I have joined a new tribe, much sooner than I thought.

I think a lot about tribes these days, groups that we feel we belong to, our chosen families. I have no family around me that I have any connection with, so, my chosen family feels extra important to me. 

Much sooner than I could have imagined, I now find myself in the tribe of elders. 

What? When did that happen? Where was I? How did I not notice how quickly life was going by?

They have a special room when you first enter, the room where you begin to work through some of your shock and denial about having joined this tribe. 

There are mirrors to help you adjust, to help you see yourself and to help you get used to the idea. Some people seem to get stuck in front of the mirrors. They adjust things to try and change how they look, to try and camouflage the look of elderhood. That might work, for a little while. But eventually the truth becomes clearer in front of those mirrors. And reflected in the eyes of those around you.

And when you are ready (and sometimes before you are ready), you enter the main room where other members recognize you and welcome you, speak to you, reach out to you. Those that are more introverted may look toward you, waiting for you to make the first move when you are ready. 

You look around. Everyone looks old. Wait, does that mean that I am old too?

Wait, wait, I say. I am not ready. I am not ready to give up on dreams of youth, sensuality and sexuality, the future to look forward to, the energy and enthusiasm and courage of youth. I am not ready. I haven’t done everything that I wanted to do!

And your tribe sits patiently around you. Quietly, for the most part. (Except for those who deal with things loudly and brazenly. They seem to be part of every group. We each deal with life in our own ways. Aging helps you see and accept that more.)

Yes, your sensuality and sexuality have changed, you are told. But, do not despair. They are still there. Just because some others around you may not see those parts of you, we see them. We know that they are still very much alive in you, even if they may be expressed differently. We see you. We see your sensuality in the way you touch the leaves of the trees in the parks where you take long walks, in the way that you pet and caress animals, in the hugs that you give with everything that you have. 

Yes, your energy is different. You may be slower, more measured in your movements and decisions and even thoughts. But you bring more to those, more history, more information, more wisdom. You bring more richness and depth. If others take the time to listen and hear you, there can be many gifts that you can give. 

Yes, the future looks very different these days. The road ahead is much shorter than the road behind you. Do not despair. What you lose in looking forward, you gain in appreciating where you are now, in the present moment. You did not have the time to really see the present when you were so focused on the future. Running, racing, doing, accomplishing, being efficient. Now you have time. Now you see the deep importance of being in the moment. This moment in time. 

But, I respond, I now have a clearer sense of the end of life. The concept of death has become much more real. I am afraid.

Yes, comes the answer. It is natural to be afraid. We are, too. It’s normal to be afraid of things that we do not know or understand. 

But we are also here to tell you that each moment can be so much more filled with all that life has to offer. Each moment can touch your soul more deeply, more authentically. Each moment can become an eternity unto itself. Time takes on a different feeling, a different perspective, a different measure. 

Your body may falter, but your spirit can grow stronger. Richer. More vibrant than ever. You can still inhabit this body of yours, encourage it to do what it still can. Breathe into it and into each moment. 

Your mind may not work as quickly. Your memory may be a bit slower as well. But you may also have the memories that make you realize what has been important all along. Not the job, the lists, the accomplishments, but rather those whom you have loved and who have loved you. Those that you had a connection with. Those that helped you feel a part of something bigger than you. Love doesn’t age, but only grows deeper and more inclusive, if you let it. 

You may feel sad more frequently. It’s ok to feel sad. Do you notice how deep and poignant the moments of joy and wonder and awe can be these days? As if the sadness helps highlight those times. Sadness can help you cultivate more gratitude, can be the special ingredient in appreciating those sacred moments. There is no need to be afraid of it. 

Your body may grow frailer as you continue this path. Aches, pains, creaks, and groans. And your spirit grows stronger. Your wisdom and capacity for love can grow deeper, if you allow that to happen. It means feeling it all, however. To fully feel and live each moment, even the painful ones. 

You will at one point no longer be here. But your love lingers. In those you leave behind, in art or with written words that you may have created. In the spirit of who you have been that is like no other. 

Come, sit with us, walk with us, take our hands. We are here together. We will continue this journey together. 

You have value. You are loved. 

Welcome to this sacred tribe. 

Learning to see grand purpose in everyday being

I have always been searching for what my purpose is.

 As a child, I seemed to feel early on that it was to help others. I could discuss childhood dynamics here and what may have led to this, but that’s for another story.

Fast forward, I became a social worker. No surprise there. This, I thought, would fulfill my sense of purpose and wanting to be of service to the world, wanting to fulfill what I might be here for.

I don’t regret my career now that I am retired. I hope that I was able to help a few others along the way. 

But it was not my purpose. 

So, what was, I wondered.

And now that I have entered the land of elderhood, what is left to do? Did I even come close to finding what that purpose was, or is?

I find that I love to write. I wish I had focused on that earlier, but I am grateful to be spending time doing that now. It brings me a sense of fulfillment and a sense of connection with those who may resonate with some of the words that I write. It gives my soul a channel to speak through. 

I have always loved to draw. Now I paint. I can lose time when in front of a piece of art that I am working on. That is a mystical feeling. It gives me a sense of something greater than me coming through me if I only step out of the way. 

I love animals. So much that it hurts sometimes, when I see how we, at times, can treat them in our world. Could I have done work with animals? It wasn’t an option that I was familiar with back when I started college. It didn’t feel like a real choice. My upbringing led to other fields. I think I would have loved working with animals and working toward protecting them, their survival and that of the earth.

