‘The mellow year is hasting to its close’
Hartley Coleridge (son of Sam!)
Hasting is right. Where has the time gone? To the same place best pants go when they disappear from the washing machine, or where every one of the sixteen A–Zs I’ve owned have gone? Or where my upper body strength is …? Time must be holding a busy party somewhere with everything else we’ve lost track of. Bet it’s untidy.
It’s Winter already. I know because not a day passes without socks, and I don’t even like socks that much. You need socks when it’s blowing a warlike hoolie and yowling icy winds attempt to nip your ankles. You need sturdy waterproof boots so that you can stamp your mark into the ice in shallow puddles. You need a decent coat … because your mum told you so. Sometimes in hot shops you hate your mum for telling you so.
It ain’t all bleak: there are cheeky red robins, and acid-yellow gorse, the Christmas lights are beginning to twinkle, and there’s a roaring fire in the hearth. If you have a hearth. And if you’re in Little Dorrit.
Winter can be skeletal and brutal in Nature, as trees do their burlesque best to shed their foliage. It can drive us indoors to hibernate in a torpor of telly, hot chocolate, cold chocolate and chocolate, with occasional chocolate as a treat. We look for our comforts in the cosy warm. We turn our evening lights on in the afternoon and we brrr out of our windows as children crunch home from school in the sleety dark. All the colourful flighty things of summer are gone. No flowers, no butterflies, no girls in bright strappy dresses.
BUT.
Everything has its season, its moment, and it’s our duty to look for the beauty. For instance, because the trees are bare,
‘We are able to learn something more precise about their trunks, branches and buds. Every kind of tree has its own form of trunk, with a special pattern into which its expanding bark splits in order to allow growth of the woody tissue it protects. Each kind has its own manner of branching …’
Edward Step. Nature Rambles (1930)
The same is also true for the Winter of our lives. I am considering that to be from the age of seventy-five ’til … whenever. We may indeed have failing eyesight and achy joints and ’shrunk shanks’ (Shakespeare). We may comprise of wrinkle and droop, our once abundant foliage is a bit sparse, but our essential timber is still evident. It’s the joist that props us. Take a close look at the intricate patterns of our ageing body wood.
The knots.
The pith.
The mottled bark.
It all tells our story, and it’s our evidence of the type of life we have lived and are still living.
Still living.
Alive.
And strong in lots of surprising ways.
Yes, our body ages, there’s no escaping that, but surely these later years can, with luck and good health, be an opportunity for lots of joyful and fruitful moments? I’m blummin’ hoping so, because that’s my plan. Yes, I actually have a plan (hear God laughing in background).
Here are just some of the things I want to do and be in my seventies and eighties, and beyond:
First of all, I’m grateful to be assured enough to dare to look forward like this, to embrace the chance to get older. To get wonderfully, frighteningly old. I think it’s because both of my grannies lived to grand old ages, and I firmly believe my mum would have, if only she hadn’t started puffing on fags at age eleven, and been felled at seventy-seven years old by smoke. I don’t smoke, thankfully, so maybe, just maybe, I might pass my mum’s age on the inside track? That’s top on my plan.
I want to be a person who genuinely enjoys the company and accomplishments of younger generations. It’s the opportunity to experience beauty and truth in a pure way. I already know that.
I want to be a safe harbour for my beloveds, in the same way my mum was for both me and my daughter. I want to put the time into forging those links properly, and making sure those around me feel able to demand my time when they need or want it. I want to be there, to be influential in the right way.
I want to notice when that might be, so I want to be less busy or distracted in order for that to happen.
I want to actively put down any heavy historical baggage, to ‘bury all quarrels and contentions’ (Isaac Pennington) and let myself off the hook a bit more for any harm I might have thoughtlessly done, or even thoughtlessly thought, along the way thus far. That way, any big sadnesses that could hinder me as I get older will hopefully pass on through more easily. Trot on.
