TO GO ON

Why is it that I suddenly feel so, well, old? Is it because my knees are stiff and sore, is it because I get tired more easily, is it because others treat me with a certain solicitousness not offered before, or is it because I am truly entering a new stage of life that I have not yet fully embraced? In the past I have had no difficulty accepting shortcomings regarding my age, so it is somewhat surprising to find myself experiencing a vague discomfort in acknowledging my current limitations and in allowing the caring attention of others.

There is a balance to be found here—as in so many areas of life. I am eighty years old, so cannot expect to maintain the same level of flexibility and vigor that I enjoyed earlier. And yet I do not wish to surrender too soon to feelings of incapacity. Is it rude to reject offers of unneeded help? Or is it more polite to accept such offers, even knowing that I am perfectly capable of doing the task myself? Perhaps there is a middle way, a gracious way of acknowledging the kindness without accepting the implied inability. I also know it is important to learn to accept offers, or to seek help, when I have a genuine need. It is not wise to be too stubborn or too proud.

In an earlier blog, I wrote about the gifts of age, among which were the qualities of patience, acceptance, and detachment. As I try to come to terms with the diminishment of my physical strength and energy and yet honor my concurrent desire for self-sufficiency, it is apparent that these three traits are fundamental to finding the balance I seek. As I live into this ultimate stage of life, patience will be required—from and for myself as well as from those who genuinely care for me. I am, after all, learning a new way of living, which takes time. In addition, realistic acceptance of my present physical status is essential if I am to avoid being in complete denial regarding the conditions of advanced age. Detachment also provides a valuable perspective. When I can stand back and look with some measure of objectivity I can see more clearly my circumstances, and, I must admit, they are not bad!

Which brings me to a final important point, and that is a reminder to myself to be grateful for all I have, especially for my basically good health. My complaints are minor and manageable; while my blessings are major and contribute mightily to my well-being—in spite of feeling, well, old.

P.S. I just came across a poem by Liz Waldner in The New Yorker the final lines of which seem strangely appropriate, perhaps qualifying as a synchronicity:

I am old enough to understand
being willing

to go on is a great gift.

HOPE AND FEAR

January 1, 2009: the beginning of a new year, a time when my heart is filled with equal parts of hope and fear for our country. The hope springs from what will take place on January 20, when Barack Obama is to be inaugurated. This historic occasion brings forth an enormous sense of pride and joy, for having been brought up in the segregated South, I am especially moved—and astonished—that I should live to see an African-American become president of the United States. It is my deepest desire that he and his administration succeed in changing the direction and the agenda of our nation quickly and decisively. We are all aware of how desperately we need that shift, for the past eight years have been disastrous—politically, militarily, economically, and perhaps most significantly, morally.

My fear is that the magnitude of the problems facing our new president will be overwhelming, that the deepening economic recession will reach catastrophic proportions, that we will be drawn into more wars, that our moral leadership on the world stage has been damaged permanently and irreparably. It is my fear that we as a people will become impatient with the inevitable slow pace of change and that we will succumb to hopelessness and despair.

I am struck by parallel feelings regarding my own life. As I enter my ninth decade, both hope and fear reside within me, in almost equivalent shares. This new stage offers changes and challenges, and it is my hope I can face them with courage and good humor, and that I can apply my own recommended measures of acceptance, patience, and detachment. My fear is that, without the specific events, deadlines, or goals such as I had last year, I shall fall into lethargy or ennui, failing to find the kind of stimulation and motivation I seem to need. I too fear falling into hopelessness and despair.

This past year was a momentous one for me. Norm died in March, making me a widow. Had he made it a few more months—until September—we would have been married for sixty years. His death, though not totally unexpected, still left a big vacancy in my life and in my heart. In August I celebrated my eightieth birthday with a glorious party. I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment when I presented my book, Leafings and Branchings, to my family and friends. At present I have no similar projects to complete nor do I anticipate such significant landmarks this coming year. (Though we never know, do we?)