Now I volunteer at our local zoo with the elephants. It brings such a deep sense of connection with nature and these sacred magical creatures. I am grateful.

I love the majestic redwoods and our parks. I feel a connection with them when I touch them. Might I have done something along those lines? Park ranger, perhaps. Maybe. 

Now I go for frequent walks among these beautiful trees, these majestic beings that feel ancestral to me. They help calm me. They let me know that I am of the earth and part of them. Under a tree is where I will plan to have what is left of me scattered, in a way that nourishes the tree and doesn’t harm it. I even found an organization that does this, mixes your remains with the right minerals to be of benefit to the tree that you choose. Perfect. 

Still, what is my purpose now, as a 70-year-old woman? 

I think I was looking to my choice of career to fulfill whatever my purpose was supposed to be. It can be part of it, certainly, but not totally. At least not for me. 

I was married at one point, for 12 years. But I did not feel the calling to have children. I did not feel the calling to be a mother, which is a beautiful and sacred calling. But not for me. 

So, here I am still questioning my purpose.

I think that I was always looking for my purpose to be a grand statement, something huge and of great importance. Something so much bigger than I could ever be. Purpose with a capital P. 

I think on a smaller scale now, in the grandness of small gestures, small kindnesses, in using who and what we are to hopefully contribute to a better world, in our own small way. 

Maybe my purpose has been to find my way back home to myself all along. To stop trying to be other than what I am. To express who and what I am to the world, to finally use my voice and simply be me. To spread kindness and love in my own unique way. By smiling at random strangers as I walk down the street. By engaging in conversation with various people that I encounter, even at grocery stores or coffee shops. By helping them feel seen and heard. By offering that small piece of me to them to make genuine contact in those moments. Moments that may change the direction of their day in the same way that kindness from others can change the direction of mine. 

I am learning that it’s ok to do my small part. To be a good friend. To listen. To contribute where and when I can. And it’s ok to also spend large amounts of time with this self within me that I have tried to mold and shift and change the shape of, but who has been perfectly fine all along. Who may have had things to say and gifts to offer if she was only listened to and allowed to speak her voice and feelings. 

I can do that now. I can keep working on being more and more authentic, speaking my truth, spending time with those that I choose, and offering what might be my gifts to those around me. 

 Perhaps our purpose is that each of us comes with unique gifts to offer, and that we need to learn to recognize those, stop judging them, stop trying to compare them to others, and open the channels that have blocked those gifts from flowing into the world.

Might it also be that it is never too late to do that? I hope so. 

I think that part of my purpose, now as an elder, is to realize that we still have time to be who we are. We are still here, still alive. I can now work to spread that message to others, as I continue to encourage that ongoing unfolding within myself. 

 I can hold a lantern out for others who may make some use of the light that is still within me. To encourage them and to cheer them on in their own journey. To help them feel a bit less alone for a few moments in time. 

As Ram Dass wrote, “We are all just walking each other home.” That home is also inside of each of us. We can recognize and honor that in each other as we walk our own paths. 

My sense of purpose is no longer capitalized. It’s not so grand, perhaps. But no less important and magnificent, in its own way, and so very much closer to home. 

The challenge of answering when someone asks me how I am.

I am struck by how much we humans like to have things easily categorized, black and white, good and bad, evil and good, happy and sad.

For me, that is not my experience on this journey of being a human, especially as I continue aging. 

It’s not an easy question to answer when someone asks me how I am. I find that I hesitate at times. Do I give one of the accepted answers (fine, ok, great, hanging in) or can I dare to speak my truth and say some of the mixed feelings that are inside me? Do they really want to hear? Isn’t it interesting that the phrase How are you? these days is not usually a question that has space for a lengthy answer. It’s almost like saying hello. 

What if we reserved that very special question for times when we have the time and emotional space to hear the entire answer that someone may have to give us? 

I often feel sad these days. Sad about things going on in the world. Sad about the pain of others, the pain of the earth itself and all its creatures. My own sadness at the realization of the reality of mortality. Of my own aging body. Of the road ahead of me being much shorter than the road behind me. Of regrets about things that I might have done differently. 

I only speak of these things to a few people. It seems difficult for people to hear about pain.

We are often told to focus on gratitude at the expense of feeling all the feelings inside of us. 

And so, well-intentioned as it may be, I am sometimes redirected to feel gratitude. To focus on the positive. And there is almost a bit of shaming that can come across for what is perceived as my negative focus.

As if it is assumed that I do not feel gratitude for life and everything in it because I feel sad. 

I feel both. That is one, for me, of the wonders of being human. I can contain it all. I can feel it all. And it’s all ok. It’s a gift. 

I am deeply grateful for my life and all the lessons I have had and continue to have (some of them easier to handle than others, certainly, but all important to have helped me reach where I am today.) 

I am grateful to wake up each morning to another day. 

I am grateful for this body that still functions, even if a bit differently than when I was younger. 

I am grateful for where I am in life, the gift of retirement and finally being able to do things that I love. Writing. Painting. Long walks in the redwoods in the middle of the day. The time to sit and simply be.

I am grateful for the many blessings that I have that others may not. I have a home. I can provide for myself. I live peacefully. 

I am grateful for random acts of kindness in a world that can sometimes be cruel.

I am grateful for my friends, and sad about those that I have lost.

