I’m not a woman who is older. Or elderly. Or mature. I’m neither plucky nor a burden, and not over any hills (except the very steep ones). I am a very specific old to be sure, white, once middle class, now a full economic level down from there, once tall and now several inches less than that. It appears that some things shrink over the years as others expand.
Unlike middle-aged Michelle Obama, I’m no longer becoming. I’ve become. I have reached what appears to be the maximum level of my maturity, and while I’m more adult in public than I am in private, this has always been the case. I’m not nearly as kind as I intended to become, but at least greatly improved from the earnest young woman who valued certainty over ambiguity. I’m less evaluative about how and why people behave as they do, because I’ve learned over and over again how tremendously complicated it is to be a human being. I’m still vain, although I wish I weren’t. Mostly about my hair. While my discipline is somewhat improved, my adventurousness remains on the timid side. Knowing what to expect, insofar as that is possible, still comforts me. But I keep reaching for my best self, and finally I am clear about who that self is. I bump against ageism in the ways people relate to me and to the reality of old- ness, much as I once learned to more clearly identify and recognize racism and sexism. However, there are a lot of things that are funny about being old, but only if an old woman tells them.
I delight in the freedom that oldness confers, at least the freedom not to care about so many of the things that once seemed so important. I’m contentedly set in most of my hard-won ways since it took so many decades to figure out what they were. They’re what remains after years of painful, grudging, and fearful release of self-protective behaviors and choices, all of which involved psychotherapy, foolish relationships, and way too many gin and tonics. My ways make sense to me. And perhaps if Frank Sinatra hadn’t gotten there first, I might have titled this book My Ways.
These days, I inhabit a world where people have practices. Spiritual ones. Yogic ones. Psychological ones. I’ve been old for a while now, so it seems fitting that I design a personal practice of oldness. But I’m filled with wanting, and practices frown on desirousness of all kinds. I want to accompany my friends as they approach the end of their lives. I want to see how things turn out politically in these unimaginable times. I want to take walks by the water, even as those walks get increasingly slower, punctuated by longer periods of sitting and augmented by hiking poles. I want to read, have long talks with loved ones, keep fresh flowers on my coffee table. Practices are more focused on yielding to what is, with the emphasis on the here and now.
While I appear to be an unruly candidate to begin a practice, already chafing against the constraints of cultivating a sense of awe at each new moment (never ever going to happen), the evaporation of my memory does lend an often-bewildered openness. So, in the oft-repeated movement that Jews have been practicing for centuries, I lift my shoulders in a small shrug and remind myself that what I want has nothing to do with anything. It’s going to be how I manage whatever comes. That central reality is embedded in teachings of spirituality and psychology, so I will now consider myself in the throes of a practice. Here I go.
(From The Kitchen is Closed: And Other Benefits of Being Old a new book by
Sandra Butler)
Love this . My mom lived in an independent facility in n.j. A friend in her place wanted to “ wine & dine her for her 94th birthday. He took her out to “ Jersey Mike’s” it is a sub/ hero sandwich shop. She said “I think it’s important to let you know before we go out , that “ my GIFT shop is closed.”
Sandy Butler is the best, wise, funny and also very sober. I love her and her writing. My Hanns for posting : Alte
Is the book now out?