Reading an introduction by Barbara A Mowat to a book of essays entitled, Old Age, a sentence appeared that was so powerful, I had to close my eyes. Then I spent several minutes taking deep breaths, integrating new information that I suspected was life-changing: Could the loss of energy I am experiencing as I grow older be seen as a gift, not a hindrance?
Recently, I’ve been bewildered by a deep desire to organize all my stuff. Perhaps this is because many guides on aging practically order elders to organize things so their survivors won’t have to. But I want to ask, what if I don’t have enough energy? Have they seen all my papers? All the clippings I’ve saved? My extensive library? My beautiful clothes?
I remember my dad saying emphatically that he wasn’t going to go through all his stuff—someone else could do it. I used to think he was being kind of a jerk saying this, but now I understand. I bet he didn’t have enough energy!
Looming large in my awareness is a windowless storage room in our lower level. The first thing that greets me when I enter is a red walker that I leaned on in 2018. I needed this before and after my brain surgery to treat a malady—normal pressure hydrocephalus—that I had never heard about until it severely limited my ability to walk, talk and make it to the bathroom on time. The surgery was a success, but this was a dark time in my life and I notice that I never look at the walker directly.
The room is full of boxes on shelves lining three walls. The first one I usually lay my eyes on is labelled “Nicky’s altar”. It’s jammed full off precious sacred objects that at one time or other, graced my meditation platform. How could I discard the crystals, one line poems of sacred sayings, colored candles? That would feel sacrilegious. But then again, it’s in the basement now. I’ll decide later.
There are six plastic bins with labels denoting years of the enclosed journals beginning with one that is lighter than the others labelled “Girlhood to 1989”. Does this mean I didn’t begin writing in earnest until I was forty-four years old? What would my sons think about me if they peeked in these notebooks? On the other hand, what if no one cares enough to even open them? This hurts my feelings to think about.
Lined up next is a huge canvas painting that I made with my granddaughter for my townhome on Grand Avenue. I needed something above the fireplace. I remember the look of astonishment on Lydia’s face when I brandished a large brush loaded with acrylic paint to make a huge swipe smack dab in the middle of the blank canvas to serve as our starting point. Thinking of destroying it makes tears come to my eyes.
It takes energy simply to look at these castoffs from my life, let alone sort, make decisions, and discard or keep. I reassure myself that someday I will tackle this whole project. But is that actually true?
IMAGE: Guardian is happy not to be in Nicky’s storeroom but to be in the sunshine!
