(The Talmud: Sabbath 152a)
Old age, like life, is something that happened to me when I wasn’t looking. They say that old age is always 15 years older than you are, but now that I’m 90, I can’t reasonably say that any more. I comfort myself by thinking that there are some things that grow lovelier with age like ivory, wine, lace and even trees. It is possible to learn virtues that we are too busy to practice in our youth as we travel the journey of life.
A few years ago, my sister sent me a birthday gift of a remarkable book titled When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. It was written by and for women beyond midlife. It is an anthology of poems, anecdotes, sketches and pictures, embracing everything from joy, humor, courage and wisdom, to anguish, frustration and the losses we garner along life’s journey. These women not only look life in the face, sometimes they spit at it. The title poem, by Jenny Joseph, is an example. Here is the first stanza:
“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.”
The poem ends:
“But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent, and not swear in the street.
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner, and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.”
I think I went through the whole gamut of emotions as I turned the pages. It is so intense, I found myself laughing and weeping, feeling passionate and compassionate, wishing I could meet everyone of these women who have endured so much. I would like to cradle their gnarled, wrinkled hands and just say: “I hear you. I understand.”
I learned something from every contribution to the book. The title poem came from raw life, beyond language; a rebellion of sorts against convention, a sympathy for life’s bag ladies and society’s drop-outs. We all harbor anxiety about becoming dependent, fearful of handicaps like Alzheimer’s or the loss of dignity that comes with incontinence or having to use a walker. The stories gave me courage.
A poet, William Carlos Williams, once described old age as “a flight of small cheeping birds.” It is a beautiful, apt description. The years will take much from us that we cherish about ourselves, and this is inevitable. Yet maturity means mellowness. The rat race is behind you and you are established in what you are doing. Some of the early dreams may have faded along the way but reality can be even more satisfying.
Life gets easier as you become more mature. The wisdom attributed to age is just an accumulation of all your experiences plus the lessons you learned from them. A disappointment is just that, and not something that shatters you emotionally. You take it philosophically as part of life, knowing there will be other compensations. Perhaps you no longer soar in ecstasy, but neither do you sink in despair. Appreciation doesn’t wane: there is often increased awareness and sensitivity because there is more time to look at the dewdrop in the heart of the rose; to listen to a symphony; to taste a wine that has aged; to smell the perfume of jasmine on the night air; to touch old books bound in leather.
We learn to relish life’s small pleasures; a cup of tea, a piece of chocolate, a bud that bursts into flower in your garden. And remember the proverb: “A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.”
The writer is the author of 14 books. Her latest novel is ‘Searching for Sarah.’ dwaysman@gmail.com