Last year at this time, I wrote that my intention for the coming year was to be kind. I have tried mightily to fulfill that intention, though I certainly have had some lapses. This year I wish to focus on maintaining hope, on not allowing fear to overcome my natural optimism regarding both the future of our country and my own personal fate. Since it is my belief that our thoughts have power, I intend to make every effort to think hopeful thoughts and thus add to the possibility of a kindler, gentler world and a full, satisfying experience as I continue to live into this late stage of my life.

I close with a quote from one of Norm’s heroes, Albert Einstein: “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”

After Eighty

As I explained in my previous essay, “Eighty: Age of Fulfillment,” once I reached the eagerly awaited age of eighty, I discovered that the primary objectives of my life—seen more clearly in retrospect, of course—had largely been achieved. I married the man I loved, raised two fine daughters, attained some small success as a fine art photographer, received a PhD when in my seventies, relished many loving friendships, watched five beloved grandchildren grow into young adulthood, looked after my husband through a decade of Alzheimer’s disease until death finally took him away, and wrote a book about my life as a gift and a legacy for my family. I felt loved and appreciated. My fundamental needs had been fulfilled, my modest ambitions satisfied, and my fondest dreams realized. I basked in an aura of contentment and completion.

As I began to relax into the self-satisfied daze brought on by this sense of accomplishment, a surprising thought occurred to me: If I were to drop dead at this very moment, all would be fine! I would have no regrets, no unfinished business, no pangs of guilt. At first that unexpected insight brought a feeling of utter relief, for in the past I had often obsessed over some lapse in judgment or failure in relationship, had repeatedly agonized over important and not-so-important decisions, and had frequently been burdened by guilt over what I perceived to be unforgivable mistakes or grinding stupidities. As all those real and imagined shortcomings faded into insignificance, it was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and a binding loosened from around my heart. I felt free, could breathe easily.

I had barely assimilated that feeling of freedom, however, when I was struck by another startling realization: Something profound had come to an end. My life of yearning and striving was over. A sense of finality loomed over me, casting a chilling shadow on my initial exhilaration. All those needs and desires in my early life had pushed me forward, provided me with motivation and purpose. If they are no longer present, what will give me incentive for my remaining time on this earth? Does the absence of want suggest I am finished with life? That possibility brought a flash of anxiety. On the one hand, it seemed unreasonable, for I am still in good health. On the other hand, I am entering what is certain to be the final stage of my life; I can sense the inevitable end approaching.

It was once thought that age sixty or sixty-five ushered us into our final years, but that no longer holds true. While by that time we have passed through middle-age, and may have retired from our jobs, we certainly are not yet really old. We have entered a phase that I refer to as the penultimate stage of life, the next to last. It is for many, as it was for me, a golden period of happiness and accomplishment. When we reach eighty to eighty-five, however, we move from the penultimate stage to the ultimate stage. These words have interesting etymologies. Penultimate comes from the Latin paenultimus, from paene, “almost,” from which flows its meaning “almost last” or “last but one.” The term ultimate carries the connotation not only of “final” or “last,” but also of “supreme” or “utmost” or “high point.”

According to those meanings, as we move from the penultimate period into the ultimate, we are entering not just our final years, but the crowning season of our lives, the peak of our existence, the high point of our time on this earth. These words may seem odd or inappropriate, since we have been conditioned by our youth-worshipping society to think of our last years solely in terms of decline, as going down. We also tend to equate aging with unavoidable loss. There are too many of us, young and old, who view old age almost exclusively as a time of debilitation, decrepitude, diminishment, and disease.

Chances are we will have to deal with one or more of those dreaded “d” words. I do not deny the difficulties we may face; they can be formidable, and may on occasion threaten to overwhelm us. We must endure the deaths of ones we love, and must face our own mortality. We must cope with likely physical limitations: ebbing energy, lessening strength and flexibility, questionable memory, and fading eyesight and hearing. We may suffer serious illness. We may have to accept assistance for personal care. In short, we may be required to change how we live our lives. Such changes can be challenging, even acutely painful, but they are not the whole story. I maintain that it is possible to acknowledge our losses, accept our infirmities, and face our failings without being defined by them. We are more than our deficiencies.

