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The New Year: Aging Out, or Aging In?

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At the beginning of every new year, my in-box is full of bucket list and intentions posts. I’m thinking about mine. Or, rather, I’m thinking about not thinking about them.

 

Two Sunday bloggers were in my lineup last week, and they got me considering this third act of life—which is not a new thing, obviously. One writer (I’ll call her Ms. Energy) is nearing 50. I won’t detail all she does, you would be ready to nap well into spring just reading it. The other (a friend of Ms. Energy, I’ll call him Mr. Ancient) is turning 60, sandwiched between me and Ms. Energy, twelve years on either side. I’m well past feeling remorse that I can’t channel Ms. Energy (not that I ever could), but it turns out Mr. Ancient has something to teach the more elder me about what I do—or don’t—want.

 

He writes this: “I have projects I want to complete, and I even have visions to learn new art forms . . . but I don’t want to live my final days to the staccato rhythms of the Urgent. It just doesn’t sound like much fun, for one. I want to pause and meander and savor and wonder and drift.” (I want a bumper sticker that says that.)

 

This is me with my mouth hanging open. Is that okay? Can one let go of feeling, at the not-yet-old-age of 72 (much less at 60), that shit must get done tout de suite before it’s too late? It’s not too late, but by the time it gets done—or let go of—might I have missed the window of opportunity to “pause and meander and savor and wonder and drift” because I am, I don’t know, dealing with health stuff or the end of democracy or whatever? Did we buy into this sense of urgency and “must do” when we were younger and now our arthritic fingers have it in a literal death grip?

 

Bucket lists (a little different from annual intentions) are defined as life lists, things to check off before one dies; but mine have always been serial. I replace things rather than add to the list. My bucket list used to include Eat Pasta and Pizza in Positano. I let go of that with no regrets, replacing it with “Visit ALL Western National Parks.” I’ve revised that to visit some national parks. Currently, I’m thinking about taking the Coast Starlight to visit a friend in California next autumn, and maybe getting into Death Valley, which I missed in 2023. That could add a park and replace bucket-listed Take Train Trip Across Canada.

 

But couldn’t bucket lists and annual intentions also (or alternatively) include “write a letter to a friend,” “savor the sunrise,” “consider the shades of brown in tree bark.” You know, downsizing the lists. Last week I drove 90 minutes out my favorite state highway to the historic hotel I love, walked the labyrinth at the wildlife refuge again, and sat by the fire and read, returning home for dinner. Going there every autumn/winter is on my bucket list. For now. I might try snowshoe meadow roving (my volunteer gig at Mt. Rainier), or not.

 

A recent epiphany pertains to the tendinitis/arthritis in my left hand (well, and my right). I spent months in 2023 winding through the medical maze: primary care doctor so I could waitlist to see an orthopedist so I could get referred for occupational therapy. A year after eight OT sessions, my hand is no better. I was panicked back then, “Oh my gawd, this is how it will be, this aging thing. Must Fix Now.” Today, I am not panicked; this is how it will be. I’ve adjusted. Not everything can or must be fixed.

 

Mr. Ancient writes at the end of his post: ”I don’t want to battle age, but stir it around, bathe in it. All of Time’s orneriness asks for celebration, acceptance, not resistance. Acceptance can be its own type of celebration. Loss can be its own song. And therein lie the gains of this peculiar state.” Don’t you love that?

 

That’s what I want to be doing in this act, both this year and this decade: celebrating, not arming for battle. Paying attention to the small things, letting go of the big ones. No tick tock. I’m turning off the clock.

 

Disclaimer: I’m trying this on for size. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll put it in the back of the drawer and take it out when I grow into it. Because, really, isn’t that the joy of elderhood, the freedom to try on ways of being in the world?

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What are you trying on for size in this new year? Or, what are you aging out of and/or into?

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Read Grant Faulkner’s (Mr. Ancient) post here.
Read my post “Lessons from a Labyrinth” here.

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Book recommendations (there’s a theme here, right?):

Still: The Art of Noticing, by Mary Jo Hoffman. This title caught my attention, I have it on library hold. “Every day (every single day) for over a decade, Mary Jo Hoffman has made a photograph of found nature – no subject too small or too ordinary.”

Still Life at Eighty: The Next Interesting Thing, by Abigail Thomas. Currently reading, laughing out loud.

I’m excited about the coming audio version of Mother Lode, from Tantor Media! Coming in May.
I’ll keep you posted.

