This I Believe

THIS I BELIEVE

“Will you still love me, will you still need me when I’m 64?”

It was nearly dawn when my husband of twenty-four years, began quietly singing these famous lyrics by John Lennon. It was his 64th birthday.

“Of course I will, of course I do,” I said rolling over sleepily. “Hmmnnn,” he said grabbing for my hand as he drifted off. Now, wide-awake, I am amazed that I too am that old.

I have made peace with my wrinkles, graying hair and expanding waistline. I have come to terms with my missing paycheck. I have not made peace with the body that doesn’t respond to regular maintenance. “Crabby old disks”, arthritis, and asthma have settled in for the duration. Despite a grandmother who lived to 98 and a Mother who is 87, I obsess and fuss that their longevity will not be mine or that my children must care for me in my senility.

Loss has consumed my life the last few years. Car accidents, cancer, have claimed my close friends and my father-in-law from Alzheimer’s disease. My beloved grandson is profoundly autistic. I have been angry and sad while raging at the Universe. By choice, but still a loss, my successful career is finished and I grieve them all. Remembering my lost friends, my list of “life is too short” continues to grow. I choose to be a snob about good coffee, expensive gin, dark chocolate and fresh flowers.

Yet, there are simple signals and exchanges stirring within that soothe my anxiety and fixation about this process of aging.

Each morning, a blue jay, two towhees, and an assortment of chickadees wait for me to feed them by the kitchen window. I marvel at their persistence and my own sense of joy and calmness in this morning ritual. Today, a doe brought her babies out of the scrub oak for the first time. Their spots stood out on their caramel colored fur like fluffy marshmallows. New life, new possibilities I think to myself. This is the cycle of life and I think how proud I am of my two daughters and how it is their turn to raise their own little fawns.

I now am more discerning about how and with whom I spend my time. Some days that choice is a novel, or a book of Mary Oliver’s poems. I am writing about a time and a place where I grew up. No need to publish. I will leave it behind for my daughters and grandchildren to remember what I loved.

I think I have found my rhythm. I choose to honor my fallen friends by the goodness of my life and the constant journey of discovery and learning. It is my legacy and lasting gift for my family.

“Old” age isn’t so bad. Look at Mick Jagger, Maya Angelo, Jimmy Carter. Inspiring, yes! Challenging, yes! Obtainable…you bet!

Will you still love me; will you still need me when I’m eighty-four?