Persons over age eighty-five now constitute the largest-growing sector of our population. As a group we are healthier and wealthier than any previous older generation. Our decades of living, working, and learning have profited us in countless ways. As a result of our longevity we have broader experience, greater insight, enhanced awareness, superior knowledge, and better understanding than those who have not lived so long. Though we have made our share of mistakes, we have had the opportunity to learn from them. We have had to adjust to changing circumstances, personally, culturally, and economically, allowing us to develop flexibility. Many of us have lost good friends and/or spouses, imbuing us with a depth of feeling heretofore unexplored. We have maintained relationships in spite of differences and confrontations, teaching us the value of compromise. All these experiences have added to our store of worldly knowledge, have contributed to our emotional maturity, and have given us an opportunity to widen and deepen our outlook so that we might live into a more meaningful and satisfying old age.

Nevertheless, as I move from the penultimate stage of my life into the ultimate stage, I am puzzled. I still have an irresistible urge to live life fully as long as possible. But what am I to do now that the main goals of my life are realized? Many in my age group are facing this existential dilemma. We wish to continue to participate in the world around us, but we are not sure how best to do that. It seems apparent, however, that how we choose to use our residual energies and how we apportion our remaining resources will be determining factors in shaping not only our personal futures, but also in shaping the future of our nation. Perhaps the most crucial aspect is how we regard our roles, how we envision ourselves as we enter this final stage. We need to adopt an appropriate and meaningful paradigm of aging, so that as we move into our late years we can continue to bring enrichment into our own lives and to the lives of those around us.

Transitions from one stage of life to another can be difficult, filled with fear and uncertainty. And yet transitions are necessary; we go through many of them throughout the span of our lives. Without them we would remain stuck, unable to grow or change. Now that I have reached what seems to me the pinnacle of my life—age eighty—I find myself wandering and wondering. I know that I am crossing over from one way of life to another and that I must let go of many of my former patterns and perspectives. But I am not yet sure of what exactly it is that I must relinquish. And I certainly cannot see what lies ahead. I am in an in-between place, a liminal space, neither here nor there, a state that in mythological terms is thought of as Hekate’s crossroads.

These crossroads, shaped like a Y, demand a change in direction; there is no way to continue on the same path. It is the option given prominence by Robert Frost in his well-known poem “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s traveler contemplates a fork in the road, knowing he must choose one of the two paths. He takes “the one less traveled by,” and “that has made all the difference.” In the poem, the alternatives are equally apparent, so the decision can be made quickly, but sometimes the paths ahead cannot be clearly seen; the choices are obscured and the life-traveler is filled with confusion and doubt.

This is where I currently find myself. Which is the right way for me? Which fork in the road will be more serene, which less rocky? Which path will lead me to the high point of my life? How am I to live these last precious days, months, years? I feel I am not the same person I was before, but I do not yet recognize this new emerging woman. I am bewildered. I suffer the vacillations of ambiguity. I wish for clarity and understanding, but am filled with perplexity.

Having gone through painful periods of transition in the past, I know that there lies within my current chaotic state a promise of new order. In archetypal and psychological terms, chaos signifies not only confusion, but also void or emptiness, and thus allows space for new ways of thinking, provides opportunities for creative energies, and opens the way for new precedents. During this time of unease, outside my conscious awareness, a restructuring of the habits and patterns of my life is taking place, my identity is undergoing a subtle or not-so-subtle shift, my imagination is being stirred—all of which, I trust, will help me reach a new level of integration and meaning. In the world of physics, chaos implies process; it is dynamic, ever changing. In personal terms it is a becoming.

