and allow space for grief in all its forms and sizes. 

I can hear the voices within me telling me that I am being silly and sentimental. He was only my dermatologist. 

But he was someone who was a constant in my life that is now gone, that I didn’t get to have a ritual goodbye with. That I didn’t get to thank for all years of kindness and service. The years of brief moments of sharing our lives in the office. Brief snapshots in time. 

I think that goodbyes are important. I think that each goodbye, especially at my age, reminds me of all the goodbyes, both past and yet to come. I am noticing them more these days. I want to attend to them properly. 

Perhaps my reaction has to do with seeing many more goodbyes these days, as I continue this path of aging. Goodbyes become more familiar than hellos now. Endings become more noticed, more poignant, as I contemplate my own eventual ending.

Perhaps some of my reactions are about my own fear of slipping away one day and no one noticing. Not being able to say goodbye. Not being able to hear what connections with me may have meant to some others, what I may have meant. 

These days, more than ever, I appreciate the tender connections between humans that we all need and that can keep us going, especially on our worst days. 

An abrupt ending can catch me off guard. It can make me feel as if the connection was all in my head. Why was there not even a letter sent to all of his patients? It could even have been a form letter from the department informing any who might be interested in knowing about his leaving.

I want to honor that part of me that felt a connection and trust with another human being who had chosen a life of service and caring, whose dedication and warmth I got to feel, whose sense of humor I came to appreciate.

This experience helped me realize that I don’t want to underestimate the importance of any connections that I may have made in my own life. To understand that I may have had a bigger impact on someone than I realize. I want to leave space for any words or feelings that may need to be expressed. 

I want to pay attention to things that I need to say before I leave. Are there feelings and words inside me that need to come out? 

I think that this is one purpose that my writing serves. It helps me to let those feelings, thoughts, and words out, as well as to perhaps help another feel a bit less alone on this path of aging and life. 

 I am surprised at the intensity of my own reaction, I must admit, to this doctor retiring. Perhaps this is a testament to all that we experience so quickly in our lives these days and how we don’t often allow enough space or room for all the feelings that we have. 

So, I am allowing some space here. 

I would thank this doctor for his kindness and presence through the years. I would thank him for helping to make me feel more comfortable as I sometimes stood naked in front of him with my aging body, my shame and embarrassment slowly dissipating with his professional, matter of fact, and kind demeanor. 

I would thank him for having been a part of my life, however small and brief those moments were. They meant something to me. He meant something to me. 

I would wish him well as he continues his own path of aging. As he retires and now redefines himself in the world. As he walks along his path which will no longer intersect with mine. 

I want to remember to honor others and the connections we have made. To not discount that those connections may be deeper to them than I perhaps realize. To realize that I might have made even a small difference in someone’s life with something as simple as a smile and hello.

I want to remember to say things that I feel right then and there as much as possible, because you never know when this may be the last time that you see someone, for whatever reason. 

I want to remember to never underestimate the power of kindness and acknowledging that. In others and me. In all relationships. 

Maybe I made a difference in the woman who I smiled at in the grocery store today. Maybe I made a difference in the day of the familiar clerk who I stopped and talked with and whose name I make sure to remember and use. Maybe my talking with the check-out clerk at the store and sharing a resource with her about a shared issue will make a difference for her. 

Perhaps you are more important to those that you have contact with than you realize. Consider the possibility that they would feel some sadness if you weren’t around anymore. 

It’s not just family that we can be important to. There may be others who you may have touched more than you are aware of. Others who felt your kindness and caring and appreciated it, and looked forward to seeing you again. 

You might have made more of a difference than you realized. 

And I’m about to turn 71!

I am about ready to turn 71 in April and am still trying to settle into having turned 70. 

What is it about that number? 

70 is a number that cannot be denied as old. As aging. As now being an elder.

I don’t feel 70, whatever that means. When I look in the mirror, though, I see a different face than the one that I see reflected in my internal mirror. I am still at times a bit shocked. Who is that? When did she take over my face and body? I don’t remember that happening. 

