Doing Sixty on the Shoulder

Doing Sixty on the Shoulder

September 24, 2014

            Today I am 60, and I’ve decided that I don’t know what that number means.  A few days ago I spent time peering into the mirror, trying to get use to the idea.  I kept repeating aloud, “You’re going to be 60.  60!  You. Will. Be. 60! The Big 6-0!”  Nothing. The more I said the number the more meaningless it became.  I recently heard a local news reporter describe a victim of a crime as, “…an elderly man, around 60.” Elderly?!  Is that me?  Am I elderly?

            My grandmother use to tell me, “If you can’t admit your years, you don’t deserve them.”  I don’t mind admitting my years.  I just can’t figure out if this milestone number marks some significant change I’m suppose to make.  Is there a protocol for sixty-ness that I need to follow?  The phrase, “age appropriate” now takes on scary overtones.  Do I retire the high heels and don sensible shoes?  Do I put down the bourbon and pick up a cup of tea?  Am I banned from Victoria’s Secret and doomed to a future filled with white cotton undies? Am I finished with things, or am I just beginning?

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             Frankly, it feels like a beginning.  I’m in the best health of my life; I wear a smaller dress than I did in high school; and I’m in love.  Ain’t that a kick in the head?  At my advanced age…..and, believe me, I’d put the whole idea in the trunk with all the other mementoes of the past….I’m giggly and giddy all because of a boy!  And I finally understand all that stuff about loving and being loved by someone warts, wrinkles, flatulence, aches, pains, and all by someone who thinks I’m wonderful and who knows I feel the same about him.  It’s probably painful for others to watch, but I’m having too much fun to care.

            A kind of serene calmness accompanies me these days.  No longer am I driven by a nerve-wracking need to achieve and accomplish.  There’s nothing I need to prove to anyone or myself.  I feel more content than I ever have. My crowd of friends fills my life with laughter and delight; my beloved parents are still in the world to wake me with loving birthday wishes; and my beautiful daughter is bright, articulate, educated and employed.  I wake up grateful for every new day.

            It’s probably not age appropriate, but I’m feeling pretty damned excited about the years to come.  I know there are more days behind me than in front of me, but I’m not troubled by that realization.  The future is a rare, sweet nectar I plan to savor and enjoy drop by drop as long as it lasts.

            My daily stroll on the shoulder of the highway makes a loop that always brings me back home, but today, as I topped my first summit, I saw myself continuing up over that hill in the distance, making my way toward all the beautiful possibilities that lie ahead.  On this twenty-fourth day of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen, I am sixty!…. and I’ve decided that number means blessed.

I am Strong When I am on Your Shoulders

I am Strong When I am on Your Shoulders

            Church has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It started with my great aunt, Ruth, God rest her soul, who lived down the street and decided, when I was five or so, that I should go to church with her family.  Since Aunt Ruth ultimately had nine children, I guess she decided that hauling one more kid to church wouldn’t make that much difference.  So off we would go on Sunday mornings, a couple of kids in the rear cargo area of the station wagon, three or four on the backseat and one in the front squeezed between Aunt Ruth and Uncle Walter, a meek, taciturn man whose mild manner belied his obvious baby making potency….still waters do apparently run deep.  We wore no seatbelts, no safety restraints of any type except for the occasional arm across the chest if you happened to be the kid in the front seat; otherwise, we simply rolled and tumbled around in the car like so much loose change, making our way to Sunday worship, appropriately, on a wing and a prayer.

            And that was the start of my church history….Sunday school, vacation Bible school, church camps, revivals, GA’s (the Baptist take on Girl Scouts), women’s auxiliary groups.  Eventually, my parents attended church regularly as well, so, with the exception of that brief period of non-attendance in college that I went through, which was really more about being too lazy to get up on Sunday mornings than any questioning of my faith, church has always been an integral part of my life.  Today I’m a soprano in the choir, a committee member, a women’s group officer, and an adult education teacher.

            This litany of church activities isn’t some sort of brag list.  It’s a little background to illustrate that perhaps I should not have been surprised that a kind of spiritual element inserted itself into my walk on the shoulder of the highway.  But I was taken aback.  My walk is about better health and a smaller dress size.  It wasn’t supposed to be about having a religious experience, but I did…kind of.

            Religious is a bit misleading, perhaps.  I don’t want to paint a picture of myself as Paul on the road to Damascus or Bernadette at Lourdes talking to the beautiful Lady.  What I’ve experienced have been occasional, brief episodes of heightened awareness, of connection.  In those moments I feel lifted up and linked to…..the universe, to everything.  The pulse I hear pounding in my ears echoes and re-echoes all around me, reflected from the rocks and sky and ground beneath my feet.   I feel simultaneously infinite and microscopic, towering over the tallest trees, gazing down at the Earth below, while, at the same time, peering up at the blue sky through tiny blades of grass. 

            Two years ago when I began my daily walks, my goal was to drop a few pounds and, perhaps, to drop some of the ideas and attitudes that had burdened me my whole life and contributed to my obesity.  Despite being loved by wonderful parents and relatives, I struggled with feelings of insecurity and inadequacy.  I constantly grappled with the need to prove myself, while others seemed to possess an assurance about their worth.  Innately, they understood something that I didn’t. Just as other people seemed to wear their clothes with ease while mine pulled and pinched, they were also comfortable in the world; they fit.

            In those short, focused spans of awareness on the highway, the presence of the Divine in the universe becomes clearly evident to me, and, as importantly, my place in the grand scheme of things is affirmed.  An overwhelming sense of belonging fills me with joy, and I experience a rare moment of feeling completely adequate, of being enough.  I understand that I don’t need to earn my place. I am. Fat or thin, dull or clever, attractive or plain, I was meant to be here, and my presence is enough.

            My moments of clarity, unfortunately, are brief.  With the blast of a car horn or the roar of a motorcycle, I’m back on the shoulder of the road, sweat dripping, knees aching, back to the mundane, everyday experience of the world around me. But the connection doesn’t completely evaporate.  There’s a residual spring in my step and smile on my face.  The knowledge stays with me and lifts me up.  I belong. I am enough. I fit.