That's A Wrap.

 

Not My Age

Unknown Author

 

That’s not my age; it’s just not true.
 My heart is young; the time just flew.
 I’m staring at this strange old face,
 And someone else is in my place!
 
 My body’s not in disrepair.
 I’ve not much grey in my brown hair.
 I sometimes feel a little tired
 But go for jogs when I’m inspired.

 This old age thing is not for me.
 Concessions given, prescriptions free.
 I’ll just pretend I’m in my prime.
 To age too fast would be a crime.

 I’m just not 60 in my head.
 It’s still so long till I am dead,
 So please don’t see me in that way.
 I’m staying young, if that’s OK!

  I turned 70 this past fall. It seemed like a bigger milestone than others. 70 is a grandmother age. Oh, wait,  I am a grandmother. But I am a vigorous grandmother with three beautiful, vigorous grandchildren that I have to keep up with. 

I walk at least 10000 steps a day. I do lots and lots of yardwork. You ought to see me on the pickleball court. In fact you ought to see all of my over 70 pickleball players on the court. Now granted, there are a few bad knees out there, but nothing a little physical therapy and a knee brace or two can't take care of. I did jam my wrist the last time I fell, but Amazon sent me a wrist wrap in a couple of days, so I was back at it pretty quick.

 By now, between us, we're sometimes quite bound. Compression socks, arch supports, orthotics for plantar fasciitis, wrist braces, knee braces, gloves, water bottles, ice packs, ibuprophen, and at least one first aid kit are as much a part of our gear as paddles and pickleballs. 

As our uniform, we are clothed in comedy; if not light footed, surely lighthearted. We talk trash. We talk too much. We exercise our bodies and our moods, and both are in much better shape because of it. 

My daughter asked me just recently if I felt as old as I am. She's gotten to the age where she and her friends are starting to examine where they are in that scenario. I said I have always thought older was better, and that I seemed to be happier, if not exactly more pliable, as I aged. I don't actually know how old I feel, but retirement has allowed me to do so many fun and different things that I almost feel younger than I did, in spite of the splints and supports.

The wisdom from all those years has also freed me from conventional protocols that seemed so important in youth. From fashionable attire, to social media trends; I am just not bothered by unimportant standards anymore. Instead, I can concentrate on the deeper relationships that fill us all with optimism, passion, and aspirations. It is hard to look backwards while anticipating the future.

I paint a pretty rosy picture here, and mostly it works just this way. But there's one catch that has recently ripped a hole in this canvas, and in my heart. Just when I think I have come to that comfortable cocoon of existential fulfillment, someone is going to die.

   She was a tall, handsome woman with very short hair, and a very wide smile. She had a sparkling, commanding presence. She claimed she had once been shy, but I found no vestige of that early self. She was full of questions. I used to call her the "Question Lady". She explained that she was a "Process Guy"; she made evaluations by the Socratic method in order to solve problems. On the one hand, she was definitely organizationally driven, with her method and procedure surpassed only by her performance of the task at hand.  She worked tirelessly implementing the Affordable Care Act. She was the perennial president of her homeowner's association. She was a faithful poll worker, League of Women Voter, Washington Post reader, Russian Rummy player, brilliant Army wife, mother, grandmother, friend.

Her curiosity led her in different, unstructured ways as well, some of which I was privileged to share. We learned to watercolor together, and became each other's gentle critics. We exchanged photographs of our beautiful surroundings, and took to heart Mother Nature's daily bounty. We experimented with cooking, and found one reason after another to celebrate a dinner. We told tales of our grandchildren, played board games, went on garden tours, listened to folk music, drank lots of red wine. We found a deep-seated way to connect- two old women with young hearts and old souls. 

  Now I am looking for the bandage that will bind the gap between here and eternity. She was "a lion of courage and something precious to the earth." We don't wonder if she made herself "particular and real". She made her mark on innumerable lives. Today, she serves as a reminder for those of us who are left. Embrace courage, wonder, curiosity; cloak ourselves in kindness and new ideas, as she did. We must do more than just visit, before it is time to finally wrap it up.

 When Death Comes

Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.