I want to … hold on … it’s difficult this one … GIVE STUFF AWAY. Form a queue! Yep, I want to shed extraneous material things, minimalize, clear out, simplify. I’m not quite ready to do it just yet, but … soon. Clothes, books, art, furniture, you name it. I know that once I start, I will not waver, I will plough on resolutely until I feel the unloading is done, and done right. I savour the thought of it, I look forward to it, I need it. Need to pass it all on.
I want to drop the ego if I can. Y’know what I mean – the noisy, calculating, demanding inner voice, in favour of some quieter inner wisdom I hope I will have accrued by these years. I want clarity and patience and the confidence to use both for some kind of better.
I want to use any spare time to be creative somehow, to learn something new for no other reason than joy and curiosity. Don’t know what it will be … paint my feet? Weave a tent? Learn to speak Dutch, but with an Italian accent? Draw cats? Dunno. But something.
I want to look through boxes and photos and REMEMBER stuff with no time constraints, daydreaming to my heart’s content. See if old things can have new meaning … see what I’ve forgotten.
I want to get everything said.
I want to put a stop to overthinking.
I want to have small, easily achievable comforts like: crisp sheets – clean floors – endless chocolate limes – a good dog – fresh-cut flowers – too much coffee – big knickers – Netflix – babies – view of sea – cake – best friend on tap – access to plenty of class A drugs – stories – outside brazier – bike with engine – comfy boots.
I want a lovely full body (not front) massage once a month. Someone to knead me the way only masseurs CAN. Firm and thorough. I once gave my mum a year of monthly massages for Christmas. She wept after each one, explaining that no-one had touched her body for twenty-five years or more since my dad died. Imagine that, the sensory deprivation of it? NO NO NO.
I want to feel … a kind of peace, and of course, I plan to not be poorly or cold or hungry or lonely. No to those.
That’s all, I thankyew.
Now then, I suspect that the most urgent matter about this part of our lives will be that elusive, greedy ol’ bugger, TIME …
‘Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop’
Edith Wharton
Much as I want to avoid this speeding-up of time, I absolutely know it’s going to happen because ALL of my older chums tell me so. Can I be forewarned? Can I do anything to change how I interact with time? Thus far, it has pretty much been my enemy. How ridiculous, I’ve made a foe of something I have absolutely no control over …
Or do I?
Presently, I feel like I drown in lack of time. It has its clutches around my feet, pulling me down. I long for more of it, like all of us. I am aware that I may only have a limited amount of lucid time left for all I know. I am currently living in that sliver of time between the madness of my menopause, now thankfully over, and the impending madness of my dementia … which I’m absolutely sure has already started.
… of my dementia, which I’m absolutely sure has already started …
See what I mean?
I am a time-starved husk of a woman. I seem to constantly live my life six months in arrears. How will I ever catch up?
I know exactly what I need. Do you know what a fermata is? It occurs in music. It’s a pause of unspecified length. Everything just … stops. That’s what I need. I need everything to stop, then I can catch up. How great would it be if I could flick a switch – everything and everyone stops utterly still – except me who goes merrily about my business doing all the stuff I’m so hopelessly behind with. I would read 422 books, write my Chancellor’s speech for graduation day at Falmouth Uni, watch twelve must-see box-sets of dragon/incest/unicorn/president/meth-lab-related film, do thinking (both important and daydreaming), sleep for ages, kiss the dog a lot (occasionally on lips … I know. I know), all this really crucial stuff. I’ll do that. Really catch up. Then, when I’m good‘n’ready, I’ll flick the switch again, and I’ll instantly be back in the slipstream of ordinary time along with everyone else who will’ve started up again. That’s me, cock o’ the hoop, time-wise. Totally in synch with m’life.
Oh, and by the way, whilst I have you all frozen in the fermata, don’t think I won’t be up to all sorts of nonsense. I’m DEFINITELY having a sneaky peek down your pants, I might even nick your shoes if I like ’em, and very probably, I will lick you up the face.
