A Woman Possessed

Icicles hang like small daggers from the garage roof. Melting in the day, freezing again at night. Tears that need to be shed can’t seem to complete the cycle. Caught in the act of dropping, they become frozen in time. Pieces of ice like diamonds twinkle in the sun and cut like them, too. Snow that was once like a “fluffy”* body, now is unyielding, like trying to hug a sharp-boned mother who because of her sharp-boned mother has a body that does not allow you to sink in. Does not receive you. You cannot make a snow angel.

The sunlight is brighter, sharper, has edges. Not like the muted pastels of December and January. It hurts the eyes as it bounces off the ice and snow that remains in the aftermath of late winter storms. I remember the admonition from my eye doctor (even more strident about the winter glare) and put on my sunglasses. This time not to hide behind, but to protect. I prefer to live without them. Life at this age needs to be looked at straight in the eye.

Suddenly my yard, the source of so much wonder and delight, has become hazardous. Loud crunches and potential danger as I gingerly walk from the back door to the compost pile or to steal a glance at the marsh. There are patches of ice, tricksters that are dangerous because they freeze black and are hard for you to see. My granddaughter anxiously warns, “Be careful of the ice.” Everyone who loves you is worried you will take a fall. Even impetuous me, the one who runs headlong towards without thought, most times exercises caution. For myself, I am more worried about all of those I love taking a fall, one I fear will be quite nasty. I want warmth to come so we can all walk towards wherever we are meant to go safely and freely.

My energy sputters in and out on a day like today. Dread on the inhale and on the exhale, hope. As I observe the natural world, I appreciate the cyclical nature of energy, that in this late wintertime it will be more of a slow burn, a low flame like the one you use to simmer soup. It needs to conserve itself. I wonder if the birds I watch or the animals I observe have days like these. Do these creatures have “good” hunting days? A “bad” confrontation with a predator day? “I love the human who puts out birdseed for us every cold winter day, but I hate the humans that don’t.” I doubt this. We are the ones who label them good or bad days, love or hate. Humans are the inventors of dichotomous thinking. For other creatures, it is just the way of things. Neither good nor bad, high nor low. They seem to have internal clocks that know life is like waves that make their way forward with big energy and then slowly pull back. They give themselves over and rise and fall with it. At 71, I see this is the nature of time and history, moving us forward, pulling us back. This is not the first time I gasp for air in the face of riptides and undertows pulling me down.

This morning, I look out the dining-room window and see a big, fat, bushy tailed squirrel wrapped around our bird feeder, body sinuously curling around the cage. Chickadees with black caps and tufted titmice with tiny mohawks stay away, scared off by the writhing bulk of the squirrel. I see a flash of red hiding in the ancient rhododendron bush, our cardinal quivers. I am filled with a rage so strong my body uncontrollably shakes loose a woman possessed.

I knock on the window, yell as loud as I can. The squirrel remains brazen. I am propelled up and out, coatless. I unlock the doors and, heedless of the ice, I run towards the feeder. A screaming banshee appears in blue plaid flannel pajamas, cursing as long white hair blows around her face. The squirrel drops and runs away, scurries as quickly as it can up and into one of the towering pines that cast shade over our yard. High-tech surveillance from nearby homes captures my image and the watchers probably think I am one crazy, crusty like the snow, old lady. I couldn't care less; it’s the first time I’m flooded with warmth after a week of freezing temperatures.

Usually, I understand that squirrels have a place in our ecosystem and that birds and squirrels on some issues (like predator warnings) actually cooperate. That if there are not too many squirrels and birds in your yard, it’s good to see them both. Maybe this time I forget because there are bullies bloated with wealth, that have little boy faces and thick necks raiding our kitchen cabinets, the food pantries, gobbling up the school lunches, food for infants, Meals on Wheels (which at one time fed my father). Even though squirrels can be sustained by those seeds that fall on the ground, that is not enough, this squirrel wants to claim it all. In my yard right now, I am in charge. I am the one who governs, and I decide how we distribute food, share abundance and keep everyone safe.