I am grateful that I get to volunteer with the elephants at our local zoo, and sad about all of the poaching and killing that these sacred creatures suffer.

I am sad about wars and senseless killing. 

I am grateful for the smile of a stranger as I walk down the street, the grocery store clerk who recognizes me and asks how I am doing. The coffee shop owner who asks where I have been and goes on to say that she hasn’t seen me in a while and hopes that I have been ok.

I am sad about being old, and grateful that I have lived this long and am still alive, still here.

I am sad about being alone sometimes, and deeply grateful for my solitude.

I am grateful for my neighbor’s new babies. They give me hope for the future. And I am anxious about this world filled with turmoil into which they have been born, while being hopeful that they can make it better. 

Being human and alive feels like such a privilege and gift. And it can be quite painful at times. Might I say, exquisitely so? Exquisite in that the pain amplifies the joy. Sadness helps me appreciate the moments of pure delight. The temporary nature of our lives helps me appreciate each moment. 

As in a painting where the empty spaces help define the entire meaning of the piece, or in writing where what is implied, but not stated, can lead to deeper thoughts and feelings…so is life for me. 

So, when someone asks me how I am, I often find that I hesitate for a few moments before answering. First, to have someone ask and then actually look at me and wait for my answer feels like a bit of a surprise at times. That doesn’t always happen today in our very fast-paced, text-size interactions. 

There is my own weighing of how much to share with this person. How much might they really want to hear? How much of the complexity of being human may they feel comfortable with? Can they hear me without giving advice or telling me to be grateful and to remember how lucky I am and that others have it so much worse? Of course, these things are true, and I do know that. But being reminded of that in the moment of sharing what is inside of me only serves to shut me down. Perhaps that was the intention.

It’s interesting to remember that as a child, not only was my being sad at times criticized, but so were times of excitement and pure exuberance, as we can sometimes see in children. It is as if any extreme was disapproved of. Don’t get too excited would be the message. It’s too much. Your feelings are too much. You are too much. 

How many of us have learned to numb ourselves, to dampen our feelings, to not accept what is inside of us and to do our best to hide it and present a facade to the world that we think may be more acceptable?

This, then, also makes it harder to simply be with others, in whatever their present moment and emotional state may be. We try to fix things, and if we cannot, then we try to redirect them to not only what we think will make them more comfortable, but also what will make us more comfortable in their presence. 

We are all on this path of being human together. We have all had, and will continue to have, our own individual challenges, as well as triumphs. How lovely when we can simply sit with each other and share more of our journeys, with no need for answers or solutions. When we can open to each other and feel a bit less alone for a few moments. 

 So, if we meet sometime, I may ask you how you are. I will wait if you take some time to answer. It’s ok. I have time to listen. 

Going to a Jewish synagogue for a movie screening, feeling like family, talking openly about death.

My neighbor and I went to a movie screening the other day. It was held at a Jewish synagogue. Neither of us is Jewish.

From the moment that we entered their parking lot, people were there to greet us and usher us into the room where there were refreshments to be enjoyed. We sat down and folks started to say hello, ask our names, and include us in conversations.

I was touched.

In a day-to-day world where we hear of so much divisiveness, hatred, and conflict, what a joy it was to experience this sense of being welcomed before we were even known. Being asked to come in. Being included. Feeling comfortable in a room of people we had never met.

We sat down with our coffee and talked with some of the people there. They asked where we lived, how we heard about this movie screening. We chatted. We drank our coffee (with the added milk of human kindness.) What a lovely thing this kindness was, and is, in our world. We so desperately need this today.

I think that there are cultural influences that hit home for my neighbor and me. I am Italian-American, and I have always felt that my culture feels like the Jewish culture in many ways. Both cultures often express feelings quite openly. Both use food to nourish, feed, love, and share. My neighbor comes from Hawaii, where ohana is the word for family and being ohana transcends many barriers. Family is defined more broadly in all of these cultures than simply the ties of blood. I love that.

There is another culture that I believe was also apparent here. The culture of aging and elderhood. We are together in this poignant time of life, aware of an end, aware that we are getting closer to it each day. This, I think, can open us up more. Make us more sensitive, make us hide less. Allow us to share who we are more easily with those who may be interested.

It was time to watch the movie. A 75-minute feature documentary called “Jack Has A Plan”, directed by Bradley Berman.

This was not a light movie. It featured Jack, a man with terminal brain cancer who had made a choice as to when he would die. So many scenes were filled with love, tears, yet also contained laughter, compassion, and bittersweetness. Jack made his choice, did not want to wait until he was helpless and dependent on others and was no longer who he felt himself to be. He set about trying to resolve issues that he felt were unfinished and did what he could with those. He arranged a gathering, a celebration of his life on the day that he had chosen to die. And that day everyone there talked about their memories with Jack, expressed love, hugged, and said goodbye in their own way. After a while, it was time for the guests to leave so that he and his wife could be alone together for Jack’s final moments.

We were all deeply moved.

After the movie ended, the audience was invited to participate in a discussion. There were such touching stories shared by some of the guests there.

A woman shared about her son who has intractable depression that has not responded to any treatments and who no longer wants to live but is upset that he cannot do anything legally about this. His mother’s very torn feelings about this were expressed in her tears as she told his story.