 

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Wallowing at the Threshold

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My mother suffered from macular degeneration and glaucoma for decades before she finally lost most of her vision in her late nineties. And the family suffered her suffering. She was far more than her health issues, but she didn’t talk to me about her courage, her conquests, her activism. Just her health, chiefly her eyes. I don’t think much about my own vision, what can I do? My only risk factors are genetics and age. I am diligent about an annual eye exam, though. Last month, my optometrist—who was also my mother’s doctor for decades—told me my eye pressure is perfect and the macula shows only very slow degeneration over the past five years. I think it’s safe to say I did not inherit her vision issues. That leaves age; but since I can’t stop the march of time, I can forget about it for another year. (Well, I could eat more dark, leafy greens.)

I’m wondering now, why she was so focused on it for so long. Fear of being blind in the future? Self-pity? An exultation of pride that she was carrying on without vision? She told me once she thought if she didn’t tell people she couldn’t see, they would think her vision was better than it was. I didn’t really understand why that was a bad thing, but probably you have to walk in a person’s shoes to know what makes them tick. Now that she’s gone, I’m better at not judging her. But it makes me think about what kind of elder I want to be. If I am lucky enough to continue to be able to choose.

That story came to mind recently when I read Grant Faulkner’s Substack post about self-pity. (Grant is the executive director of National Novel Writing Month—NaNoWriMo.) He writes:

“Our culture disparages self-pity . . . [and] rewards the stoic response . . . But here’s the rub: wallowing in self-pity is a key part of self-restoration. It’s a vital part of my creative process. I’ll hazard to say that it’s even nourishing. In wallowing, I’m gathering my forces, unconsciously planning a Plan B, reaching for acceptance of a ‘new world order . . .’ I go to the edge of the cliff of despair and peer over it, but I don’t jump. Crying releases oxytocin and a bunch of other feel-good chemicals, and my guess is self-pity does the same (hence the wallowing).”

Maya Angelou seemed to agree, but provided a caveat: “Self-pity in its early stage is as snug as a feather mattress. Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.” My mother missed that bit.

I’ve been thinking about thresholds for the past couple newsletters (here and here, if you missed them), and probably will continue to. Perhaps it’s the work of the third act of life, this edging into elderhood.

I went for a hike recently that really kicked my butt. I’ve hiked the trail to Spray Park in Mt. Rainier National Park twice before and didn’t remember it being so hard. Maybe it wasn’t. I was moving so slow on the return, I don’t think movement would have registered on an infrared motion sensor. It’s the first time I’ve linked the exhaustion with aging. These past twelve years as a hiker, I have gotten stronger and stronger. Now, I think, I’m coming down the other side of the mountain. It was a burning bush moment. A little shocking, if you must know. (You can read more about that hike and the startling revelation on my blog.)

You may be at a different threshold; the questions are the same. John O’Donohue said: “At anytime you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing? At this time in my life, what am I leaving? Where am I about to enter? What is preventing me from crossing my next threshold? What gift would enable me to do it?” (To Bless the Space Between: A Book of Blessings)

I love hiking remote trails, beginning with long drives up forest roads, where most people don’t go. I love hiking solo. I love exploring new trails. I’m not afraid of longish trails with elevation gain—within parameters I’ve set for myself. I think the time to change the parameters is coming soon, and in the future to hike familiar trails not so remote. And maybe not alone. I’ve given up hoping someday a son or daughter or grandson will hike with me, but would it be so terrible to join a hiking group . . . someday? I met such a group on Mt. Rainier while I was doing my volunteer gig this month. Eight women around my age who were delightful. I could do a new thing, right?

I may not be ready to cross the threshold quite yet, but it doesn’t hurt to think about it as I come up the trail toward it. In fact, it would be a gift to prepare myself.

O’Donohue also said,
“You stand on the shore of a new invitation
To open your life to what is left undone;
Let your heart enjoy a different rhythm
When drawn to the wonder of other horizons.
(For Retirement, To Bless the Space Between)

A new invitation to other horizons. Find a new rhythm to enjoy. I can do that. After I finish wallowing in self-pity.

Here’s to thresholds, new paths, new horizons, and maybe a moment or two of self-pity. As always, I would love to hear from you. What are your musings about what’s coming, and what you will leave behind? I hope you will comment here and read (maybe respond to) what others are thinking about.

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