My 50s felt like I was still vibrant and youngish. My 60s still felt somewhat that way as well, although a bit further along the road than my 50s. 

But 70… Seventy! 7 decades. Friends dying around me more frequently. More funerals than weddings these days. Now being old enough to be someone’s grandmother rather than their mother. Not having had children of my own, this idea of being old enough to be a grandmother still can come as a bit of a shock to me. 

70. Years ago when I thought about 70, I thought that was really old.

It’s old, yes, but somehow, I don’t feel really old. Well, maybe sometimes I get more of a glimpse of that these days. When I get up after sitting for a while, when I wake up and the speed (or lack thereof) with which I initially move around. My taking naps in front of the tv whether I intended to or not.

I am creakier, stiffer, slower in some cases, unable to do things automatically without thinking about them like I did before (how badly do I need that item that I just dropped onto the floor?). 

I forget things, misplace things, sometimes confuse things (like recently thinking that a zoom class started at noon rather than 11 and showing up at the very end of the class). 

Rereading a book as if I never read it before.

I dress for comfort, especially with my shoes. Fashion has become a non-thing for me. I admire those who still make wonderful fashion statements as elders. They look wonderful. That’s not me. I just make sure that everything that needs to be covered is covered before I leave the house. 

I decide where to hike based on whether there are restrooms along the way on the hike. Priorities change. 

I now have pill boxes to help me remember if I took everything that I was supposed to on that day. Some of them are supplements, but some are meds that need to be taken daily, like blood pressure and cholesterol meds. 

I see a very different weight on the scale these days when I rarely get on the dreaded thing. Numbers from my past shall not be seen again, even if I am able to lose some pounds.

They measured my height not too long ago at the doctor’s office. I can’t seem to lose pounds, but I have managed to lose 1.5 inches. What?!!

My skin doesn’t bounce back like it used to. When I do manage to lose a bit of weight, I see something different these days. My skin seems to want to keep the space open for the weight, should it return.

Going out to dinner with a friend who is younger than I. She talks about having looked around the room to see if there were any possible available men. That idea never even occurred to me. That ship has sailed. And mostly, I am comfortable with that and with my own company. 

Having reading glasses in every room and now in every purse. Because I can’t read the small print without them. Being excited when I find tiny little reading glasses that can fit into tiny little purses. The small joys. 

Regular hearing aid appointments.

Knees that talk to me when once they were silent and taken for granted. My body now has its own symphony of creaks and clicks. 

Stopping when hiking up a hill to catch my breath. Monitoring my breathing and heart rate. 

Reminding myself to keep moving regularly throughout the day. This was not something that I even had to think about when younger, when I moved about naturally all day long. 

Trying to figure out what might be important to tell the doctor and what are simply symptoms of aging. I have never been here before, so it’s all new. 

Early dinner, early bedtime. Home by dark, usually. Some of this is because the crime rate has gone up where I live, but I also suspect that wouldn’t have had such an effect on me years ago. 

Not liking to drive at night anymore.

Getting ads about funeral arrangements and such, not so much about fun vacations.

Being invisible to others, especially men. No longer holding any interest for them. No longer seen. No longer desired. 

But there are other things that I notice too.

Slowing down more to notice the things that I took for granted and that now hold such beauty for me. Birds taking a bath in my back yard. Friends greeting each other with open arms. Smiles from the staff at the cafe, or at the grocery store. Cafe owners asking me where I have been if they haven’t seen me for a while.

Not sweating the small stuff. Things that used to upset me are not important anymore. I speak my mind and then move on. I sometimes make the decision to wish a person well, but no longer have them in my life. I get to make that choice.

Not caring if everyone likes or approves of me. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Cherishing time with friends with the realization that each moment is precious, and that the next moment is not guaranteed. 

Gratitude and appreciation for things that I didn’t pay as much attention to before. Waking up in the morning. Smiles and friends. Laughter. The beauty of nature still fills me with awe. 

