APRIL IS POETRY MONTH

 

There are nine squares of faces on my screen, one of those faces mine. We’re talking about being present, about what we might be holding onto that no longer serves us. One of the women in the squares asks the question: What keeps you awake at night? Another wonders what she needs to let go of to live her best life. Another speaks of meditation grounding her in her daily tasks.

I look at the squares, the notes I’ve written in my notebook, as I listen to these wise women who refuse to claim their wisdom. And I think, not for the first time, who am I to be here? I cannot speak as eloquently as these women do, I cannot articulate my thoughts and emotions and experiences into such stirring statements as “the future is the result of what we do right now” (Pema Chodron). Or “Our life is a path of learning to wake up before we die” (Natalie Goldberg).  I am an imposter, in my elder years but lacking the accompanying wisdom.

What am I holding on to? Why do I grasp so tightly to the illusion of my youth? What scares me about accepting that I am indeed . . .  that dreaded word . . . old?

I cannot place the blame squarely on society’s obsession with youth, although that may be part of it. It is something within me that is clutching frantically to this notion that I cannot, must not, surrender to old age. As if by denying it I can prevent it from happening. It’s coming, for all of us, the lucky ones. Indeed, it may already have arrived. Many of the faces in the squares on my screen have embraced the challenge of it, and are thriving because they’ve allowed themselves to fully be the age they are. With acceptance comes a new awakening, new paths reveal themselves. There is nothing to fear, I tell myself. But I don’t believe it.

And because April is poetry month, here is one of mine:

HAVE I ARRIVED?

We do not want to be our mothers

Until . . .  we understand

Old age is where the lucky land.

I am nothing if not pragmatic

Or so I’ve been told.

Stoicism is underrated

Under-appreciated.

And yet, I referred to my mother as stoic

And not in an appreciative way.

But have I arrived?

With my brittle bones and bunioned feet

Decrying the entitled Generation Z.

Am I missing the gifts they bring

With their cheery smiles

And Have A Nice Day.

Their tattooed limbs

And thumbs always in play.

Does their youth, heedless of time

Highlight the loss of mine?

Our hopes, our dreams

Ever slipping, further from our reach.

We preach

But mostly to the choir

To our friends, who nod and agree.

And maybe we do not see

That we can still make a shift

Towards the light.

No, not that light, the final one at the end of the tunnel.

Although that too will come

Soon enough.

                         Pearl Richard