What I am surely becoming is a very old woman. Perhaps the role I am now living into makes me a true Crone, a woman who is well weathered, who is both tough and tender, who has survived many seasons, indulged in countless pleasures, and endured untold sorrows. What I hope is that I can infuse this new persona, this very old Crone woman, with intensity of feeling, with compassion for all, with acceptance of frailties, with deeper spiritual insights, and with a grand sense of humor. I hope that, having attained my main aims, I will savor these final years, remembering and honoring the past while reveling in the present as I live into the supreme, utmost, high point—the ultimate stage—of my long life.

Eighty: Age of Fulfillment

When I was asked not long ago to blow out the candles on my birthday cake—fortunately only eight, one for each decade of my life—I was quite unexpectedly rendered speechless. The tradition, of course, is to make a wish as the candles are extinguished, but after successfully blowing them out, it suddenly dawned on me that I had nothing to say. I could think of nothing to wish for! The realization struck me that I had everything I needed or wanted, was, in fact, completely satisfied.

The strangeness of that feeling of absence of want seeped into me slowly over the next few days and weeks, prompting me to examine its source and its meaning. For most of my life I have been governed, sometimes overwhelmed, by a vast array of needs. Even after I had an ample supply of material goods and plenty of loving support, I frequently pictured myself as one who continued to suffer from extreme deprivation. For a very long time, my sense of “not enough” seemed unshakable.

In my earliest years, the need was for the love and attention of a mother who was too depressed, too needy herself, to give me the kind of emotional nourishment that I so desperately craved. Having lost her mother at an early age, and not receiving any nurturance from step mothers, my mother had no capacity for offering that which she had never experienced herself. So I grew up feeling an emptiness which gave rise to an incessant hunger, for what? Love, acceptance, approval, recognition, reassurance—you name it, I needed it.

Though the dearth of maternal love was certainly central to my neediness, that was not the only thing I was missing. I also lacked intellectual stimulation. I lived in a household in which educational values—reading, learning, discussion—were not encouraged or respected. The neighbors and friends in the Southern rural community in which I grew up were unfailingly kind and generous, but they had little or no curiosity about the workings of the world. They had settled comfortably into a kind of all-knowing state of mind, so it never occurred to them to seek information or to ask questions. As a result of living in that kind of anti-intellectual atmosphere, it was not until much later that I became fully aware of how intensely I hungered for opportunities to express my inquisitiveness, to explore my intellectual capabilities, and to further develop my mind and my spirit.

I also desired beautiful things. Like most young girls, I wanted pretty clothes and I certainly hoped to attract the boys with my appearance. In addition I longed for beauty in my surroundings. I seemed to have an acute visual sense in that I noticed my environment and was sensitive to its esthetic qualities. I envied those of my friends in whose homes the furniture was color coordinated and the walls hung with art. My own home, which had no sense of order or harmony, seemed always bleak and cold, for it was lacking any semblance of coziness or casual comfort. Though I was conscious of the natural splendor displayed in the woods and fields that surrounded our country home, I wished for more beauty—and warmth—inside our house.

There were, of course, other needs, but in retrospect I can see that these three—an insufficiency of mother love, a lack of intellectual stimulation, and the absence of an appreciation for esthetics—were perhaps the most powerful underlying motivational forces of my life. The effort to overcome what appeared to me to be crippling deficiencies in my upbringing determined many of my subsequent decisions and much of my behavior. Paradoxically, it was these very voids that gave shape to my future.

In order to compensate for the absence of mother love that wounded me so deeply, I vowed to be the very best mother I could possibly be for my two daughters. It was not always easy, and I admit to many mistakes and failings along the way, but I did manage to improve considerably on my own mother’s style of mothering. I did not succumb to fits of rage, as my mother frequently did, causing her to wield a nasty switch against my tender flesh. I tried never to diminish my daughters’ accomplishments but to offer encouragement and praise, whereas my own mother could not, out of envy or spite, find it in her heart to support me in my endeavors. I made every effort to champion my daughters in their choices in life whereas my mother refused for many years to acknowledge or accept my marriage to the man I loved, treating him with undeserved hostility and contempt. I am deeply proud of my daughters’ worldly achievements, but it is their own outstanding mothering skills that are most significant in what I view as the healing of our motherline.

