Aging with Joy

Cold temperatures and snow are forecast for this February Sunday; I slept in a bit longer than usual, and now sit contentedly in my cozy old robe and sip hot coffee.  I have no commitments today -- a day of leisure to fill with pleasures of my choosing.  Although I have always loved winter, I find that as I age, by February I am becoming tired of the extra efforts required to stay warm and safe -- the boots, hats, gloves, careful steps on snowy surfaces, and the fear of falling which keeps me from my much-loved walks in the darkness as snow falls all around me.  Already, in the very first storm of the season (on my 64th birthday, no less), I fell as I walked down the driveway to take a photo of the sheer beauty of my snow-covered old house with its tiny white Christmas candles sprinkling their light into the snowy darkness.  Since then, I have been plagued with knee and back pains from time to time.

Aging is serious business.  We must take care of ourselves -- in body, mind and spirit -- so that the process can be a joyful one.  When I was young, with a houseful of children, pets, and friends, my energy seemed limitless, and my days were full.  I was immersed in life, and pushed myself to the limit in everything that I did.  The first time I really noticed a decrease in my energy level was when  my second son graduated from high school when I was forty-six.  Of course, I planned a large graduation party, and all came out well, except I realized that I was much more exhausted after this party than I had been after his brother's graduation four years before. Could it be my age?? 

A few years later, in my early fifties, I stood in a dressing room, with the harsh overhead lighting accentuating each strand of silver roots peeking through the blonde hair.  I made a mental note to touch up my haircolor.  As I slipped off my sweater, I was surprised by the softness of my body.  My skin seemed somehow looser, not quite sagging, but no longer tightly drawn over the tissue underneath.  There was a vulnerable look to my arms and neck, a sense that while I still wore the same size, there was somehow less substance to my body.  This new awareness of my aging body startled me.  When did my firm chin begin this undetected softening; when did my body begin to resemble my mother's.

The aging process had begun to catch up with me.  In many ways, the mindset of our baby-boom generation led us to unrealistic expectations of aging.  We heartily believed that with the proper diet, exercise, and mental stimulation, we would barely notice a change as we hurtled along into middle age and finally reached the "elderly" status.  We didn't realize that there is also a genetic component to aging.  My family was comprised of both those who died much too young, and those who lived into their 80's and early 90's.  I have no idea whose aging genes I carry, so I tend to cherish every day that I have.  One of my friends has parents who were active and quick-minded well into their 90's.  I also have friends my age who suffer from disabling diseases.  We have no idea what our own aging process will be; we do, however, have the power to look for the smallest of pleasures each day which will enhance the lives we have been given.

As we reach our sixties and beyond, there is a freedom to finally be ourselves and be content within our own skin.  We can retire, keep working, work part-time, volunteer, take care of our grandchildren, travel; the possibilities are endless.  I have chosen to care for my grandchildren during the day, and this has blessed me with deep emotional rewards.  Once they are all in school, I would like to pursue some of my hobbies with more serious intent -- genealogy, gardening, writing, photography.  Social media has allowed many of us to reconnect with friends from long ago.  How wonderful it is to talk to people I haven't seen in years -- to reminisce and renew friendships across the miles with the click of a few computer keys. 

Some of us are in great physical shape and others are not.  Some of us are financially comfortable and others live in poverty.  Whatever our circumstances, though, we can find joy in our everyday lives.  We are free to live our lives as we choose.  We can spend time with people we enjoy -- who bring laughter and understanding to our lives.  My energy level decreases a little each year, and I struggle on my limited income, but I find pleasure in my much-loved old house, my flowers and herbs, my precious birds and little creatures who inhabit my yard and eat peacefully together at the bird feeder.  I have a world of books from which to choose at the local library.  I live in a wonderful little neighborhood where we all watch over each other -- we have even begun a new generation here with precious little twins who live in the house where their great-grandfather once lived. 

As we grow into this new elderly stage of life, we will be faced with new challenges and will have days when our troubles weigh us down; we will struggle with painful joints that are no longer as flexible, and issues with forgetfulness.  Our eyesight may fade a bit, and our hearing will diminish with time.  We have the power to decide how we will face these years.  We can choose to dwell on the limitations of age, or we can choose to fill our days with pleasure, joy and love.  These can be the best years of our lives --

 

Looking Into the Eyes of Poverty

I looked into the eyes of poverty yesterday, and I wish all of those who believe in cutting the safety net programs in this country had been with me.  Please don't go all defensive on me.  I know there are a lot of people who cheat and take advantage of social programs; but, what we need to do, in my opinion, is tighten up our accountability so that these people are not allowed to receive help.  We should not cut the help to those who really need it to survive.

