#aging-with-grace — Public Fediverse posts

A Different Person Then

The Bird Girl, Sylvia Shaw Judson, Savannah, Georgia

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Weren’t we all different people then? We are the sum total of what we’ve experienced through the years. If I think back forty years, or even twenty, I’m not the same person I was then. We would have to be without any depth or introspection not to be affected by what we have undergone in our lifetimes.

The challenge, I think, is not to focus on the unhappy experiences and allow them to color what remains of our lives. I recently had a conversation with a friend about someone we both know. Her explanation for his bad behavior was that he had not had many positive role models and his childhood had not been stable. My thought was, “He’s middle-aged. When are we going to expect him to pull it together, or is the excuse of his unfortunate childhood good for the rest of his life?”

Our past certainly shapes us, but at some point we all have to take responsibility for who we are and decide how we want to live today.

I don’t want to be one of those resentful people who are angry at the world because they are unhappy with their lives. You know the ones—the people who yell at the neighbor’s kids, are rude to the clerk at the store, and want to tell you about all their aches and pains. That’s not how I want to spend what remains of my life.

As we grow older, we understand just how quickly time goes by. Perhaps that is one of the gifts of age: realizing that our time is too precious to spend dwelling on what went wrong. We can’t change what has already happened, but we still have some say in what we do with today. I want to do whatever I can to enjoy every moment I still have.

That doesn’t mean we should pretend the difficult things never happened. They are part of us, too. We can acknowledge the disappointments, mistakes, losses, and even the people who hurt us without allowing them to occupy the rest of our lives. Perhaps there comes a time when we have to ask ourselves whether we are still carrying something because it matters, or simply because we have carried it for so long. There are some things we can finally put down and get on with the business of living.

Peace be with you.

If you’re new here, welcome. I write about aging with grace, finding beauty in everyday life, and the quiet moments that remind us what matters most. I’m so glad you’ve stopped by.

Choosing My Battles

Keep Calm and Carry On

Motivational poster by the British government 1939

“Keep calm and carry on” is often easier said than done. Whether it’s a verbal confrontation, a personal dilemma, or a reaction to a crisis, it’s easy to let our emotions get the better of us. The desire to strike out at whatever—or whoever—is threatening us can be overwhelming.

Facebook posts are one illustration of this. When I read a post from someone whose hair is on fire, ranting because of something that has been said or done, I find it far less effective than someone rationally putting forth their case. Anger may get our attention, but it doesn’t necessarily persuade us.

The same is true in a debate. As soon as you lose your temper, it’s over. Ironically, the most negative effect is probably on you, not your opponent. They may go happily on with their day while you are still replaying the conversation hours later. I know. I’ve done it.

There is also a difference between keeping calm and keeping quiet. Some things need to be said. There are times when we should speak up, defend ourselves, challenge something we believe is wrong, or simply say, “No, I don’t agree.” Staying calm doesn’t mean becoming passive. In fact, a calm voice can sometimes carry far more weight than an angry one.

Perhaps caring also means deciding where to put our energy. Through the years I’ve learned from experience that the cost simply isn’t worth it. That’s not to say I can always resist the urge to detonate . I can’t. But it happens less often as I get older. Maybe age gives us a little perspective—or perhaps we finally realize how exhausting it is to be angry.

I’m learning that I don’t have to respond to everything. I don’t have to win every argument, correct every wrong opinion, or have the last word. Sometimes I can walk away. Sometimes I can wait until tomorrow. And sometimes, after thinking about it, I discover that what seemed so important in the heat of the moment really wasn’t.

Breathe, keep calm, and live to fight another day.

Peace be with you.

If you’re new here, welcome. I write about aging with grace, finding beauty in everyday life, and the quiet moments that remind us what matters most. I’m so glad you’ve stopped by.

Better Now Than Never

Our Decluttered Fireplace Mantel

We spend the first half of our lives accumulating things and the last half giving them away.

Author Unknown

Several years ago, when we were moving into a smaller home, we rented a storage unit for all the things we thought we should keep. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Surely these were items too valuable, too sentimental, or too useful to part with.

A year later, I realized something surprising. We hadn’t visited the storage unit once. We hadn’t needed a single thing we were paying to store. Closing that account was easy. Understanding why it had been so difficult to let go was not.

Many of us keep possessions because they represent more than the objects themselves. They hold memories of people we loved, homes we lived in, and chapters of our lives that feel too important to pack away in a donation box. We worry that letting go of the object somehow means letting go of the memory.