A woman told the story of her mother who was suffering greatly as her disease progressed. She was not eligible for assistance with dying, as she did not have a prognosis of 6 months or less to death, which is required in the U.S. to get legal medical assistance to die. She finally made the decision to take matters into her own hands, did some research and chose her own method of dying. Her daughter’s description of how excruciating of a process this was for her, this woman’s loving daughter. How she struggled to accept that this was her mother’s choice. How she wished that she could have had some medical assistance with the whole process. I could feel the audience hold their breath as they heard her painful story. 

Another woman spoke whose husband had been suffering from dementia that was getting increasingly worse. She talked about that same issue referred to above about the current law in the U.S. and the conditions required to get medical assistance to die. So, she, her husband and some other family members made the decision to travel to Switzerland, where they could legally get that assistance. She described it as a beautiful, albeit painful, experience.

There is much to write and talk about with this topic of the right to die as we wish, the right to choose how and when we die.

But for now, I want to address this particular experience with this family of choice in this synagogue, as we all sat quietly connecting in ways that don’t always have words.

We could feel the very raw and shared humanity of each of us in that room. Hearing and feeling the depth of peoples’ painful experiences. All of us facing our own mortality, talking about choices and the freedom to handle things in our own way.

This is the first time that this synagogue had opened one of their programs to the public. They had predicted that they might get 20–30 people at best. It surprised them when 135 guests showed up. Most of us were “north of a certain age” as one of the speakers said. Given the topic of the movie, it makes sense as this is a topic that we think about more as we age. There is more reality to mortality and the many feelings about the right to die that we face now, in a much more visceral way, having reached this land of elderhood.

Here was a group of people openly talking about these very real end of life issues, sharing their feelings about this. Symbolically holding hands. Making eye contact with each other and acknowledging our fears and feelings. Talking about how we die alone even when surrounded by loved ones, yet also are part of all humanity in facing this final challenge.

I left feeling so very grateful and feel it still. Here was a gathering where we could be open with each other, where we could talk about scary things, where we could share our experiences and stories and listen to each other. Where we could lay our vulnerability down in front of us and have it received, held, and loved.

In that room, we were all family. We felt the presence of each other. And we felt the welcome that helped my neighbor and me to feel a sense of love and inclusion. A welcome that felt like medicine for our souls. A welcome that only grew as we shared in depth, human to human, elder to elder. 

It is in facing the dark, in naming it, in looking at the realities of life, I believe, that we can come together and offer each other some comfort along the way. Where we can hold each other’s hands and understand. Where we can help each other feel a bit less alone for a few moments. Where we can open our hearts with true welcome.

Realizing that my house is old-school style, my style.

Although not quite the dwelling in the photo above, my little house does compare to a cabin, surrounded by trees. Wood outside, and lots of wood inside. I love wood, both indoors and out. I thank the trees and feel their touch and warmth and comfort. 

Recently I took a tour of a senior living community, and I began to realize that modern decor is quite different than my style. 

The decor in these lovely one-and two-bedroom homes in this community that I visited is airy, open, with neutral colors and filled with light. What most people seem to love. 

I bought my house over 20 years ago and have loved it. I love its wood ceilings with big wood beams, wood paneling (which I have read can decrease your house’s value, although not in my eyes), hardwood floors, small bedrooms and rooms that are actually rooms and not an open style. People call it cozy. A word that realtors use to make small sound better. I call it cozy, embracing, soothing, comforting, my safe space. 

I feed my young neighbor’s kitties while they are on vacation and realize that their much newer home is also of this open style. Open with shades of white, grey, and neutral tones. Very lovely, and perfect for this young family. They entertain a lot, and this house suits them. 

I recently read one of those articles that talk about what dates things (or as I say, elderizes them) and people. Apparently, my house is quite dated. It has a few skylights, but otherwise is not a light-filled house. I have always loved having corners and nooks and crannies that I could retreat to. Open style gives me nowhere to retreat, and for my introverted and quiet side, retreat and sanctuary are things that I seek in whatever space I am in, looking for the dark corners somewhere. 

I love winter. Although I live in the bay area of California, where winter is defined by rain (unless we are in one of our droughts) versus snow, I love the rain and the soothing quality of it. I used to love the snow as well when I lived in Michigan (although maybe not driving in it so much). I love things about the darkness and the dark time of the year. 

But apparently that is not such a marketable quality for real estate. 

My furniture is darker and has a lot of wood in it. I do, to be honest, need to replace the couch, and am not sure which way to go. If I move, it may well be to a different space. So, perhaps I will wait to see where I end up living before buying anything. I may end up moving to a more light filled and more open space, who knows? l think that I am adaptable and can make that work.

 Still, it surprises me that even my house shouts elder when someone walks in. It has signs of aging (being only two years younger than I am), and I am ok with that. 

And now I realize that the decor also speaks of age.

Who knew?

I hear about this theme of what makes things shout their elderness a lot. One’s hairstyle (guilty here of that as well, I think). One’s clothes (I really don’t pay much attention to my clothes these days, going more for comfort than style). And now my house. We are old and dated together. We are elders. 

 I am ok with that. I love the way that my house feels to me when I walk in, or when I have a fire going in the fireplace that is surrounded by bricks. I love walking into the quietness of my home and out of the busyness of the world. I love walking into my dated home. My dated body and face feel at home there. 

I also have noticed something else. When people come in, they seem to feel that coziness and comfort and quietness. They settle in. They sometimes even sigh. 

