Category: Being 60

Diamonds

Diamonds are made under pressure. That is photo of the picture side of my kitchen calendar for the month of October.

There is always pressure. Sometimes it is huge and one can nearly, literally feel the weight of it upon the head or the shoulders. Is that when diamonds are made?

Then there are days that turn into weeks of pressure. Those days upon awakening and at the first flutter of sleepy eyes, bam! There it is, that pressure. Is that when diamonds are made?

Some lives appear to feel pressure from the very start. At earliest memory, pressure, the sidekick. Always there. Always there about nothing or everything. Is that when diamonds are made?

There are moments (and days and weeks and years) that I would be completely okay to just be cubic zirconia.

The Library

I am at the Mason Pubic Library sequestered in the designated quiet room, writing. It is a lovely new addition at the north end of the building. As I sit here and tap, tap, tap on my keyboard, I wonder if even that small noise is prohibited. There is an older man (I better watch who I call old, he is probably my age) sitting in an overstuffed chair reading a newspaper. Occasionally he rustles the pages. There is a young woman sitting with her feet propped on a stool, sketching in a book. There is a mid-aged woman, wearing a mandatory headscarf tightly wound around her pretty face, reading a book. They each seem intent on their task. I glance up once in a while to see if anyone is giving me a look that says “Please stop making noise.” So far, all is well, so I continue.

Being in a library sometimes makes me anxious. I look around at thousands of books that I will never read. I glance at the music section and see the colorful pattern of CD cases, row after row, and feel frustrated that my car does not have a CD player. Why is that now so old school? I know. I get it. Spotify. But really, I would love to just play a whole CD in my car on a nice long drive. My kids are sighing right now. They also do not understand why I carry a large atlas in my trunk. Well, technology may fail me. If I am on the backroads of West Virginia, an atlas may come in quite handy. But I digress…

When I was younger, I used to dream about being “accidentally” locked in the mall overnight. I thought how fun it might be to try on clothes all evening, then go to Cinnabon and bake up some fresh rolls, and when sleepy, take a little nap on the Lazarus sofas. But now that I am older, I may dream about being locked in the library overnight. A camping lamp, a Keurig, a beanbag chair in the corner and thousands of books. Funny how your fantasies change.

 

Rainbows

Noah and I walked onto the front porch this evening and saw a double rainbow in the eastern sky. We were both amazed at the clarity of colors and the beautiful, distinct lines making up the bow. At that moment, I found it appalling that I am 60 years old and do not know how rainbows are made. So I did a little research.

Sunlight is actually made up of different colors that we don’t usually see. When a beam of sunlight comes down to Earth, the light is white. But, if the light beam happens to hit raindrops on the way down at a certain angle, the different colors that make up the beam separate so that we can see them – in the form of a rainbow.

The colors slow down at different speeds when they enter the raindrop. The light exits the raindrop in one color, depending on the angle it came in, so we see only one color coming from each raindrop. Light at different angles coming through water droplets form the rainbow that we see, in stripes of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.

For those of you who paid attention in junior high science class, please forgive my enthusiasm. For the remainder of you, who, like myself, were probably focusing on your knee socks and hoping they would stay up while walking to the next class, this little rainbow education moment is for you.

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An additional note – thank you for your kindnesses today. It meant a lot to me to feel your support and encouragement. Please stay with me. You will be the color in my beam of light.

 

Changes

A small change in my work life was made today. I took a brave step and expressed my true desire to interview and write stories and leave behind the “stuff” that had fallen into my lap that I continued to do with a good attitude. My request was met with complete acceptance and agreement. I am thankful. I am a believer in the concept of putting in one’s time and the “wax on/wax off” methodology. Some things in life cannot be rushed, they must be acquired, and acquisition always takes time.

This may all fall apart in a month or two or 10. If that occurs, I will be fine. I will take it in stride and trust myself and my God and my 60 years of painting fences, to begin again.

 

Fear

Yesterday, a coworker and new friend came to my house to help me officially set up this blog. She worked hard. We drank chai tea (with cream) and ate peanut butter cookies straight from the oven. She kept working. Then we ate Indian spiced popcorn and drank cold, bottled Sangria. She kept working. By the end of two hours and 15 minutes, I had a new blog. I was excited and so very appreciative. The rest of the evening was full and no time at all to do any more with my blog.

This morning I awakened full of fear and doubt. This suddenly had become real. Was I ready to take this step? Was I ready to be open with this personal blog; ready to expose myself to the cyber world? Could I be that vulnerable? And what if it’s just not that good? What if I get a few sympathy followers and to everyone else it simply sounds like “blah, blah, blah…” I did nothing with my blog all day and now it is 11:07 PM. I am terrified to do this and I am terrified to not.