Back in the house, calmer, my mind circles overhead and goes back to the past. I pick up memories that still have faint heartbeats and shelter in places of guilt, remorse and unexamined loss. I gather these brave survivors that remain from the past, these throbbing, beating, living things, and place them in a document or in a craft paper brown covered journal where they can be looked after, re-visited from this accumulated place of experience I now stand on. I’m not yet willing to say I’m wise. More work to do on that. These tiny pulsing things have stayed alive, just barely, and so deserve my attention and acknowledgment of their stamina. Perhaps the same attention and care I extend to my garden. Because after all, there is more growing for me to do.

While much of the public focus and social media attention on older women is now on the 40-60 group, there is my group, the less visible 70, 80, and 90 group, the group that remembers what it was like for women in the time before when our choices were few. It’s hard for young women today, flooded with all kinds of 0 APR and other assorted credit card offers, to imagine that when I was in college, I could not get one under my own unmarried name. Perhaps this explains why we, women over 65, during the last election, were the only group of women in this country that moved towards another woman and away from a “squirrel”. While more women are becoming less afraid of those first strands of grey hair, have started a menopause and marriage revolution, my group is still a little threatening, held at arm’s length. They are reinventing mid-life, we are here being creative in the land of older, older life. I saw this distance between in the women who bought my book, showed up at events, those not scared off by the word old. Getting too close brings reminders of the inevitability of death and unruly bodies that no longer respond to discipline and control.

“The trouble is old age is not interesting until one gets there. It’s a foreign country with an unknown language to the young and even to the middle-aged.” May Sarton

Those that come after may not be aware of the tiny, daily experiments we conduct to help us figure out how to live meaningfully and survive during these longer years, medicine, science, fate and privilege have allowed us. How we turn to mutual aid, our communities, our families and our own creativity as we struggle to fund them. How we thrive in the midst of loss. How accepting death makes every moment we are alive more beautiful, shining and important. How we learn to love our “fluffy” bodies, bodies that provide comfort and solace for those who come into our embrace. How we explore desires and passions previously denied; by societal expectations, by ourselves. How we use curiosity to fuel our brains. How we mine the past and move beyond the unexamined lives we were too busy to look at as closely as we should have. Populating this new frontier of aging, some of us are building something new. We are not striving to go back and fix what is irretrievably broken. Our body rewards us for seeking new information and exploring the unknown. It releases the flooding warmth of dopamine in response. An unexpected gift of older/older age.

Now we direct our curiosity and experiments towards how to live a longer life in a world that has become frozen, slippery with black ice, populated by overfed greedy squirrels and is a little more dangerous. Perhaps, together, this exploration, this grand experiment of learning to thrive in an extended longer life, of appreciating every sacred moment, while bringing others along, might reward us with warm doses of pleasure amid the concern. Warmth that can melt the ice, mitigate the danger. Show others how to build something there never was before. Something that feeds us all, shares abundance, respects the earth, shelters us and keeps everyone safe. If only we keep exploring, discovering, and exhaling hope. I like to think this can happen. But I must admit I’m happy to know that a woman possessed still lives inside me.

*this wonderful term “fluffy” to describe a soft, cushioned body is attributed to one of my commentors, Karen Guzowski. Find her here.

Dear Reader,

First, thank you for the many messages of support and love you sent for Calvin and for me. I received much pleasure reading all the comments on my last post. I went through them, and amid your kindness, noticed some themes. The loss of one’s mother and/or spouse, caregiving, surviving those we care for, the unexpected (and often underappreciated) aspects of older life, accepting what is happening to our bodies, connecting with a more spiritual side, deeper engagement with nature, having choices, focusing on our local communities, family, dealing with the current political moment, exploration of inner worlds, divorce, connecting with ancestors, and downsizing. Let me know what I may have missed.

I have so many thoughts about essays to write, books to recommend, links to share about all these themes made richer by the comments and recommendations I know will follow. I would also love to know what else you would like us to dig into, what you’re curious about or other things we could do here that would help us during this glorious, terrifying experience of what I am now calling “older/older” life in a very crazy time.