Sunday Morning Musings on Ageing

Dandelions. Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash

I am in one of my happy places this morning - yes, I have several. A faint drizzle barely breaks the silence, my coffee cup waits for a refill, and my old cat lies curled up in the curve of my knees. I am cosy under my duvet as the fireplace slowly warms the cool air.

All week, I have been wondering what to write about in my blog. My last few posts have felt heavy, and I wanted to focus on a lighter topic. But what? I am content with life these days, and nothing came to mind. But my nights have been filled with disturbing dreams. Do you have those dreams that wake you up in the middle of the night thinking, why am I dreaming this? Awakening in the morning with only a vague memory and an uneasy feeling. I am not sure what these dreams mean, yet I do know they have been about getting older.

I facilitated two life-story workshops this week and listened to eighteen women share poignant, heartbreaking, and joyful stories. Their stories awakened long-forgotten memories and have had me reflecting on my life journey. Our lives may be different, but there is a thread that weaves through the lives of us older women. Maybe my dreams are born from some of memories.

Is it strange that even though I am happy and content, I also very much feel the uncertainty of life these days? I am deeply aware that I have fewer years ahead of me than years already lived.

An old colleague of mine died last month. She laid down to sleep and did not wake up. The previous week, this quirky, creative, caring woman had posted photos of the ocean, a sunset, and her grandchildren playing on the beach. Her only description was a single word, grateful. A keen reminder of the fragility of life. 

Twice this week, women I know spoke of their 50-year-old children. I have friends who are fifty, and I felt suspended between two generations, comfortable hovering in the middle.

I took the ferry to our island home on Friday with a friend. I realized I will soon no longer travel on a Friday, or on the weekend, as the ferry is free for those over 65, Monday through Thursday. Another subtle reminder of this journey I am on.

My daughters are away on a girls' weekend. Some of these girls now have children of their own. My daughter sends photos of these babies -dancing, eating, and playing. They are the children of girls I have known since elementary school, and I think of their mothers, now also grandmothers.

You may think I am too focused on growing old as you read this. But no, it is only that I am keenly aware this week that I am paddling north. I am thankful the waters are calm, knowing rapids may await me around the next bend.

I keep a file of blog ideas, including quotes, poems, snippets of text from books, and web links. I glanced at the file yesterday, hoping to find a blog topic. I was drawn to the references I had noted about ageing. Here are a few, maybe they will also give you pause for reflection on your journey rowing north.

I found words with no indication of the author. Words such as ageing is an inside job and proudly ageing on our own terms. 

On a piece of paper, I had scribbled, women of a certain rage and lines map our journey into wisdom. These words were written by Leslie A. Davidson, the friend of a friend from Nelson, British Columbia who writes children’s books and beautifully descriptive essays. I recently ordered a copy of her book, Dancing in Small Places, ‘a humorous memoir that charts a couple’s parallel diagnoses of Parkinson’s and Lewy body dementia’.

I read the comments I had noted about an article, On the Invisibility of Middle-Aged Women, by Dorthe Nors. Nors writes books about middle-aged, childless women on the brink of disappearing—or you could say—on the brink of losing their license to live. 

And I found a quote from Maria Jaoudi ’s book, Christian Mysticism: East and West:

”In Japan there is an entire authentic tradition founded on the appreciation of ageing, as in the Zen gardens whose moss and trees spend time softening, enclosing, expanding, like life itself, or in the magic of an old vessel, greenish and burnt with time, as if layers of meaning are contained therein. Wrinkles and growths, whether on people or trees, demonstrate their endurance and solidity despite existential vagaries.”

Finally, a poem by Jeanne Lohmann. Lohmann wrote poetry into her 90s. She is one of my favourite poets. This poem captures my feelings this week, contemplating this journey while also finding joy in life's simple pleasures.

A Year of Being Here.

All day I try to say nothing but thank you,

breathe the syllables in and out with every step I

take through the rooms of my house and outside into

a profusion of shaggy-headed dandelions in the garden

where the tulips’ black stamens shake in their crimson cups.

I am saying thank you, yes, to this burgeoning spring

and to the cold wind of its changes. Gratitude comes easy

after a hot shower, when my loosened muscles work,

when eyes and mind begin to clear and even unruly

hair combs into place.

Dialogue with the invisible can go on every minute,

and with surprising gaiety I am saying thank you as I

remember who I am, a woman learning to praise

something as small as dandelion petals floating on the

steaming surface of this bowl of vegetable soup,

my happy, savoring tongue.