Maybe they feel that way with me too. Maybe they feel that I can listen and hear them, hold their concerns, and that they can feel safe and settle in. I hope so. Far from perfect, I do my best, in my fallible human way, to be present with people. To hear them. To see them. To hold their spirits. Like my house holds me and my spirit. We dated beings can have much to offer, I think.

So here we are, my house and I. Aging together. Proudly wearing our dated styles. Being together in owning it. Being together in being different and being behind the times. Being ok with how we look and feel. Mostly. 

My house is a cozy cabin. My spirit is called to this. My soul is like a cozy cabin as well, at home in the redwoods, in forests, in darkness as well as light. 

I am an elder. I can give comfort and space and wisdom at times. I can give solace. I can offer my home to do the same. And embrace it. It expresses me. When you walk into my home, it can tell you who I am. What is important to me. How I live. If that appeals to you, that’s great. If not, that’s ok too. When I am no longer here, others can modify it and update it to their liking.

 But, until then, come into my cozy little elder cabin in the woods. Sit down, relax, breathe. You are welcome here. 

My younger self is long gone, and my older self is not here yet. 

I want to write a letter to myself. 

I know that there are many letters written to our younger selves. This is great in terms of things learned and advice possible.

 But I also know that advice is a gift that is not easily received. Timing is everything. I believe that we each need to go through our own journeys in life and to learn our own lessons at our own pace.

So, with that in mind, perhaps my current self might listen to things that my Wiser Self may have to say. I mean, we are both the same age and are very close, most of the time. So, why not?

So, self, these are some things that I want to tell you.

You are exactly where you need to be right now.

The regrets that you ruminate over are a way of continuing to punish yourself and to stop you from living your fullest life in the present moment. You made mistakes, yes. You did the best that you could to figure out what to do at the time. You can’t go back, so continuing to beat yourself up doesn’t change anything, cannot undo what was done. You need to forgive yourself. I know that is easier said than done. But this self-flagellation is not serving you. It’s not allowing you to fully inhabit your life. Time grows short. Hear me on this one. 

Your body is changing. It’s hard to accept, I know. You didn’t appreciate the body of your youth and what it was. It’s too late for that. You have a body that is your present home now. No, it’s not as smooth, toned, fit, or agile as it once was. It still deserves your love, attention, and affection. It still carries you around, lets you experience this sacred earth, lets you feel the warmth of the sun, the softness of touch, the feel of rain, the grass beneath your feet. 

You have always been a quieter person, and felt somehow less than because of that. It’s time that you learn to embrace that in yourself and come to appreciate the power in that quietness. You were not heard in your youth, not listened to as much as those that might have been louder. It’s true. But to not listen to yourself now and to not appreciate that being quiet is a perfectly wonderful way to be, that would be tragic. When quiet speaks, it usually comes from depth. 

You are afraid of getting older, afraid of dying. I understand that. Really, I do. And you are somewhat surprised to have reached this age. But you did. You are still alive. You still have time on this earth. You are still here. 

You fret about not having enough time or energy to do the things that you always wanted to do. And sometimes you get too depressed to even try to do some of those things. The weight of that is heavy in your body and your soul. I can feel that. 

Listen to me.

You write and paint now. You can get into berating yourself for not having done these things sooner. You don’t feel that you are good enough in these things. You compare yourself to those more seasoned and educated in both art and the written word. 

But you are painting. You are doing it. You are even in an art association that participates in art shows, and you are daring to show up for those. Good for you. Stop comparing yourself. It’s not a contest. It’s an expression of who you are that has longed to come out for your entire life.

The same with writing. You sometimes feel like saying what’s the use? The use is that you are letting your voice out, the voice that has been shut down for so long. You are telling your truth. Again, this is not a contest. This is you finally coming alive to your essence. And have you noticed that you get responses from some who are genuinely touched by your writing? 

You have not been a fan of conflict and have done much to avoid it in your life thus far. There was no room for dissent growing up in your family, but that didn’t stop you from having your own feelings and opinions about things, even if you didn’t express them. You are expressing them now. You did what you had to do to feel safe and to survive. And you did survive. Give yourself credit for that. 

You have been called too sensitive. Oh, how you didn’t realize that this is one of the greatest compliments of all. To be sensitive, to feel the pain of others, the joy around you, the suffering in the world, the whisper of the wind through the trees. This is a precious gift. It is something that others love about you as well. That is an honor to be trusted by others with their vulnerabilities. To be trusted to hear them and to hold those precious parts of them tenderly inside you. 

Your kindness has been ridiculed in the past.

 Your kindness is a superpower. It is kindness that can heal, that can bring people together. It is so very underrated. Embrace and celebrate your kindness. We need much more of that in our world today. 

Boundaries. This has been a tough one for you. Boundaries were not allowed growing up. Consequently, you struggled with that. But you are setting them now. You say when you have had enough. You say when something is not ok. So what if it takes you a bit of time to think about it and respond? That’s ok. We each have our own time and rhythm. You take your time. That can be good, in that you end up saying more of what you really feel and really mean, having had time to clarify it all for yourself. You speak your truth in your own time. And your time is perfectly fine. 

Relationships. You can get into berating yourself for a marriage that ended in divorce. But you were married for 12 years. You learned, you loved, you grew. And you had to leave to keep growing for yourself. You berate yourself for other relationships that you have been in and that you are no longer in, comparing yourself to those that have been together most of their lives. That is wonderful for them. It was not your path. There were things you needed to learn, and to learn them on your own. You have learned.

You question your ability to really love. 