Though I was a conscientious and loving mother, it is as a grandmother that I have most fully come to appreciate the kind of unconditional love that we long for and strive to embrace. I did not have a living grandmother, so I have tried to become the kind of grandmother I would have wanted. Being a generation removed from these young people has made it easier for me to be less judgmental, more accepting, more capable of the kind of detachment that is sometimes called for in order to see more clearly. I can watch with greater objectivity the paths my grandchildren choose to follow, can observe with absolute fascination as their lives unfold, and can offer unqualified support as long as they are not harming themselves or others. My love for these four young women and one young man is truly without reservations or conditions. They are a blessing in my life.

My yearning for learning has been another persistent presence in my long life. Even though we were married as undergraduates, my husband and I graduated together and then received our master’s degrees at the same time, for I insisted on equal educational opportunity. Following a brief time working, I became a stay-at-home mother and attended to domestic responsibilities as my daughters grew up. Though I read widely, took some non-credit classes, and worked part time in my profession, my need for something more challenging became increasingly insistent. I had a series of dreams in which I was going back to school, which led to my recognition of that long-suppressed desire for intellectual stimulation. So, following the unmistakable message being given me, at the age of sixty-nine I enrolled in a PhD program, truly the fulfillment of a dream. In 2002, at age seventy-three, exactly fifty years after my previous graduate degree, I received my doctorate in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. It was a deeply rewarding moment.

As for the desire for beauty in my life, I have found numerous modes of expression for satisfying that particular need. The first major item my husband and I purchased after our marriage was a sewing machine. When we finally found ourselves in a proper apartment (not a single room, not a trailer), I used it to make curtains—unbleached muslin trimmed with a figured fabric. I fashioned other household accessories, made all my own clothes, and as our daughters grew, I sewed their pretty little dresses as well. Later on, as our income grew, I purchased paintings and sculptures—largely from local artists whose work I admired—for our home and garden.

But my greatest esthetic accomplishment was in becoming a fine art photographer when I was in my fifties. I collected dried flowers, bones, feathers, old photographs—anything that caught my eye—and arranged the objects into still life compositions, made the exposures, then developed the negatives and processed the prints. My black and white photographs were well received at a number of exhibitions. The images often reflected the sorrows and losses of my life, giving them a haunting and evocative appearance. I had become an artist, capable of creating beautiful pictures, thus helping assuage my thirst for things that please the eye.

Now that I look back on all those wistful wants and nettling needs, I can see that, though they often caused me great anguish, they were at the same time formidable forces, pushing me relentlessly forward as I pursued my life’s goals. I can see now that those feelings of emptiness and barrenness instilled in me an intense, unyielding desire to fill up those huge holes in my psyche with something more caring, more meaningful, and more beautiful than I had known in my early years. The sense of deprivation that caused me so much suffering was also the fuel that fired my creativity, fed my ambition, and furthered my search for knowledge.

I am, therefore, beginning to see the value in those needs which I formerly feared and scorned, for without a hunger for mother-love I might not have sought nourishment in my own mothering and grandmothering; without a desire for knowledge I might never have had the courage to enter a graduate program at age sixty-nine; and without an awareness of the lack of beauty in my surroundings, I might never have known the delight found in providing an attractive living space for my family and in creating beautiful photographs. In other words, without the demands of deficiencies, I might never have known the pleasures of prevailing.

I am overcome with awe and gratitude in that I have—most amazingly—fulfilled my life-long wishes, satisfied my heart-wrenching hungers, and sated my most fervent desires. But perhaps the most important realization is that it was, in fact, my needs that made that fulfillment possible. My needs were the empty vessel that I have spent my life filling up. So, as I enter my ninth decade, I can say, with humility and pride: My cup runneth over.