Gratitude for the love that I have had in my life. The lessons learned. The pain felt helped me grow and get to where I am today. 

Gratitude for my body and what it still does for me, even if more slowly and somewhat less gracefully than it did before. Going to the gym to remain as functional as I can. Different goals these days.

Realizing that I have an expiration date. It is a much more real and sobering knowledge now. Allowing that knowledge to inform my decisions and actions more. Learning to be more present to each precious moment. Acknowledging the gift of being alive. 

The warmth of the sun on my skin. The embrace of a friend. The sound of the rain on the rooftop. The wag of the tail of a dog going by that wants to say hello. 

The joy on people’s faces at the zoo where I volunteer. The child in each of us never really goes away and can still be delighted and amazed. 

The kindness of a stranger on the street.

The delight of a spontaneous conversation with someone I just met. The connection in that moment that may only happen that once and that can be delightful and nourishing. 

My morning cup of coffee as I sit and look at the trees around me, appreciating the morning light.

The art that can still come through me now that I finally have time to paint. Taking in the wonder that I have no idea where a painting that I completed really came from. Awe at the power greater than us that speaks through us. 

The words that can flow through me as I write. And seeing that others can at times resonate to some of the things that I write. Connections through written words. My soul expresses itself through those words. Finally. 

Wisdom earned at realizing what a gift this life is, with all its bittersweetness. What a joy to be alive. Yet to feel sorrow is also to feel aliveness. It’s all part of the journey. Some of it is more painful. Some of it is joyful beyond description. All of it precious. 

Coming home to myself, finally. It has taken some time, and I am so grateful to have arrived. And to still be here, still alive. 

Ready or not, 71… here I come. 

Realizing, finally, that my center of gravity has been inside me all along.

I have searched my entire life to find my center, my balance. 

When I was younger, and for most of my life, I have looked for external ways to center myself, to get that elusive sense of balance and wholeness. Trying to find that core deep within me reflected back to me from others. It never worked.

Now, further along on my journey of aging, I finally begin to understand why.

Childhood

I tried to use my parents’ centers as my own when I was a child. I tried to follow the rules, but they didn’t fit me exactly right.

Adolescence

I tried to follow my friends as I grew into adolescence. I wanted to fit in, but didn’t quite understand how to do that most of the time.

I tried to center myself on each new teacher or possible role model that I looked to for answers. Their answers were sometimes wise and felt like they were on the right track, and yet not quite there.

Young adulthood

I tried to center myself as part of a married couple. My husband and I were young, and were both trying to find our way, and ended up throwing each other off.

I tried to center myself on my career. It was something that I did, but it did not bring me home to myself and did not bring me balance.

Middle age

I tried to find new relationships to center myself on and around. We each bring our own issues into any relationship, and that makes finding a stable balance challenging. 

Elderhood

And now, retired, I have taken (and am still taking) a lot of quiet time with much solitude and space, hoping to find that elusive sense of being grounded, centered, and at home in my own being. I have felt lost at times, without any external object to try and define myself around. Lost and drifting.

Until I drifted right back to that face in the mirror. Until I drifted right back to the little girl that is still inside me, the teenager who is still there, the young and middle-aged adult, and now the elder. To all the selves that I have been. To all the selves that have always had that thread of who I am inside them. 

I realized that my core has been inside me all along. My center of gravity is, and must be, within me. 

Lessons Learned

I can be with others but cannot base who I am on them. I can relate to and connect with someone else and maintain my own values, opinions, and beliefs, without having to try to rearrange them to suit anyone else.

 I can do things that feel right, both for others and myself. I can now, retired from the work force, finally paint, and write. These things express parts of who I am but they are not my center.

My core is that sometimes small voice that tells me when something feels wrong somehow. The voice that whispers and nudges me in certain directions until I listen. The feeling that there is more inside me than I realized.