You have loved deeply and then loved differently when the relationship ended. There has been love, which will always remain in some form or another inside you. Each relationship that you have been in has been valuable and important to get you where you are now. You needed to go through what you did to get to where you are. 

You have a deep love, more and more as you age, for the earth and its plants and animals. You feel their presence inside you. You connect quietly with the soul of the Universe. You become one with it. There are so many ways to love and so many forms of love. Do not judge yourself by one standard only. There is more to you than that. 

You have been afraid to be all that you can be. You fear your own light and power and aliveness. You learned to dim yourself.

There is time enough for dimness when you are no longer here. It is time to finally allow those parts of you to shine, to express themselves, to simply be. To give yourself permission to be all that you can be. To fulfill whatever purpose you are here for. To be your unique, authentic self. 

So, I say to you, let’s do this. I am with you. Let’s truly live this one precious life that we have, however long we have left. 

And through all of this, remember that you are loved.

I’ll take soft warm lights anytime.

Who knew that buying some globe bulbs for my bathroom would trigger yet another aspect of this aging process?

What could possibly come up with buying some globe bulbs, you ask.

Nothing, I would have said, before I embarked on that project. 

This time, I decided to buy the bulbs online. And I got to then watch some videos about each of the different bulbs, their lighting, their qualities, their brightness.

Ah, their brightness.

I watched and listened to young people in these videos talking about how wonderfully bright and white the light is from this model of bulb and how they can see everything so much more clearly.

So, let me step back for a moment and think about that. 

I am not denying what I see in the mirror, not at all. There are lines, dark circles and bags under my eyes, more chin than I care to own, and a face that does not reflect my inner vision of what I look like. I see it alright, but my insides do not quite line up with it. Not yet. Maybe never. 

I do not deny my 70 years on this earth. I have earned this face. 

So, I wondered, even though I am being told that bright white light is better, that this is the gold standard that I should be looking for, that I need to see everything in that mirror, I ask myself… Is that true for me? 

Maybe it is ok for me to order the warmer lights. The softer lights. Why shouldn’t I have a choice in what I look at first thing in the morning? Why do I need to have the harshest version of myself looking back at me before I have even had my morning coffee?

Another part of me says, you need to face reality.

Really, I respond to this part. Really? 

This made me think even more. 

There seem to be messages in our world of how we should face the truth, the reality of what is. That we should not color it, soften it, or change it in any way. If we were real adults, we would not flinch. We would be courageous. We would embrace what we see and accept it. 

Well, I am not that evolved yet. I may never be. And I have decided that this is ok. It is not that I do not know what time is doing to my face and body. It is that I can choose to soften the blow where I can. Where I can have a more glowing version of myself looking back at me. Why not?

Maybe I can remember to see parts of the world that way as well. 

Yes, I am very aware of the harsh realities of life, of the suffering in the world, its people, its creatures and plants, the very earth itself. I feel it all, sometimes so acutely that it can immobilize me for a while.

But do I need to listen to the news all day long? Do I need to force myself to face that every moment? 

Can I allow myself to see other things? Can I allow myself to balance the constant input of violence, negativity, hate and divisiveness? 

Can I give equal time and attention, I wonder, to the warmer light of what is happening around me. The kindness of strangers that I see every day. Families working hard to have the best life possible, with laughter amidst the pain of those struggles. 

People coming together to support each other each day.

The beautiful sunrises and sunsets. The majesty of the forests, the sacredness of the ocean. The desire of young people to save this earth, to stop the mindless destruction.

 The humanitarian aid in the midst of bloody wars. 

The many organizations that are formed to try and help where they can.

The smile and kind eye contact from a stranger as I walk down the street. The love of friends who check in to see how I am doing.

 The laughter of a group of women sitting together in a coffee shop enjoying each other’s company. 

The wonder of a child watching the elephants at the zoo, where I volunteer. 

The handyman who kindly points out things that need to be fixed that I have no knowledge of but that could cause me much more trouble later if I let them go. And who does not charge me a fortune to fix these things. 

The friend who brings me a cappuccino when she comes to visit, simply because she knows that I love my cappuccinos.

The friend who brought me some herbal remedies during a recent bout of RSV. Who also went out of her way to also bring some hot soup and treats without being asked to do this at all.

There is kindness all around if I stop to look at it.

Yes, we need to face the harsh realities of life. Yes, we need to see the truth. And we need to do what we can, where we can.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s ok to soften the light every now and then. And to let ourselves see things with a warmer glow. For the sake of our souls and our hearts.

Light and dark. Bitter and sweet. Sadness and joy. It’s all connected, all part of the gift of life.

I will feel it all, and realize it is all important. And still choose the soft warm bulbs when I can. 

A poem that helped me remember why.

Sometimes I wonder what purpose my writing is serving. I have moments of doubt, moments of a sense of loss of direction. The critical internal voices that have lived inside me and tried to protect me for so long can grow stronger at times as I continue to break their rules. Rules that have told me to be quiet and keep things to myself. Rules that were meant to keep me safe, but kept me isolated. 

Then recently a friend sent me this quote:

 In his poem “Why Bother?” Sean Thomas Dougherty wrote, “Because
right now, there is someone out there with a wound in the exact
shape of your words.”

Oh, yes. Now I remember. 

