#aging-with-grace — Public Fediverse posts

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 In our current climate, I am even less inclined to discard something simply because it is worn, outdated, or no longer pristine.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 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 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 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 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.

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

Make #stayingyoung a career.
Source : #AgingWithGrace

Make #stayingyoung a career.
Source : #AgingWithGrace