THE ESSENCE OF EIGHTY

I am eighty years old. I am a widow. I live alone. My hair is gray, my face is lined, my breasts are sagging, my belly is bulging, my knees are creaky, my voice is croaky, my back is sore, my hands are covered with age spots, my fingers are gnarled, my energy and my hearing are fading, and my memory sometimes fails me. And yet, I can say without reservation that I have never been happier.

How can that be? Given the emphasis our culture places on the physical attributes of strength and beauty, I should be disheartened, even deeply depressed. But conventional wisdom, with its focus on old age as a time of decline and debility, misses much of the essence of what it means to grow old. As I said in the little talk I gave at the party celebrating my eightieth birthday, one of the gifts of age is the ability to appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery. Though as elders we may suffer losses in vigor and in appearance, we stand to gain in the strength of our character and in the power of our capacity to face with calm endurance whatever life has to offer.

Those of us fortunate enough to live long have learned that we are best served when we can refrain from fighting the flow of life. We have learned that we may face bewildering burdens, unanticipated afflictions, unwanted encumbrances, or trying treacheries, but in spite of these trials, life goes on, so we might as well embrace our destiny with as much graciousness as we can muster. Many of us, by the time we reach our eighties, have learned to navigate the currents of life, giving ourselves over to the ebb and flow while still maintaining our buoyancy and our orientation. We have learned not to move too insistently upstream, against the current; we have learned not to allow ourselves to be pulled down by the undertow of discouraging events, but manage to keep our heads above water—at least most of the time. Throughout our lives we have been taught to swim ahead with determination, to steer our way courageously through rocky rapids, to thrash around vigorously when frightened or threatened. Later we discover that it is often to our advantage to let go, to just gently, fearlessly, float. The older we get, it seems, the easier the floating becomes. We have learned the importance of giving ourselves over to the natural flow of our lives.

One of my personal examples of this challenge was in dealing with Norm during his years of Alzheimer’s disease. During the early years of his illness there was a widely-accepted philosophy that those with dementia should be constantly brought back to the “real” world, that they should be corrected when making misstatements, admonished when forgetting personal information, or reminded to refrain from fantasy. I rejected that perspective, and instead accepted him wherever he was, did not correct his errors, did not admonish him for his forgetfulness, or disrespect his fantasy life. During one stage of his illness he daily reported overnight trips to China, Russia, England, and other exotic places that he took with a fellow resident, a woman whom he described as his companion and driver. (She of course was oblivious of her role in his imaginary travels.) I smiled when told of these excursions, and expressed my interest in his trips. My straightforward acceptance of his stories pleased him, made him less anxious, and made life better for me also. If he was happy in his imaginary world, why should I disturb that?

Another challenge for me was when my daughter Laura was ill with life-threatening cancer. She was near death on more than one occasion, and often seemed to have descended into a dark place of hopelessness and despair. Most persons wished me to emphasize the positive, to focus on her recovery, to insist that she look on the bright side, but I could see that that approach was not helpful to her or to me. I eventually came to believe, and accept, that whatever path she took, whatever her soul chose to do, whether it was life or death, would be all right. This radical, rather astonishing, acceptance actually brought me peace and comfort. Though that was more than five years ago, I was learning then to truly appreciate the cycles and seasons that give life its beauty and its mystery—and I emphasize the mystery. Of course, I do not deny my joyful relief when she chose life.

Advancing age also allows us a sense of detachment that does not seem readily available when we are young. Perhaps it is due to the accumulation of experience, but we finally recognize that life is not made up of just blacks and whites, wrongs and rights, but that events and relationships are full of complexities and complications. I personally find it harder now to decisively place blame, for I can usually see the points of view of both sides of contentious issues. Recently my granddaughter’s engagement was broken, her wedding cancelled, a terribly traumatic happening in her young life. She feels betrayed, is heartbroken and angry, understandably so. My heart goes out to her. But, unlike many familiar with the circumstances, I admit to also having sympathy for the young man. I can also see his suffering. Had this been my daughter rather than my granddaughter, I doubt I could have brought this perspective of distance. It comes as a virtue of age.

