Age Has Some Benefits

 I Don’t Want To Be Demure or Respectable, by Mary Oliver

I don’t want to be demure or respectable.

I was that way, asleep, for years.

That way, you forget too many important things.

How the little stones, even if you can’t hear them,

are singing.

How the river can’t wait to get to the ocean and

the sky, it’s been there before.

What traveling is that!

It is a joy to imagine such distances.

I could skip sleep for the next hundred years.

There is a fire in the lashes of my eyes.

It doesn’t matter where I am, it could be a small room.

The glimmer of gold Böhme saw on the kitchen pot

was missed by everyone else in the house.

Maybe the fire in my lashes is a reflection of that.

Why do I have so many thoughts, they are driving me

crazy.

Why am I always going anywhere, instead of

somewhere?

Listen to me or not, it hardly matters.

I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.

I’m just chattering.

Age does have some benefits, even though my dentist told me that there were none, while working on the root canal in my tooth. I used to be demure and respectable; indeed I wanted to be that kind of woman when I was 30 years younger. Age and becoming a grandparent have changed that. Respectable, yes. Demure, no.

My granddaughter has taught me the wonderful world of make-believe. No longer a realist, I can imagine unicorns jumping on my bed. My twin grandsons showed me that language is spoken in many ways and “Yuk” is their favorite. Like me in my “old age”, they repeat some things and that’s just fine. I sing songs now, not with the demure sounds of a church mouse, but with the childlike gusto of a toddler. Following the cues of my grandchildren, I can ask for help more readily. I can express my needs. I can say “NO” without guilt. I know that messes can be cleaned up and that nothing is missed except people and things they love.

I was asleep for years living in the land of respectability and demurity, forgetting to find joy in simple things like eating corn on the cob. Or eating ice cream and not worrying if it drips all over my clothes and covers most of my face. In that far away land of youth, I forgot too many important things, like the fact that life can be lived only one day at a time.

I found pleasure in watching my son-in-law build sand castles on the beach, and not being upset when my grandsons destroyed them. I marveled at the little stones in my front yard, deposited there by them, and got excited when we saw a baby bunny hop across our path. We chased birds and ate fish. It wasn’t just the river that couldn’t wait to get to the ocean. It was all of us.

I’m not going somewhere anymore. No, I am going anywhere that brings me such simple joys, offers me hope, and embraces life and love. I’m done with those thoughts that drive me crazy. It doesn’t matter to me where I find glimmers of gold; they are like fairy dust, showing up unexpectedly in my life and not in my bank account. Really, listen to me or not. I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish. I’m just chattering to myself, which is another benefit of “old age.”