Age. What a strange and profound journey, for those of us lucky to live so long. I’ve 65. I’m been post-menopause for a decade.
Things change. A hip replacement (ballet dancer as a girl — not good for the hips, especially without a natural turnout). Probably another one in the near future. I actually hobble, which I sometimes find hilarious and at other times fairly depressing. I have grey hair, which I stopped dying. I get heartburn. What the heck has happened to my neck? Where did my 23 inch waist go? I have floaters in my eyes. Pain makes surprise appearances.
In short, my body begins sending me hints that at some point, we will part ways, and perhaps that’s not going to be such a terrible thing. Wear that body out, I say, and lay it down, paper-thin, light as a feather, dry as an autumn leaf… with gratitude and anticipation.
I am slower, which means I notice more. I am tired of endless chatter, which means I listen more. I am no longer ambitious in my vocation as writer, which means I enjoy the process and release the outcome of my work. Expect nothing, be grateful for everything.
I go to no parties, but I love a small dinner with friends, and afternoon tea with biscuits and meaningful conversations, mostly about spirit and how to heal the world and support the young.
I look for faces I aspire to grow into, and this is one…
what about you?