I’ve discovered that isn’t true. Perhaps this realization comes with age, or perhaps it comes from seeing life a little more clearly. I’ve begun to understand that the memories stay with us, even when the possessions don’t.

Lately I’ve been sorting through family treasures that once seemed impossible to part with. Among them are half a dozen framed family photographs, some well over a hundred years old. They’re beautiful, but my son has neither the desire nor the wall space to display them. What he really wants are digital copies—something he can preserve without the responsibility of storing large framed portraits.

So I’m trying to find the originals a new home. I’m reaching out to relatives with larger families, hoping the photographs will continue to be appreciated and eventually passed down to another generation. It feels like a better ending than having them tucked away in a closet where no one sees them.

I’ve also become much better at giving things away, donating them, recycling them, or simply throwing them out when they’ve served their purpose. There is something deeply satisfying about opening a drawer or cabinet that has been thoughtfully pared down. The extra space feels surprisingly peaceful. Instead of focusing on what is gone, I find myself appreciating what remains.

There’s another reason I’ve become more intentional about all of this.I don’t want to leave my son with a house full of possessions and the burden of deciding what to  do with them. While I have every intention of being around for many years, I also know that none of us gets to live forever. Sorting through someone else’s lifetime of belongings is often an emotional task made even harder by the sheer volume of things. I’d rather make those decisions myself. It’s a small final act of kindness—keeping what truly matters, sharing what someone else can use, and letting go of the rest.

As my grandmother liked to say, “Better now than never.”The older I get, the more wisdom I hear in those simple words. Letting go isn’t about giving up the past. It’s about making room for the present, preserving what is truly meaningful, and leaving behind memories instead of clutter.

Peace be with you.

The Patina of Wear

“Age appears best in four things: old wood to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.”

—Francis Bacon

The folding bridge table in the photo is over eighty years old, and I have owned it for more than twenty of those years. During that time, it has served as an extra table for entertaining, a game table and even a fire screen.

But its usefulness is only part of the reason I keep it. The table came from the historic building where my husband and I were married. It dates from one of my favorite eras and is painted in the warm autumn colors I have always loved. It definitely shows signs of wear, some of which I’m sure I have contributed to. That has never bothered me.

I have always valued things with a history. Nicks, scratches, and faded places don’t diminish an object in my eyes. They make it more interesting. They suggest that it has been used, appreciated, and woven into someone’s life.

At one point in my career, I worked for a company that sold handbags and briefcases made from beautiful Italian leather. Customers sometimes questioned whether the leather would scratch. Yes, of course it would scratch. It was leather. We called the marks that appeared with use “the patina of wear.” Over time, the leather softened, deepened in color, and became more distinctive. Those signs of use were not flaws; they were what gave the piece its character.

Perhaps the same can be said of many of the things we own—and even of ourselves. Wear is evidence of living. A dining table bears the faint marks of family meals. A favorite chair softens to the shape of the person who sits in it. A well-read book develops a cracked spine and turned-down pages. These objects become familiar companions, carrying memories that something new simply cannot possess.

I have never felt that everything in my life needed to be new or perfect. In our current climate, I am even less inclined to discard something simply because it is worn, outdated, or no longer pristine. We are encouraged to replace rather than repair, to update rather than appreciate, and to see signs of age as reasons to move on. But every object we throw away must go somewhere.

I grew up in a small town that had what was then simply called the town dump. Residents brought their trash and added it to a large, ever-growing pile. Occasionally, the pile was plowed over, as though covering it somehow made it disappear. I found myself thinking about that dump the other day. What eventually happened to it as the pile continued to grow? It had to go somewhere. Trash does not cease to exist simply because we can no longer see it.

That memory has stayed with me. I feel a responsibility not to add unnecessarily to the mountains of things already discarded. But my attachment to older possessions is about more than environmental responsibility. I genuinely enjoy living with things that are familiar, useful, and connected to my past.

My bridge table is not perfect. Its surface is worn, and its age is evident. But it has survived for over eighty years and continues to find a place in my home and in my life. Its wear tells a story—of the historic building where we were married, of the people who used it before me, and of the many ways I have used it since.

I don’t see its imperfections as damage. I see them as its patina of wear: evidence of a long and useful life.

Peace be with you.

The Bent Gate and the Beautiful Tree

Stanley Britsh Primary School

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Julian of Norwich

One person will look at this photograph and notice the bent post in the wrought-iron gate. Another will be captivated by the brilliant colors of the tree beyond it. Is it a beautiful photograph, or is it marred by the bent post? As with so much in life, the answer often depends on what we choose to focus on.