I can get energy and help from outside of me, but the center of me is still deep within. This was the me that was questioning. The me that was sad at not feeling heard. The me that didn’t realize that who I needed to be heard most from was me. The me that felt betrayed by others and who was taught to betray herself. Who wasn’t taught that I was, and am, worthy. 

The irony of it all

Isn’t it interesting that as we age and our physical balance can and often does become an issue, that emotional balance and core can be deeper and stronger than ever. 

I may now feel physically wobblier because my body is not as strong as it once was. Yet I can feel much less wobbly inside as my spirit and soul are stronger than ever. 

I find it ironic to realize what I have been looking for has been there all along, and that what threw me off balance was trying to arch and twist myself to make someone or something else my center. I had to take a step back into my own self. Stop wobbling in my definition of who I am. Stop wobbling in standing up for myself, in saying no, because I have the right. 

The core and connections

My core connects to the earth, to its plants, trees, and animals. My core is part of the earth, as I am part of her. My core, in the physical sense, is not as taut or tight (what happened to all my muscles?), but my emotional core is solid, having come through struggles and pain and having become stronger through it all. 

I now know that I am connected to a power greater than I. And I know that this connection comes from my center directly to that power without any intermediaries needed. 

Have I made mistakes? Yes. 

Do I have regrets? Yes.

 Does that negate my goodness and compassion? No.

 I can get lost at times, get distracted and have my sense of direction waiver. And I can make decisions that are not the best. But that doesn’t mean that I am defective.

 I can keep working to come home to myself. I don’t have to be perfect. The answers are inside me, even if I may not access them immediately with all the external noise that gets in the way. 

My core is that which cannot always be named but which can be felt and experienced and lived by. 

The Core Ingredients

One of my core’s ingredients is love. This love had to be fully directed to myself to then be able to be fully directed to others. To stand solidly in self-love is to then be able to reach out without losing my balance. To feel and appreciate the beauty of our foundation is to be able to build bridges from it to others. Bridges that are solid and don’t crumble when connected to another. 

I now know the importance of embracing the darkness as well as the light, so that when darkness from the world or others comes my way, I will not be thrown off center. I know how to contain that darkness and hold it when and where necessary. And I know that I am more than that darkness.

I will be solid in appreciating this self inside of me, realizing that any comparison to others is unnecessary and does not make sense. We each have our own core of beauty and light. We need not compare. 

My GPS has finally been repaired and can be allowed to turn back around toward me. I can appreciate each connection and all the love that I have been lucky enough to experience along the way without having to give away the power of my own center, soul, and Self. I can claim my right to co-exist with others. Not more, not less. With the right to take up my own space, on a solid foundation and in balance, finally. 

Joy and pain, always housemates in my soul. 

I have struggled in my past with trying to figure out who I am, sorting out my feelings and trying to make sense of it all. All of it jumbled up inside me. Not all fitting neatly together. Feelings at odds with each other. I couldn’t quite figure out which category I might fit into. And I felt defective somehow because of all of this.

Ah, the gifts of aging. I don’t have to fit into any category. 

I can have all the feelings, sometimes even at the same time.

I can be happy-sad, angry-grieving, irritated-amused, fearful-angry, anxious-determined, and many more.

It’s all ok.

Which means that I am ok.

Actually, I am much more than ok. I can finally say that and own it. I feel it all, and it all is a gift. Not to say that it all feels like a gift at that moment in time. But it is, nonetheless, a gift. I am alive. I get to feel things. I get to experience the range of emotions and experiences that this journey of being human brings with it. 

What an absolute delight and sorrow it is to be alive. 

And now, approaching the end of the road with much less of the road ahead of me than behind me, I can truly begin to appreciate it all more deeply. That seems to be part of being human, too. Realizing the worth of something as we get closer to no longer having it. 

I feel sad at the losses I have had. And grateful to have had these beings, two-legged and four-legged alike, in my life. 

I feel joy at sunrises and sunsets, with more poignant joy-grief at sunsets. I resonate more with sunsets these days.

