Row row row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. Children's nursery rhyme
To celebrate my 65th birthday, I'm going on a retreat. I want to answer questions I've been asking myself for a long time, but have not fully answered. Most of us know the glee of being away from phones, e-mails, have-to's, and anything else that distracts us from getting something done. I need to face myself and my fears so I can move into a space of acceptance, self-confidence, and discovery. Though they sound like a trite list of words, what I really want is inner peace and joy as I age; one cannot survive without the other.
The vanity issue I addressed in my last entry (Anchors and Aging) leads me to a tale of two older women. I remember one homebound elderly client, tears welling up, who told me she no longer looked in the mirror. She couldn't stand to see how she had aged, and she hated herself; she said she was 'disgusting'. Her solitary confinement (dictated by disability and depression) made it worse, since she didn't see people who could validate her and give her reasons to celebrate life.
My sister tells me her neighbor says the same thing about her face and body. She avoids looking in the mirror so she doesn't have to think about it. Rather than focus on her physical appearance, she moves ahead with her life. These two women were/are in their late 70's; one was depressed, while the other is in a place of either contented resignation or mature acceptance. Either way, she isn't miserable, nor is she isolating herself from others. I have a feeling my sister's neighbor has several anchors in the water, many of which I shall be able to claim as my own...eventually.
Following are questions I will ask and answer before I go much further. I realized I needed to come up with these questions after I wrote to a family member: I'm doing a lot of personal work, mainly with self-acceptance. I have been spending a lot of contemplative time assessing my sense of purpose, figuring out what I have yet to contribute to society, and thinking of ways I can give my creative self more space to grow. Though in my heart I know differently, I feel like I'm entering this incredible new phase of life without much grounding. I'm changing before my very eyes, and I want to meet those changes with strength and confidence.
What am I doing when I'm happiest?
How can I rein in my constant need to accomplish something?
What do I love most about my life right now?
Where and from whom do I get my inspiration?
How have my priorities changed and am I giving due attention to them?
What is one new and/or positive thing I have learned about myself this last year?
What messages about me, or expectations from others, can I finally release?
How am I being true to myself?
What power am I going to give to the role money plays in my life?
What can I do on a daily basis that will help me deal with forgiveness, old guilt, and fresh sorrow?
How can I honor my introversion and still be present for those I love?
What do I feel the need to finish or do before I die?
I received several touching e-mails after my last blog entry, three of which were written by individuals on either side of 40. Each person wrote about the challenges he or she is facing and how those relate to getting older. As we age, it seems many of us become more introspective, realizing each day is a gift to be opened with care and thought. We want, more than anything else, to be able to say, "I gave it all I had, and lived my truth in the process".
I am happy to report (though I'm still self-conscious about its seemingly rapid progression), I am no longer obsessed or depressed about the notion of looking old. What I am, however, is determined to make these next 10 or 20 years as meaningful and rich as I can. I want to be aware of what I'm feeling and doing, so this incredible dream becomes one I will remember when I'm on my last legs, and not one I forget because I spent too much time madly rowing. In order to take in the beautiful scenery, I will need to lower another anchor.
Next time: my second anchor and how a friend helped me find it
(c) Sally Z McBain