I realize not everyone agrees that our thoughts shape our lives. In fact, my son affectionately refers to it as my “hippy-dippy philosophy.” He may be partly right. I’ve read more than my share of books, attended lectures, and sat through seminars on the power of positive thinking. Somewhere along the way, I adopted the philosophy.

But I didn’t come to believe it simply because someone said I should. I believe it because I’ve seen it at work—in my own life and in the lives of others. A positive outlook doesn’t erase disappointment or hardship, but it often changes the way we face them. It reminds me of the little engine that kept repeating, “I think I can. I think I can.”

A dear friend gave me a silver bracelet engraved with my favorite quote by Julian of Norwich: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”Julian of Norwich was a fifteenth-century English mystic and theologian, and she is widely regarded as the first woman to write a book in English.

Over the years I’ve also come to realize that my outlook isn’t simply about hope. Julian of Norwich wasn’t ignoring suffering when she wrote, “All shall be well.” She was expressing a deep trust that, even in life’s uncertainty, God was present. Perhaps that’s the distinction. Hope doesn’t deny the bent gate. It simply refuses to believe it’s the whole story.

Every so often, I catch myself slipping into negative thinking. When that happens, I have to consciously redirect my thoughts toward a more hopeful outlook. It isn’t about pretending life is perfect or ignoring reality. It’s about refusing to let the bent post become the whole picture.

Again and again, I’ve seen how my mindset influences the way I experience life. When I expect only obstacles, that’s often all I notice. When I remain open to possibility, I find the courage to keep trying, to recognize opportunities, and to appreciate the beauty that was there all along.

For me, life has always moved forward more easily with “I think I can” than with “I think I can’t.” We may not control every circumstance, but we can choose where we place our attention. Sometimes that simple choice makes all the difference.

Peace be with you.

Last Light of Orbit 59

Tonight
I am riding the dark rim of a circle,
carried by a world
that has never once stopped turning
beneath my restless feet.

Somewhere behind me,
the sun still touches the first hour
of the day I was born—
that bright door through which I came,
crying, breathing,
astonished into being.

And now,
fifty-nine journeys later,
I approach that door again
from the other side of time.

Not as an infant,
not innocent of pain,
not untouched by sorrow,
but bearing the strange cargo
of a life still becoming:

songs not yet fully sung,
stories rising like constellations
out of the black field of the mind,
wood shavings, prayers,
pulpit words and private wounds,
the names of those I love
burned warm inside me
like lights in the windows
of a house at night.

This year has not carried me gently.

My body has spoken
in the difficult language of weakness;
I have learned again
how fiercely the spirit longs
for flesh that will follow it—
hands steady enough to make,
lungs deep enough to sing,
strength enough to stand
and speak of hope
without needing first
to be rescued by it.

And yet—

even weary,
I have felt new worlds
pressing against the walls of me.

I have heard characters knocking.
I have seen cities rise from mist.
I have watched peace take strange forms—
a game, a song,
a tale whispered beside the ruins,
a tiny flame refusing
the vast machinery of darkness.

Perhaps this is what grace is:
not that the journey leaves us unwounded,
but that the wounded still dream;
not that the night is empty of fear,
but that even now
there are stars bright enough
to navigate by.

Tonight
I am almost at the crossing.

The earth is bearing me
through the final miles
of my fifty-ninth voyage around the fire,
and I can feel tomorrow
waiting just beyond the curve—
not as a promise that all will be easy,
not as a guarantee of healing,
but as an opening
in the wilderness of time.

Behind me:
every journey I somehow survived.

Before me:
the sixtieth flight,
wide and uncharted,
shimmering with things
that have not yet found their names.

And above me—
or within me—
or nearer than either—
the One who has traveled every mile,
who was present at my first breath
and remains
in this midnight breathing,
this fragile body,
this fierce desire
to keep creating,
keep loving,
keep turning toward the light.

So let the last hours come.

Let the old circle close
like a well-worn book
whose pages are stained
with tears and fingerprints
and sudden bursts of color.

Let me stand for a moment
on this spinning sphere,
under the patient stars,
and say:

I was here.
I am still here.
I have been carried farther
than I knew how to go.

And when morning arrives,
when the invisible line is crossed,
I will lift my face
toward the ancient sun
and begin again—

older,
gentler,
still unfinished,
still beloved,
still burning
with the holy ache
of being alive.

Make #stayingyoung a career.
Source : #AgingWithGrace