Slouching No More*
A little over ten years ago, I wrote a poem a few months before my half-century birthday. The idea for it came to me as I was walking in Delaware Park and reflecting on the fact that my daughter would soon be going off to college.
Musings on Fifty
I will wear my wrinkles well
and let the gray come to my hair.
I will resist the temptation to
measure my worth by the lack of soft skin
around my middle.
I will not bow down
while looking into the mirror
half-expecting to see a younger image.
I will smile with each memory of youth
that reminds me of how much
I have learned
from so many glorious mistakes.
A few weeks ago, I reached another milestone: my sixtieth birthday. While the occasion didn’t lead to any new poems, it did provide inspiration.
My daughter flew in from Manhattan to celebrate with me. We spent the afternoon marveling at the forces of nature at Niagara Falls, and then she treated me to dinner. The same young woman who made me worry late into the night a decade ago is today a successful professional working and living in her chosen city, New York. To see the changes in her life over the past ten years is to admire the independent adult she has become. And although my contributions were among many, including guidance from teachers and the friendship of peers, I can feel at peace, knowing that I must have made more good decisions than poor ones as a parent.
Sitting across from Hanna at the restaurant table that evening, I also recalled where I was, both geographically and emotionally, when I was her age. Different cities, different career paths, but the same youthful exuberance.
Yet remembering who I was at my daughter’s age hasn’t been nearly as fun as imagining who I want to be, say, twenty years from now.
In the past few months, I’ve become friends with a petite 82-year-old woman named Sandy, whom I met at the Jewish Community Center. While I pride myself on going to the gym three to four times a week, Sandy goes every single day. And she doesn’t simply try out a machine or two-she uses at least two cardio machines before working her way through a few strength-training machines. At the end, she takes her time doing careful stretches. A widow, Sandy has survived cancer and is no shrinking violet. One day, we got on the topic of Social Security. I said that according to everything I’ve read, a person should wait until age seventy to start collecting the benefit. Sandy quipped, “Oh, take it as soon as you can. We never know when we’re going to croak!” Her flippant remark masked an underlying sweetness and resilience that I have come to recognize as her true core.
I met Carol in the locker room. Also an octogenarian, she was drying herself off after a swim and a shower. I couldn’t help but notice that she had pictures taped up on her locker door. “I like the way you’ve personalized your locker,” I remarked. She explained that these were souvenirs of her theater and film career. She had been an extra in “The Natural,” which is how she met Robert Redford. She wrote her first play at age 62. Sitting on the bench in her underwear and outstretching her arms, Carol assured me that life after sixty is filled with possibilities. “Whatever the question is, I say yes!” she proclaimed.
At fifty-nine, I lost a job and received a cancer diagnosis. It was one of the toughest years in recent memory. (I’m happy to say that next month I’ll start a new job, and based on my last checkup, my recovery has gone very well.) While I would never want to relive each character-building moment, I do appreciate the unexpected lessons and observations of fifty-nine. It was a year that tested my patience and resolve.
My latest birthday may not have produced any new poems, but it did nudge me to tweak the one from ten years ago.
Sentiments on Sixty
I am wearing my wrinkles well
and letting the gray come to my hair.
I am resisting the temptation to
measure my worth
by the scars across my chest.
No, I won’t bow down
while looking into the mirror
because I don’t need to be greeted by a younger image.
Still, I may smile or weep with each memory of youth
that reminds me of how much
I have lost or gained (and learned)
from so many glorious mistakes.
Today and each day I pause
for a moment or two
and I realize
how my body has never really failed me
it is simply changing and helping me understand
the trajectory of my life.
*The title of this post was inspired by the description below the title of my Substack newsletter, Thoughts from a writer slouching toward sixty, which I’ll need to update, of course.
Originally published at https://gito.substack.com.
