WHAT WE CARRY

Here’s an old belief of mine: I am not creative, I’m no good at art. In elementary school, it was a given that I was not artistic. I was once told by a teacher I couldn’t draw but that was okay, because I was so good at all the other subjects, math, history, geography, literature, and what did it matter that I couldn’t draw? So I believed art was less important.

But I no longer believe that and now art is vitally important to my life. I began painting during Covid, yes, me, who couldn’t draw a straight line. But I discovered that one does not need to be good at drawing to be able to paint. These are two different things. Drawing is the ability to sketch realistically, beautifully, precisely, rendering something that not only resembles but enhances what the eye sees. And painting? That’s being able to express what the eye may not see, but the soul feels. And so I paint.

In school, learning to recite poetry by heart seemed tedious. Why did we need to memorize “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink?” Why did we need to spout: “Out, out, damned spot?” But now, words are my salvation. I write to express myself, my thoughts. And yes, I write poetry too. In reading Amanda Gorman’s “Call Us What We Carry”, I came across this:

“Life is not what is promised,

But what is sought.

These bones, not what is found,

But what we’ve fought.

Our truth, not what we said,

But what we thought.

Our lesson, all we have taken

& all we have brought.” 

So let’s think about that: Our truth is what we thought. Our lesson, all we have brought. What have I brought with me, what have I carried with me from childhood into my elder years? What do I need to set down?

There are delights I still carry with me from my youth, reading being the one that has had the longest staying power. But there are other things I did not carry from my youth, discarding them as being of little importance to my life: poetry, art, even sports. And yet, these are the things that sustain me now, that nourish my soul, feed my spirit and the fire in my belly.

Do we change as we age? Of course we do. It would be a tragedy of life if we did not. I am present in the world differently now, as an older woman. Some things linger, it’s true. That desire to be seen as productive and efficient and useful. How does one get rid of that dusty old baggage we all drag behind us?

I believe that what moves us now, in these later years, says much about who we are, who we’ve become. We can care about the little things – birds on the feeder, soft sunlit days, a cup of good coffee, and also about the bigger things – justice, human rights, our trees and forests, wars and killings, our friendships and relationships. And then there are those things we are told we MUST care about, MUST pay attention to: our bones and muscles, our strength and stamina.

So I drag myself off to the gym but can endure no more than half hour. I wish I could set those weights down permanently. If only we could have banked all those workout hours while we were young, and now just withdraw on them, like a retirement savings account. If only this aging and changing body didn’t still require me to make deposits into my health account, instead of being able to wander leisurely on a forest trail, a crown of flowers on my head.

There is the joy of freedom in being older, but also losses, and we are told change is inevitable and we must accept it, and so we try, and we keep on trying. We ask ourselves, what are we still holding on to? What must we set down?

We try to put down the burdens of our pasts, but in doing so, are we also relinquishing the joys we carried? Because those experiences are all melded together, strands of life intertwined, and can we really separate our happiness from our sorrows?

We carry everything with us, we bring it all along, lugging these suitcases. Maybe one day we unpack a couple of items and examine them, then fold them up and put them away. Then another day, a few more. Because I remember the time I was told I was no good at art, maybe my delight in discovering that perhaps I am now, sits a little bit sweeter as I find parts of myself I didn’t believe were there.

We carry everything with us, we bring it all along, hauling our old memories. And that’s a good thing. Because, as part of aging, isn’t our greatest fear that we forget who we are, who we were?