Time. It’s the non-negotiable currency that you can’t stop counting. Have I got enough? Can I get some more? Where from? Surely there are people who have some spare minutes I could haggle for? What about horrid violent abusive murdering bastards? Couldn’t I procure some of their spare minutes that they don’t … what? … deserve maybe? Sorry if that’s a tad judgemental, but listen, I would consider a fair exchange. Say ... they give me a million minutes (that’s about 1 year 9 months) and in return I give them … I dunno … a hatchback? A pony? Cake for life? Seems a reasonable exchange to me. Surely The Dreadful Donald Trump isn’t entitled to his full quota of life?! IS HE?! Maybe I could do a deal with him? A Faustian deal?
Tiny but telling profound peek into my fantasies there … it’s quite disturbing, but you know what I mean.
We’re always chasing time. So I wonder if, as I get older, I might teach myself to have a better relationship with it?
Like, for instance, I might not WASTE it quite as much. I don’t mean that I will have no rest, that is categorically NOT time-wasting, but saying yes to silly things and silly people and their silly requests to spend precious time doing more silly things is going to quickly and quietly slip off my agenda. I really must not repeat bad decisions, because it has taken such a lot of time and effort to get to this small place of understanding about how I best operate. Why would I ignore all that? Some of that understanding came at a high price, all learning does, and I’d be a fool to forget it.
I am also going to address the matter of deeper relationships as I get older, both with myself and others. THAT is an excellent use of time. THAT is where my happiness is, working out how we are all connected and doing that in the most direct way, the simplest way, and then ENJOYING the very connection. The Laws of Parsimony follow the scientific principle that things are usually connected in the simplest, most economical way. In other words, as I understand it, it’s OK to be thrifty and simplistic with explanations of almost everything when it comes to humans. Boil it all down to an easy-to-understand approach if you can, and don’t make too many assumptions. Don’t complicate it if you don’t need to.
(Listening, Dawn?!)
I don’t want a bucket-list. For me, that would be just another pressure to complete. I want my time to be more formless as I age, I want to be more spontaneous, do less time-maths where I’m constantly working back from every commitment to ensure I don’t let anyone down, make sure I’m on time. I don’t think I will ever be someone who’s happy to be late, BUT, I might be able to willingly allow time instead of begrudging it.
I want a jam-packed life.
JAM PACKED (MEANING): when you make jam, it’s important to fill the jar to prevent mould. Hence – jam packed. I want to choose the jam and I want absolutely no room for mould.
I don’t want a chaotic life. I want time to breathe, examine the small stuff, and recognize the connections, the allness of it all.
I want to feel small in our big universe, to be astounded by the vastness of our relatively little world, but know that I am a significant part of it, however small. We all are. We leave our imprint.
I want to use my time to purposely:
‘Walk cheerfully over the earth …’
George Fox
so I am going to choose to be happy whenever I possibly can, whenever it is indeed a choice. Which is a lot, I find. More than I ever thought.
I want to graduate from middle age to older age being as honest as I can manage, swearing like a trooper (a trooper who has swallowed a Victorian dictionary) and attempting to find something of beauty in EVERYTHING.
We all give an account of ourselves in the end, we are all measured in the balances. I don’t want to be found wanting.
Too much.
A BIT of wanting is OK …
Like ALL of us, I want to mean something. If only in my own small world.
I want to make sure that those around me also know they mean something.
Because they do – it’s only the truth. I mustn’t overlook that.
I want to be here. Until I’m not here.
I want to be. Until I’m not.
I want to really be.
The only way I know to do that is to plod on steadily, faithfully, and trust that in the end, it’s going to be all right.
I step forward.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Breathe …
Slowly, slowly, I climb that big mountain.
Up, up, near the top now …
A quick little peek back over my shoulder is a revelation … the best view so far!!
Huge, panoramic, astounding.
My whole life thus far. It gets better the higher I go. Who knew?
Gorgeous.
Not quite at the peak yet … turn back round, face the mountain …
Keep climbing …
Oh, and one tiny thing …
ALWAYS ALWAYS say goodnight
Goodnight.
