You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair.
Douglas MacArthur
Looking in the mirror is sometimes akin to watching “Fear Factor”.
Years of smoking and living have left their mark. Spider web lines are escaping from the sides of my mouth and spreading up into my cheek area. The top surface over my lip looks like someone took a potato masher and stamped ridges all along the surface from nose to upper lip.
Ridges in my forehead have deepened since my twenties, when I joked about lifting my forehead often and saying “huh?”
There are doughy rolls of flesh careening down the front of my body. These are the Steve foothills; they’ve amassed their bulk over the past twenty years. I used to eat what I liked and rarely saw my tummy do more than bloat a bit from menstrual water retention. The tummy has become its own geographic region
It’s not all bad. I can live with the crow’s feet. They are deep and wonderful. They crinkle like saran wrap when I smile, they edge my eyes in soft folds of velvet crinkles that show a life lived any way I could possibly live it.
The big blessing is that my body works. There is no arthritis or any of those other diseases baby boomers are beginning to discuss over cocktails at the fortieth class reunion. Only childbearing related surgeries have invaded this sixty year old body. The gall bladder is still sitting down there in the appendix neighborhood. There’s no doubt, it’s been a good life physically.
There are stark realizations that come when it may be the last quarter of life. While death is not something to dread, losing quality of life is. “Aging is not for sissies” the bumper sticker reads. Being a sissy is easy when the focus is on stooped bodies, dementia, loss of hair and teeth or being shuffled off to “the home” to wait out the final days.
It is important to learn how to lead a non-sissy life.
To find the recipe for great life on the other side of sixty, I look to others for help. Mindfulness becomes my tool kit, and discernment is critical. While a commercial shows how Oil of Olay can lessen the wrinkles on a thirty-five year old woman, the key is to see the more authentic beauty of women who have moved into the non-sissy era before me. Buddhism tells us to let God look through our eyes and see the Truth of all that is. God moves my spiritual eyes into His world of crones – and the vivacious dance of women who have found their essence beckons me on.
Sixty looks good on a woman with an awe-inspiring mind, a writer of herstory who creates foundations so that individuals can be served and given a financial helping hand.
Sixty-one looks exciting on a woman with impish good looks, a quick wit and the wherewithal to change careers from the rigors of drug counseling to the world of marketing and elder care. She now gives Reiki in a hospice setting; her soul magically moving to the rhythm of her soul.
Sixty-three looks inspirational on a woman who gathers all into community and guides them in love and acceptance. Joy shines through her eyes as she learns techniques to help each of us toss the “ball of light”.
Seventy-something looks wonderful on a woman with clear skin, beautiful white hair and a smile that shines like a warm starry blanket. The truth and beauty of her writing displays her heart and wisdom. It brings me to my knees.
Seventy-five looks reassuring on the woman who serves her church with unconditional love, even in the face of uncertainty. She is the rock that people turn to, the wise woman that people seek for clarity and insight.
Eighty-one looks great on a woman who sits at her favorite table in Rudy’s and proclaims “I can’t believe I’m eighty-one…..I really only feel sixty-five!” Her secret weapon is resilience, she has no expectations, only a celebration of the many blessings she identifies daily. She believes in God’s direction, in fact she plans on it.
I’ve had two real mentors in this world. One taught me to love God in a way that was inclusive of every spiritual journey. She taught me unconditional love and the joy of laughter. She died at seventy-eight, her legacy never did.
The other mentor has skin tone like mine, a smile like mine, and a zest for life like mine. She can be found at the pool doing water aerobics or walking at the mall. Her friends range in age from their sixties to their eighties. They tell me that she is their light – she makes them laugh. In the past four months she has been in Mexico , Seattle , Santa Cruz and Ashland
I call this mentor every day. She answers my “special ring” with “hello, my darling daughter”. Then we share our day’s plans, recap what happened before and find a reason to laugh.
God’s revelation is that sissies have no idea what they are missing. Embracing each day and living it fully is the crone way. Celebrating the self and the life the self has created is the gift that is wrapped in the potato masher lips and saran wrap eyes. The foothills of Steve could use more water aerobics and less celebration of food. That’s a choice I’m willing to make. The real work out is to jump in and engage in each day joyful embrace.
“Come be the best you can be” the Voice invites. The non-sissy life is just beginning.
