What Do I Want My Old Age to Look Like?

Most times, I have this movie-silly vision of me wearing an apron like Grandma always seemed to, sitting on the porch or standing at the fence or in the kitchen making something wonderfully memorably fabulous.  That, I think, is my ideal future.

Until I stop and remember who I really am.  So yes, there will be kitchen moments and some pretty good food.

But there will also be travel – lots of travel – to places new to me, to experiences not yet had.  And there will be evidence of children in my life in the left-behind blow bubbles and chalk drawings on the sidewalk.

And there will be protests.  I will not go gentle in to that good night – not because I fear dying, but because there is so much yet to be said to the living about how we could all do it a bit better and somehow, I persist in thinking that I need to say it whether you wish to hear it or not – yes, I will be that old lady – the one who always has advice that you never quite know how to respond to because I am your elder and it would be rude to say what you’re thinking (although that is what I would much prefer you do rather than that nice, vague, dismissing thing).

I will write letters to the editor.

I will say even more of what I think.

I will sing with gusto (if not talent).

I will know my limits and not mind them at all, old friends that we are.

I will dance alone and with others.

I will wear brighter colors and keep coloring my hair because I like it that way, knowing full well that I am not fooling anyone, even myself.

I will, I hope, be grace-filled and patient with and interested in the young.

I will share my stories and look at your pictures if you’ll share and look at mine.

I will have fabulous dinner parties.

I will risk more.

When they come for the boys, I will offer that they send me.

I will be generous and give away as much as I can before I actually leave this verge.

And I will definitely use the good china, unless I give it to the kids first.

This, then, is my old-age manifesto.

I’m not so young anymore, so I think I’d better get busy.  Think I’ll start with the china – followed by a letter to the editor – I’ve got some thoughts on the news of the day and after all, they need sharing, for what is the point of all this wisdom if I do not share it?

7 Things I Want to Say to the Old

I first wrote this as a poem, but it better suits as one of those blog list things – you know – where unsolicited advice is given to others whether one is in a position to know or not . . . so here goes – my own personal list to those older than I – some advice from someone, who, as she approaches 60 in the not-so-distant future, finds it more than amusing that she would think on ‘the old’ as someone other than herself –

[SIDE NOTE:  The old tell me quite a lot – we spend much time together and they have much to offer – but – isn’t there always? – there are a few things I’d like to pay forward – some wisdom of the one younger watching the panorama unfold before you as you clear the path for me –]

1. There is thank you, of course, but there is also – listen to us – the ones who come not before, but after, for we have things to teach as well – letting go gracefully isn’t a one-way street, you know – don’t be mad at us because you’re old and we’re not yet:  learn something new today . . .

2. Don’t complain about us – the ones younger than you – jealousy is not fashion-forward.

3. If more than 5 minutes of your day are devoted to a review of health, try reading a good book – it’ll give you something else to talk about.

4. Don’t use your age as license to say whatever you want no matter how unkind – it’s always wrong to be unkind.

5. I don’t comment negatively about your hair-style – so please don’t criticize mine (goes for piercings, tattoos, and clothing too).

6. Smile more – the pain is real and present, but somehow when you find something else to  think about its presence fades.

7. Love us, notice us, include us, like you want us to love, notice and include you.

Okay, it’s your turn.  What’s your advice for those coming after?

When Did I Become That Woman?

When did I become the woman who will be at your bedside when you need her?  When did I become old enough to know what to do in a crisis?  When did I become the one who’ll rub your back aching with the cold that settled right there?  When did I become the Gran throwing the 5-year old into the tub?  When did I become the grown-up in the room?

I really would like to know.  Because inside, I still feel like the baby, the child, the teenager, who wants herself to be taken care of and totally incompetent to take care of others.

So when did it happen that I became the one?

I guess I wasn’t looking when it crept up on me.

Friend Sue always reminds us from her 92-year-old vantage that “Old age is not for sissies.”  I think she meant more than the aches and pains.  And she’s so right.

Turns out I’m not a sissie.

I guess that’s a good thing.

Yes.  It is a good thing.  And yes, I am that woman.

Seeing Slower

Slow down!

You’re going too fast!

The bywords of the old to the young resonate in my ears of late.

I am driving slower these days, not because I want to, but because I’ve got way too many speeding tickets for anyone who wants to keep driving these beautiful country roads.  You’d think I’d see more, notice more, but I don’t.

I tend to live way too much in my head to notice the beauty around me unless I first slow down my thoughts and force myself to pay attention.

It’s a gift of the really young and the really old, this paying attention to the world around us business.

Young friends run head long into life.  Yet even at their warp speed, they manage to see everything – really see it all.  So the running child comes to full stop in a nanosecond to investigate the worm or leaf or ant or clump of oddly shaped dirt that has captured their attention, before running off to the next moment.

And my really old friends simply stop and look, taking it all in, savoring each sight as if it might be their last – because it might really be.

The first look and the last – each the richer for their uniqueness.

Why does everything in the middle get so easily taken for granted?

Because I don’t know, I slow down a bit today and stand with my old friend and simply gaze at the rain laden fog hanging suspended in the crease of one mountain folding into another.  We marvel together, arm in arm, and then move on, richer for the moment.

I think I like this seeing slower.