Another advantage of increasing age is the development of patience. One of the things I am most proud of in my handling of Norm’s illness is that I quickly learned the necessity of remaining patient, regardless of his often frustrating behavior. Sometimes he repeated himself endlessly, telling the same stories over and over again. One example is when he told me dozens of times a day how important it was to have compassion, a situation in which my own compassion was sorely tried! Then there was the matter of getting dressed. During one period, it would take him several hours just to put his pants on. If I had a deadline or if I had other things to do, that was of no concern to him. Still, I rarely became irritated, but remained calm, gently prodding him to get on with the task at hand. I had always considered myself somewhat volatile and impatient, but I learned that patience is a quality with great advantages, for it avoids the wasteful expenditure of energy when demanding punctuality of things that cannot be scheduled or hurried.

Acceptance, detachment, and patience are related, as if tied together with one thread. One reinforces and strengthens the other. To have one is to make the other more accessible. They also seem to me to be qualities that are especially related to the ripeness of old age. For many of us who are fortunate enough to live into our eighth and ninth decades, a kind of mellowness permeates our being. In spite of the inevitable sorrows and serious setbacks we experience, we continue to savor those precious moments of serenity and simple satisfaction and our hearts are filled with gratitude.

Before I am misunderstood, I wish to point out that, of course, youth also has its virtues. The energy, enthusiasm, ambition, freshness, and beauty that young people possess invigorate and stimulate our lives and our culture. We absolutely need the qualities that youthfulness brings; we need that unsullied zeal, that exuberance, that eagerness, that passion, that keen desire for something new and exciting. Those characteristics are invaluable in producing inventive ideas and bringing about much needed change. But as we acknowledge the significance of the contributions of the early stages of life, let us not forget to value the gifts of old age, for these are all too often dismissed and denigrated. Old age has been badly misrepresented and is frequently underrated. I may not be the attractive young woman I once was, but I would not trade this stage of life for that earlier one. If satisfaction and contentment count for anything, then old age wins hands down.

A POEM FOR ME FROM JESSICA

To Gaga, a poem about your fire.

When I am an old woman I shall wear red
With fantastic jewelry
And painted pink toes
I will drive too fast
Grow beautiful gardens of flowers and herbs
I will drink bottles of wine
Eat fine cheese and nuts and fruit
I will have a family that adores me
And an array of lovely friends,
artists and priests, chefs and writers, teachers and scholars, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, old, young, here, there…
I will read books and write books
I will learn, I will go to school
And make art, take photos
I will give great hugs.
I will go to dinners,
I will cook,
And have parties
And sing and dance and travel
I will be wise, and have grey hair
And glasses and
Beautiful wrinkled hands.

When I am an old woman I will wear red, and black and gold and white and perhaps purple too,
When I am old I will be me.


I love all that you are.
Thank you for being born.

Happy Birthday.

Love, Jess

A TOAST BY LAURA AT MY 80TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

We are here to celebrate 80 birthdays and 59 anniversaries, 55 years of mothering, 28 years of grandmothering, and six months of great-grandmothering. These markings are the raw numbers of old age, but they don’t reflect the memories, stories, lessons and wisdom that come to us in snippets or snapshots or the fullness of a life lived with intensity and insight. That my mother has taken pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard—to share these is a gift to us and a bequest to future generations.

Each of us has entered my mother’s book in a different chapter—some long ago, some more recently—but we are, nevertheless, all part of a story that began in rural North Carolina and moved across the country to the suburbs of St. Louis. The end is not yet written, so we will refrain from speculation, but suffice it to say that we will be eagerly awaiting the sequel at her 90th birthday celebration. But as we reflect today upon the time we have been give with our mother, grandmother, confidant and friend, however long or short, we are reminded that our connections with one another constitute our greatest blessing and though we choose to celebrate the length of our lives, it is their essence that is more worthy of recognition. And so it is true here.

To that end, let us make a toast to times shared, advice given and sought, wisdom imparted, stories remembered and, of course, the joy of reading. Happy Birthday, Mom, and may there be many more chapters to come.