I feel anger. And I feel gratitude for the parts of me that I can finally allow to speak up and say when something is not ok. I find it easier to say that I do not accept that behavior, or I do not accept those words toward me. Having swallowed so much for so long, it is a relief to stop. To set a boundary. To believe in my right to say no more. I can appreciate my anger. 

I feel rage at the pain, suffering, and injustice in this world, and grateful for the empathy to feel that. And for the ability to help in any small way that I can. With my actions, with my vote. 

I feel loneliness, and can also smile at the sweet remembrances of loves that I have been graced enough to have in my life. Smiles that others may not understand, but I know. I remember. I am grateful.

I feel wistful about life gone by. Regrets at what I could have perhaps done better. And I also feel compassion for having done what I knew how to do at the time. Self-forgiveness is a challenge for me, and one that I continue to work on. It does not help to continue to punish myself. I can try to do better. Or at the very least do no more harm. 

I can be angry and not have to cause harm to anyone. I can be sad and not have to cause harm to myself. 

I can be frustrated and live to see the resolution of things, or at least live to see another day.

I can feel love, and not have to be close to what or who it is that I feel that love for. I don’t have to possess, and can still love deeply. Maybe even more deeply. 

I am finally realizing, accepting, and even embracing all the different feelings inside me. The bittersweetness of life is reflected in my soul. I am all of it, sometimes all at the same time. And it is all ok. Finally. 

I know, but it doesn’t always help me to hear that in my moment of deep grief.

 A friend of mine told me that she was on her way to a memorial for the husband of someone that she knew. She looked at me and said, “But he was in his 90’s, so you know.”

As if the grief should be less, somehow. As if the pain of losing a 70-year marriage would not be as excruciating. 

It’s hard to know what to say when someone loses someone dear to them. Words fail us, yes? And yet, we try, in our compassion and wanting to express our caring. We try. We may even ask how old the person was, as if to then know how much grief would be expected or appropriate. 

There are things that I have said to those in grief, and then, when on the receiving end, I realize (at least to me) that those same words don’t feel soothing or comforting at all.

They had a great life. Or they had a good long life. 

That may be true, and I feel grateful for that. But, in that moment, what that phrase can do is to shut down my expression of my grief. To tell me, in a subtle way, that I should be grateful that they were around as long as they were (I am) and imply that somehow my grief should not be as intense.

Really?

My grief is intense. My loss hurts. My pain is deep. Deep because I was blessed enough to have them in my life, to love and be loved by them for so long. I will now miss that presence and love with my very core. The length of their life does not make my pain less. I don’t want to feel as if I must tone down my grief.

I do not mean in any way to discount the intense grief of a sudden and unexpected loss, the grief of a young life taken too soon. Those are unique types of grief that can feel so very inconsolable. 

But we also don’t need to discount grief that comes with an elder who has died. Yes, it was their time. Yes, they may have been blessed with many years of life. And yes, the grief is still intense. 

I think we all struggle with intense emotions. We all struggle with what to do with grieving and that whole painful process. We are not taught the sacred art of sitting with one another in our pain, sitting beside each other, simply being in the moment together. 

A simple touch can help sometimes. Other times not. Grieving is an individual thing. It’s also something that we all share. Each person may need something different and unique to them. 

Mostly I think that we all need to be seen and heard for what we are going through in that moment. 

I still can grieve deeply even if someone lived to a good old age. 

Because someone was old doesn’t mean that I was ready to say goodbye, or that I am going to grieve any quicker or lighter. I feel what I feel. And it’s ok. It’s ok. 

I wish I had wise words that would be perfect to say to someone in their grief. I don’t. I do appreciate it when others try to reach out. I appreciate their concern and kindness. I am aware of the kind intentions behind whatever someone may say to me in the moment. And I express my gratitude for that.

And I appreciate it when someone can simply be with me, to acknowledge my grief, and to not feel compelled to say anything that they think might be comforting. Because in that moment, for me, there is no comfort to be had. There is only the deep pain of loss, of grieving, which takes its own time, has its own path, and will not be directed, diminished, or rushed.