A Table

So today I was between interviews for the magazine and needed a cup of coffee and a quiet place to work for two hours. I stopped in at a local bookstore. I got my coffee, it was good and hot, and headed to the second floor where there is a large wooden desk with chairs and on one side and on the the other, a comfy couch. I preferred the table but it was occupied by a guy and his computer. I opted for the couch. I worked for a solid hour and then decided I should elevate my legs. I had on nice little soft ballet flats so I propped my feet up on the table in front of the couch. I actually got drowsy and closed my eyes for five minutes.

I was shaken to alertness when I heard a female voice say “Excuse me.” I looked up and saw a 50ish year old employee in a green apron. With very little discretion and very little softness and very little smile, she asked me to please remove my feet from the table. First (to self), “Are you kidding me?” Second (aloud), “Oh, of course.” I worked for another 30 minutes but the longer I thought about it, the more irritated I became. This is not the MOMA. This is not the Vatican. Heck, this is not even a sweet little storefront church. It is a freakin’ bookstore in Norwood. Yeah, I said that. The table looked to be a clearance item from Target, at best. Kids color here. People set their coffee mugs here. Maybe I have a problem with authority, though I really don’t think so. I have a problem with people behaving in false pretenses of created greatness. I couldn’t help myself. I took a small pad of paper out of my purse and wrote this note “For the record, this table is not all that. It is just a table.” I left it on the table and walked out with a smile. Small victories, I guess. Perhaps that is part of being 60. It becomes harder to bow to stupidity and triviality.

Tough Day

Mama is with me for the weekend. From the moment I told her good morning, she was in complaint mode and blame mode and self-pity mode. Ugh. We got through the morning and by afternoon I managed to get a real smile out of her. She helped me pick up sticks and pull weeds and felt useful and that is always a good thing.

I have my mama’s chubby knees. I also have her long torso and small waist and chocolate brown eyes. I could do without the chubby knees. I watch her and wonder what I will be like at her age. I very well may never make it to 89. Yet, I may make it to 99. That is the mystery of life. I hope I never hurt my children. I hope I can still smile. I hope I am able to find something, just one small something good about every day that I still have breath.

There were about 15 seconds in this day that I had the urge to flee. Mama had me in tears with a pounding headache and things at home were, well, they were typical of a holiday weekend at my house. Friends were house boating on the lake for the weekend and all of these things added up to a fleeting thought of (temporarily) running away from home. Thankfully, that was indeed fleeting. I would not do that, for so many reasons. A new one I have added to that list is being 60. Fleeing and losing it and going off to find oneself is something that 60 year-olds do. I will not succumb to that kind of stereotypicality.

Hair Color

As I read my morning devotional and then looked up the associated scriptures, I stumbled upon this one: Proverbs 16:31 “Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life.” How apropos on the very day I am scheduled to have my hair “conditioned”, as I call it. I may be 60 years old but I’m not sure I am ready for that kind of splendor. I certainly could have a head of gray hair. Mine does not come in in strands, mine comes in as full gray growth at the roots. I may be one of those lucky ones that have beautiful, silvery hair and compliments my dark eyes, kind of Emmy Lou Harris-ish. But…I also could just look old and haggard. It’s a risk, and at this point in my life, I’m erring toward sure things. I’ll take some of those risks when 70 rolls along.

Time I

Emily Dickinson said “That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” I can spend my days, even moments of my days, bemoaning the fact that I am 60. I could easily slide into a little funk of regret, remembering and resentment. I could spend half a day staring at the road, wondering who comes and goes and what their lives are like. These days and hours and moments will never come again. I am certainly not opposed to losing oneself in a cup of hot coffee and downtime on the porch, but that is something completely different. Those moments are of value. They build into me. The other time lost is simply that, time lost that takes a part of me along on that road that never circles back.

There have been pockets of time in my life that I call “golden moments”. These are rare but they are glorious. However, the other normal moments of life must count. The smile exchanged with a stranger at the park, the text from one of my sons asking about my day, the first red tomato on the vine, great claps of thunder at midnight and rain pelting my window. These exact moments in time will never come again and I must remember that they are sweet indeed.

 

August 22

Yesterday I turned 60 years old. Coming up to my birthday I believe I felt a sense of fear and panic. I could not wrap that truth around my graying head. I had been asking my mother if she is certain the birth certificate is correct. Bless her. She is 89 years old and has dementia. One day she told me that she thought quite sure I was turning 40, not 60. Often, it grieves me when her memory is unclear but occasionally we get those good days of fuzzy thinking.

So I am officially into my 60’s. I felt the love and support of family and friends, perhaps in some cases it was pity. But here I am. Today the anxiety has passed (okay, is passing). I step into this new decade with many thoughts and emotions. I also step into it with a few extra pounds. Turning 60 does have its cake and ice-cream and pie and cupcakes obligations. I am, in fact, a pleaser by nature. That is a subject for another day.