That said, after I got my grandson off the bus yesterday afternoon and his mother came home from work, I went to a local Urgent Care because I realized my cold had turned into a sinus infection, and I didn't want to wait until morning to make an appointment with my doctor.  The Urgent Care didn't open until 5:00, and I arrived at 4:20, so I grabbed a magazine and sat down.  A man came in and sat nearby, and I started a conversation.

We ended up talking for almost an hour, as we waited, and my heart broke as I listened to him.  He is in his mid-sixties, living in subsidized housing, on Medicare and Medicaid, and suffering from COPD.  He is alone, with a little parakeet for company.  He arrived early because the Medicab he called could not bring him at 5:00.  Because he is on Medicaid, the primary care doctors associated with this Urgent Care will not accept him as a patient.  He relies on the ER or Urgent Care for his healthcare needs. 

He is sick and confused about his diagnosis.  The doctors told him he has COPD and some lesions in his lungs -- he is worried that he has cancer, but either did not understand what the doctors told him, or was not told.  He lives in a tiny apartment in our town that costs $645/month and is happy here, but must move to an apartment in the city that is cheaper.  He is worried about moving his parakeet in a cab in cold weather, and really does not want to move back to the city.  He has significant back pain, for which he has been given pain medications, but he worries.

How sad to be old, sick, alone, and poor.  I have no idea what his history is, but I know what his situation is now, and it breaks my heart.  I heard empathy in his words and also regrets, and as I looked into his eyes, I thought, how can we justify destroying the safety net for people like him.  As Congress argues over budget issues, I wish each one of them could look into this man's eyes and realize that for each person who commits welfare fraud, there are several others who are hanging by their fingernails.  What should we do?  Cast out these poor people or offer them a measure of help? 

I hope, as budget negotiations proceed (if they ever really do), the members of Congress who so ardently profess to be Christians will remember the words of Christ:

"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me"  --  Matthew 25:40

Of Lilacs, Mothers' Day & Old Stone Walks

This day before Mothers' Day has been cloudy and showery; in the morning I watched my little grandson play soccer, then came home with the intention of weeding my gardens.  Instead, I puttered in the house -- dusting, doing laundry, running the vacuum -- and headed outside to cut some lilacs.  Nothing can compare to the beauty and scent of lilacs.  I love the sensual feeling of gathering them in my arms, their lovely perfume filling my heart with springtime, and the profusion of blossoms overwhelming my soul.  Choosing a vase, filling it with slightly warm water, preparing the stems, and finally immersing my armful of beauty in the chosen vessel is a peaceful pursuit.  Lilac season is short, so this pleasure is one we must hold closely while it lasts.

Lilacs and Mothers' Day go hand-in-hand in upstate New York.  For years I set the table for Mothers' Day dinner with a centerpiece of lilacs or tulips from the garden.  As I gathered my lilacs today, I reminisced about this celebration of motherhood.  My first memory is of buying earrings for my mother and grandmother at some type of sale at my elementary school -- how proud I was to be able to really surprise them with these gifts.  As I went through my mother's jewelry box after her death, I found these earrings tucked away -- a gentle reminder of her love for me. 

My next vivid memory is of the Mothers' Day when my son was six months old.  I had experienced difficulties getting pregnant, and then my first baby daughter was stillborn in 1974; the birth of my son in 1975 was the happiest day of my life, and the first Mothers' Day when I finally had my precious child in my arms was a day I looked forward to with a full heart.  However, that morning I woke to no card, no flowers, no "Happy Mothers' Day."  Apparently my husband didn't realize how much this day meant to me.  Later, as I walked outside with my son in my arms, my neighbor called over, "Happy Mothers' Day;" he never knew what a gift his greeting was to this disappointed new mother.

There have been many sad Mothers' Days since then -- the year after my grandmother died, and after my mother's death, and the more recent death of my mother-in-law.  We live through these sad days and move on.  This day for me is a reminder of the deep joy I have received in the process of mothering these precious children of mine, and now the joy of being a grandmother.  As we grow older, the holiday becomes bittersweet for us, as we balance missing our own mothers against the pure love we experience ourselves as mothers and grandmothers. 