When we lose someone, at the moment it can feel like it was never enough time with them. We don’t need to add any rules or diminish our feelings and sadness. They are gone. And we are grieving. It’s ok.

Maybe we can also learn to give that to ourselves, to realize that grief will run its course. We don’t have to judge ourselves or meet any expectations of the length of time or how much we grieve. We can learn to accept whatever feelings come up, give ourselves the time that we need, give ourselves permission to be who we are and feel what we feel.

We can learn to sit with pain, to sit with our own discomfort and feelings of powerlessness. We are powerless, and we can hold each other’s hands, hold each other’s grief, hold each other’s hearts. We can let others know that we are there beside them in this great mystery and unknown. In this ending and goodbye, with this hole in our hearts that feels as if it will never be filled again. We don’t have to know what the perfect thing to say is. There is no perfect thing to say. There is only the moment, only the grief. Only the shared experience of being human, of being mortal, of endings.

There are many forms of love

I have enjoyed many Valentine’s days. Sweetheart celebrations, romantic love, sweet togetherness. They were all special to me.

But they are not the first memories that come up for me these days.

It was Valentine’s Day several years ago, and my partner at the time took me out for a lovely dinner at a local restaurant. I appreciated his gift and gesture, even though part of me knew that this relationship would not last in the long run. I just knew, in that place in my gut, the truth. And it was ok. I appreciate the moments and times that we had.

But back to the story. 

The restaurant, where you can usually breathe and have room to enjoy each other’s company, had put a lot more tables in their space to accommodate all the couples that wanted to dine there that evening. The tables were so close to each other that we began to joke with our neighbors at the tables close to us about sampling each other’s plates, as we could simply reach across the tables. 

The poor waiters, I thought. How can they possibly take care of everyone?

It turns out that they couldn’t. Not really, given the sheer number of guests and the little space for them to maneuver themselves around in. 

Some of the guests became irritated, impatient with the service. 

I made sure to make eye contact with our server and let her know not to worry, that it was ok, that we were not in any rush. I have been in work positions before where I could not get things done, due to outside circumstances, in the time that was expected. I remember what a difference that someone else’s reaction can make. This, I believe, can be another benefit of aging, putting your own memories of similar experiences to use in the current moment. To empathize, to understand, to be as patient and kind as we can be in that moment. 

We were in such a tight spot that she could not reach us at one point. We waited for a long time before she eventually got through. She apologized profusely for the wait.

 I told her not to worry, that it was amazing that she made it to us at all.

 And she smiled and breathed, for a moment, giving a sigh of relief. We spent a long time at dinner that night, and were able to laugh about it all, vowing to never go out on that special day again, but to choose an alternate date to celebrate. 

So, here we were. Having a very long Valentine’s dinner. And we made it fun. We laughed and joked with each other and those around us most of the evening. 

To our surprise, as we neared the end of our dinner, some cocktails and a dessert showed up on our table. We tried to catch our server’s attention, sure that a mistake had been made and that we had received someone else’s orders. I caught her eye, and to my surprise, she gestured with a hand to her heart and a smile, and mouthed the words thank you.

She was thanking us, with the extra goodies, for being patient and kind. For understanding that she was doing the best that she could. 

I was so touched.

 Kindness has such power, yes? Kindness can reach across to help someone feel seen, heard, cared about and understood. And it makes whatever is going on a bit more bearable. 

What could happen in our world if we all just took a breath to stop and see what each of us may be going through at the time? If we stopped and wondered if what was happening between someone else and us really had nothing to do with us. That maybe they were going through a challenging time right then. 

I think that this will always be one of my favorite memories of Valentine love. The love that is one that simply sees another struggling and offers them some understanding and kindness. That, in a moment in time, stops to see what they may be going through and tries not to add to the challenge that they may already have. The love that is reflected in their eyes and gestures of gratitude. The love that can happen between strangers that is pure and in the moment. 

So, with that in mind I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day. Whatever you may be going through, I wish you kindness and love.