My intention is to write from my heart and to speak my truth as authentically as I can. Sometimes it feels scary to feel so vulnerable. Some of my friends ask me how I can be so open and vulnerable on the written pages that go out to total strangers. Funny, I don’t feel like they are total strangers, perhaps only some of them being people that I have not heard from. Those that have responded are no longer strangers to me. We share a connection, one that is important to me. 

As I continue on my path of aging, I am aware that if I speak of my vulnerabilities, I have owned them. How can anyone use them against me, really, if I have already admitted them aloud? Why not be open and connect with those who may speak the same language that I do?

And then I get responses from readers who are kind enough to read my work and who take the time to write back to me. 

They tell me that I touched them somehow with my writing, that I have helped to put words to some of what they are feeling. They write that they feel a bit less alone. 

The woman who wrote that I put words to what she has been feeling but had difficulty naming for herself. There can be relief in naming things. 

The man who resonated with something that I wrote and said he was right there with me. I felt that companionship. 

Those that connect with what I write and tell me that I am not alone. They feel things that I feel. They hear me and see me, and even offer comfort at times. 

I am so grateful. That is one of my intentions, to help others feel a bit less alone on this journey of being human, and now especially this aging part. 

We are all together on this path of life. And as we approach the later stages, aging can bring up a lot of questions and feelings. It can bring fear, sadness, and losses. It’s all part of the journey. Especially as more losses keep coming as we continue aging, if we are lucky enough to live that long.

It can help, I believe, to share our feelings and talk about all of this along the way. We die alone, as we are born alone, but we can take some comfort in holding each other’s hands along the way. In sharing what our experience is. In revealing who we are and what we are feeling. In being seen and heard. 

My writing is my attempt to reach out and connect, as well as to give voice to all that is within me. I am so grateful to be able to do that. I am grateful for each of you who takes the time to read what I write, and sometimes to write back to me. I cherish your responses. I feel a connection at times that I don’t always feel even when in someone’s physical presence. A connection that comes from our souls, from things deep inside of us that we don’t always speak aloud to everyone. 

Writing is also a way to connect with myself. To validate and hear those parts of me that I may have tried to shut down earlier in my life in my misguided attempts to please others at the expense of myself. To finally be able to feel and say this is who I am. This is my truth. 

So, write I shall. With gratitude and awe at the beauty of connection and where we may find it, including connection to the deepest part of ourselves. 

Befriending the face that stares back at me.

Have you ever really made deep eye contact with yourself? In a mirror. Really stopped to look into your eyes and see.

I confess that I mostly only look in the mirror these days to put on a bit of makeup, comb my hair, make sure that things are covered or tucked in as they should be. But I don’t take the time to really see. 

I think that I do that because these days the image that stares back at me does not fit with how I feel inside most of the time. It really does seem that we don’t age at the same rate on the inside as we do on the outside.

People respond differently to me than before. I am older, and they see that. Even if I don’t always remember, they remind me. Their smiles have a different feel to them. I feel like often they smile at what they think that they see, what image they might have of me, what their internalized vision of a woman my age is to them, what they expect me to be.  

Parts of me may be erased in many of their eyes. Different parts like sensuality, playfulness, full engagement in life, aliveness. A whole history and lifetime can be erased, not seen. 

I tell myself to not let that define me. To not let myself internalize those messages of becoming invisible and less-than somehow. 

It’s hard sometimes. As a child learns who she is at least partly by how she is reflected in her parents’ eyes, so we still can be looking to see parts of ourselves reflected in the gaze of others. 

As a young woman, men’s eyes reflected desire, attraction, curiosity, a validation of being worthy to be looked at for a while. This may not have always been comfortable, and I do at times find relief in not having to deal with that anymore. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t sometimes miss those gazes. 

As a worker and colleague, I was seen as a member of the institution where I worked and where I belonged and those parts were reflected back to me. I was included. I was part of something bigger than myself. I was a team member, needed, appreciated, and useful. At least sometimes. 

As a wife to a husband or later a partner to others, parts reflected were those that were loved and cherished, cared about, wanted, appreciated, and seen. At least some of the time.

As a single older woman, those reflections in romantic relationships are no longer part of my life. I am open to the possibility of another relationship, but also realistic about options that may no longer be available to a woman of my age. 

As a friend, I have been seen as someone who brought value into someone’s life, who was needed, cared about, loved in friendship and camaraderie. Part of a gang, a network, a circle, a tribe. I still have those things, gratefully, although I am now more careful in choices of which tribes to join. Time becomes more precious. 

And now I am also so very aware of those friends that I have already lost. I feel the ache and pain in my heart for those gone. Those that shared parts of me and my history that are no longer here to help me remember or celebrate those memories and special times. 

The mirror shows me the sadness in my eyes. Losses over the years leave tell-tale signs.

There are lines, spots, and a general drooping that has shown up over the years, in both face and body reflected. I sometimes feel like I have become a caricature of my former self. It’s me, yet somehow doesn’t feel like me. 

And sometimes that’s what makes me look away. Disgusted, disappointed and not feeling good enough. It’s a struggle to fight those internalized judgments of society. 

I take a breath and look back at the mirror. 

I look deeper into my eyes. 

There are stories within wanting to be told to those who might be interested.

There is a life lived with both pain and joy felt, with passion and silliness, with longing and desire, with joy and deep tranquility. All of it jumbled up together.

I can still see the younger version of myself in my head, and even sometimes when I look in the mirror. She is still there. 

I can still see the child inside me, still eager to learn and experience new things, although perhaps more cautious these days. 