Life itself becomes bittersweet as we age.  We sift through our memories and sometimes realize that the sad ones outnumber the happy ones.  We find our bodies beginning to disappoint us -- did our baby boomer generation really believe we would stay forever young?  Our minds begin to fail us occasionally, our energy lessens, and our joints begin to stiffen and ache  -- how can this be??  This wasn't supposed to happen to us.  How naive we were.

Twenty or so years ago, a friend gave me some leftover stones from a greenhouse he was building.  I decided to use them for a little garden path.  My husband dug out the path, and I laid the stones myself -- placing and moving them to achieve the haphazard pattern I desired, and then tucking them gently into the soil.  What a lovely path it was, and how much I have enjoyed it all these years.  In the past couple of years, though, the roots from the shady maple nearby began to push up on several of the stones, leaving the path uneven and rough -- much too uneven for my stiff old legs.  Last year I took quite a tumble as I tripped on one of the stones. 

Finally, last week, I tripped again and almost fell; with heavy heart, I decided that my lovely stone walk needed to be replaced with something more even and secure.  The day they were removing the stones, I went out early in the morning to take some final photos of my path.  I'm sure the new path will be beautiful, and will be designed to fit in with my unstructured landscape.  I will be happy with it, and much more sure-footed as I walk out each morning to feed my birds.  But, I am glad I have the photos, and I will treasure the memories of my old stone walk.

Life moves on -- some things are constant in our lives, as are the lilacs and Mothers' Day in May.  Others are more transient, and once gone, they are gone forever.  It is our choice whether we spend our days mourning our losses or savoring our blessings.  It means the difference between bitterness and contentment, and I definitely prefer to be content.

Tend With Care

 

My old Rose of Sharon bush has bloomed its heart out this summer, despite the heat and lack of rain.  How hard this lovely plant struggles to hold on to its beauty as it ages, as all women do.  I planted this bush in 1992, with a twin nearby which died suddenly a few years ago.  Somehow this bush has grown far beyond my imaginings, and I have begun a process of selective pruning each year to tame her wild limbs, and encircled her over the winter with a support to keep her aging limbs from breaking with the weight of snow.  She is a work in progress -- as I have culled old limbs, new ones have begun to grow, straight, healthy and filled with new blooms this year.  When you plant gardens and watch them grow, the individual trees and plants become dear to you.

As I snapped this photo today, I was also observing how badly the old wicker chairs and the porch deck need a new coat of paint.  As we age, so do our beloved homes, and unfortunately, our energy level also begins to wane.  Just as the house and the gardens begin to need more and more time and effort, I find I can accomplish only so much at a time.  On Friday morning I was up early and out in the garden to weed with high hopes and high energy.  However, by 10:30, I was wilting from the August heat and humidity, feeling dizzy and somehow unsteady.  I had completed most of the front yard, but was forced to leave the back yard gardens for another day.  

It is frustrating!!  When I was raising my children, cooking, gardening, cleaning, entertaining, and working from home I never gave thought to the day when I wouldn't be able to accomplish one third of the work I did then.  Now, when I rise early in the morning I feel a stiffness that slowly subsides as I open the windows and make a pot of coffee.  Last week when I took my grandchildren to a local amusement park, it was with deep regret that I found I can no longer ride The Scrambler -- my all-time favorite ride.  My neck muscles cannot handle the stress.  How disappointed I am.  Inside is still the free spirit who loved the thrill of hurtling through the air, but my body is no longer cooperative.  

I recall the years I have taken such care with old things -- antiques, old houses, old pets, old people.  There is a fragility to old things and they must be tended to gently and patiently, and with much love.  And now, slowly I am realizing that my own body is becoming one of those "old things".  It shocks me, but when I look back in time to when my grandparents were my age, they seemed old.  Maybe because we baby boomers have grown up with the belief that we are somehow invincible, aging is difficult to comprehend.  We color our hair, moisturize and apply makeup, stay active, and expect to stay young.  But there is a point when we each realize that we are slowly moving from "middle-aged" to "elderly."   It shocked me recently when one of my friends was described as elderly.  How can that be?!

Alas, nothing stays new or young forever.  Just as I so carefully tended to all of the old things and old people I held dear, I will now put more effort into taking care of myself.  I will listen to my aging body and be gentle in my demands.  What I once accomplished in a few hours will now probably take a couple of days, but it will get done.  I will still cook and garden and take care of my grandchildren and dance my heart out, but I will do it with care.  I just need a little more tending, as my lovely old Rose of Sharon does.