Thursday, September 29, 2022

THOUGHTS, BEING ON ROUTE 66


Today is September 29, 2022. It is my 66th birthday...the sixty-sixth revolution around the sun since I came to this world in 1956, when my parents drove a cadillac with foot-long fins and sat around on the mid-century furniture everyone wants to decorate with these days.


I was born around 3:15 pm, so I'll be talking to my mom later this afternoon, though she's been gone from this world since 1991. I'm sure my dad was not present, as it may have been against policy back then, though I never heard his account of where he was and what he was doing. But many times I did hear the story of how he held me on his lap nine days later during the World Series, when New York Yankees' pitcher Don Larson pitched a no-hitter against the Brooklyn Dodgers. This may explain why I never liked baseball, much to my husband's chagrin, because I'm sure I was choking on cigarette smoke for hours. 

Like many other births back then, my mother took the drugs offered, so I don't know what kind of connection she experienced with me, since she was either unconscious or numb from the waist down. Nor was I breast fed, so I don't know what kind of connection I missed with her. It's something I'll never know, but I often wonder how the disconnection affected our lives, since during most of it we were not that close. Having grown to adulthood in the 70's, and having lived for a time with a midwife, and having attended at least five home births, I'm sure my hospital birth was radically different than what my generation believed to be the right way. It was a different time, for sure. I know my parents made the choices they thought were best for their children and I love them for that, and for all they did for us as we grew into adults. 

I don't really feel 66 years old, or at least I don't perceive myself to be, feel, or act like my younger self thought I would at this age. Apart from the "malady du jour" each morning in my feet or back, in my head I can feel many ages. Sometimes I feel like I'm fifteen, when I get petty about something someone said or did and delight in whining about it. Sometimes I feel like I'm thirty-five, when I think I can easily manage two 40 lb bags of dog food or salt. I can move them around to the basement...just not as easily as I once did. And sometimes I feel like I'm in my fifties, when all the old baggage seemed to finally fall away, and I no longer cared about much of what used to tie me up in knots. Fifty was a good age. A healed age. An age of new possibilities and beliefs.  

But you know you are at that "certain age," when the doctor tells you it's time to schedule your initial Medicare Wellness Visit. Getting the daily literature from medical insurance companies for over a year, and even signing up for medicare, was all fairly benign and anonymous for the most part. But this..."do you have safety bars in your bathroom"..."do you have memory problems"..."do you have contact with friends or family at least twice a week?"  This seals the deal...people now see you as old...if they see you at all. 

But that too can be something to capitalize on. My friend tells the funny story of sitting in front of a movie poster with another friend in the lobby of a theater. Two young women came and stood in front of them looking at the poster and discussing the movie in detail, while standing only a foot away from the graying ladies. The younger women either didn't see them...or didn't think they deserved to respect their space. After laughing about it, the older two decided to capitalize on this invisibility and snuck into another movie. Who is going to confront two old ladies? 

But mid-sixties is a good age, too. Much of what I wanted to do has been done and the memories are beautiful to recall. Though I still have a few dreams and goals, they aren't so grandiose or complicated. Complexity is almost a curse word to me now. I have adopted new quiet rhythms and simple rituals that fit who I am now. The pursuits of big questions have been tucked into memory, as well, some with a twinge of regret at the time spent trying to unravel mysteries no one has been able to unravel. In my 50's, I learned one could actually embrace these mysteries of life and have now settled comfortably into many of them. In most of my adulthood, close confidants repeatedly told me I was my own worst enemy. At this age we have reached a detente...not that there aren't occasional skirmishes at the borderlines of my personality...but for the most part we are at peace. 

So today, I celebrated simply and alone. I filled the bird feeders for the first time since mid-May, when they have enough resources from insects and fruits and seeds (and I can keep a few more of my resources in the bank). I went to the local farm market and bought two big pumpkins and a mum. I got take-out lunch. In the morning I sat on the back deck and watched birds. In the afternoon, the Adirondack chairs by the firepit let the sun warm me from the windy chill. Now I sit on the front porch (my friend calls all these "perches") sharing thoughts with you. 

I love having a birthday in the fall. It seems to fit. I love making preparations for dormancy; that extended time to go inward, or to not have pressures that spring plantings and summer projects seem to rule over us. I hope to experience a few more revolutions toward a few more Septembers...but not too, too many. A reasonable expiration date will suffice. But there are still gardens to create, beauty to take in and spread. Still more people to encourage, friends and family to love and laugh with. There are votes to cast and deeper history to learn. There is poetry to read and blogs (and books?) to write. And ultimately, more growth to be had, more forgiveness to give, and more wisdom to be gained from all of it. 

But right now...there is a pumpkin to carve and seeds to roast. :-)