I can see the lover and friend that I have been. Caring, flawed in a very human way, trying to work through childhood wounds to find love. Unintentionally hurting others in my desperate attempts to try and make myself whole, not realizing that I must be whole within myself before I can truly be with anyone else. 

I can see the elder. And I can begin to see the even more aged elder, the one who will be looking back at me in the mirror if I am blessed enough to live longer, the face that will become my new reflection. More lines begin to show where they will, in time, claim more depth on my face. More spots that have begun to show up on my face and body that will continue to darken and grow over time.

I step back for a moment and pause and think about all of this. 

It can be easy to think that what we see in the moment is all that there is.

But there is so much more to see if we stop and really look…and feel.

Perhaps others are afraid to see the whole of me when they look at me as much as I am sometimes afraid to see the elder who now stares back at me in the mirror. Maybe it reminds them of their future and what is yet to come. 

But maybe for now I can begin to befriend this face in the mirror and know that I can still contain all of me, even if this reflected face is the current version on the cover of my book of life. I can still open the book to see all that is contained within. I am more than just the cover. 

The face in the mirror reflects a woman who has things to tell me, things to help me remember, things to teach me still, things to share. She has beauty in her own way. Different, but beautiful, nonetheless. 

Feeling the dark, but necessary, side of aging.

I am up at 3am once again. This seems to be a special hour, for some reason. I usually sleep well, but when I do wake up and am unable to go back to sleep, it’s almost always at 3am.

So, here I am. Feeling a deep sadness and heaviness. It’s part of the journey, I know.

I feel deep gratitude for my life, for the time I have had, for the time I have at this moment, for whatever time I may have left. I have loved and been loved. I look forward to more. I cherish each moment.

But some of those moments are a bit more painful than others.

This is one of them.

I am 70. Reaching that age has touched me in a different way. The next decade, should I be lucky enough to reach it, is 80. When did that happen? How interesting that my insides do not seem to age at the same rate as what the calendar shows. As my skin may show. As my body reminds me of its various aches and pains that seem to come out of nowhere. 

I am grateful for this body. It has, and continues to, serve me well. It is the vessel through which I experience life on this earth. It is how I feel the sun, the rain, the wind. Feel the connection to other beings. Feel touch, although not as much these days. I miss that.

 It’s ok to miss touch. It’s part of being human. I can feel the ache, but it doesn’t consume me. That’s one of the benefits of experience…knowing that I can feel whatever the current feeling inside me is, and not be afraid that I will be destroyed by it. It will pass. 

I find that I question more which activities to commit my time to. I need to leave space for that which feels precious and nurturing, even if I don’t know what will fill that space. I need to let go of what doesn’t nurture me so that there is room for what does. A leap of faith, learning to become more comfortable with the empty spaces and the in-between times.

I am letting go of things, possessions, items. Wanting to give them to others who may appreciate and enjoy them. I seem to be lightening the load for my final departure.

Sometimes I wander around my house and feel a bit separate from it all. These possessions, these walls, this place that offers me sanctuary that I know I will leave at some point. That others will live in and make their own. Change it, rearrange it, make it their new temporary shell, like the hermit crab. Until they outgrow it.

I have been to a few estate sales. These are some of the saddest experiences that I have had. Walking through someone’s house, touching their possessions that are now for sale, seeing pieces of the life that they lived and who they might have been, now for sale to be emptied out for the next temporary resident. Soon forgotten. I stop and talk with the spirit of the person who died, whose home I am now walking through, trying to connect with them. Will anyone remember them? Does it matter?

I feel lonely and alone. But it is not a loneliness that can be filled by other people. Sometimes being in nature can help ease the ache. Sometimes being around other beings, as in the 4-legged variety, can help. Wordless companionship that goes beyond and beneath words. 

I feel a different kind of quiet at this time of the morning. A deeper quiet if you will. A realization of how each of us must face the final leg of our journey alone. We may have others around to help send us off, but we each have our own ticket. A solo one-way ticket.

 I am afraid. It’s normal to be afraid of the unknown. I have never been very good at endings. And this is the big one that I am coming to face more and more each day, each year. It’s ok to feel the fear.

I wonder about meaning and purpose. I wonder about whether I have expressed enough of who I am, who I was meant to be. I am more in touch with that since I retired, now being able to write and paint, both of which I love to do. Then I look around at the paintings, wondering what will become of them. Will they be thrown out?

This sadness is hard to feel. This ache is deep. My questions remain unanswered. 

And it’s part of the journey, part of this life. 

So maybe I’ll go make myself another cup of coffee and get ready for this day. I will go to my volunteer shift at the zoo today, thankfully, and spend time being with the beings there. And be grateful to be among them.

I will work on a sketch that I began the other day. It feels good to be working on art again, as I have not felt like doing that for a while. It’s not something that I can force. 

I will keep writing, both to offer for others to read, and for my own private journal to simply hear my own voice and give it space to be. 

I will keep living, keep being with friends, keep breathing, keep walking among the redwoods. Keep being grateful for life, including the sadness. It’s a feeling, after all, and feelings are some of the gifts of being human. Why would I deny myself any of the full range of that experience? Sadness helps me appreciate things more sometimes, including moments of joy and laughter. We can’t have one without the other. Same coin, different sides. 

There is time enough for deadness when are no longer here. Until then, I want to feel it all, and appreciate it all.

But sometimes it’s hard to wake up at 3am.