It has become my Sunday habit to tune into
The Curse of the Golden Turnip on
WGDR (community radio from Vermont's Goddard College) ~ a gardening show that friends introduced me to a couple of years ago. I discovered
New Dimensions, which follows, the first time I listened here at home, and now the two are part of my weekend ritual.
This week I listened to an
interview with Susan Moon, author of
This is Getting Old: Zen Thoughts on Aging with Humor and Dignity. She made several points in telling about her own life and her mother's as well, but the following particularly caught my attention.
This, no doubt, because I've noticed it as well:
Women become invisible as we age. Moon said that gray hair is like a fog, and that others stop taking note of us. My graying pattern is that of my maternal grandfather ~ silver at the temples and framing my face ~ but my wrinkles and jowl line (former jaw line) belie the initial impression of a younger self, and I can see my mother's hands when I look at my own. Still, I'm not sure when I began to notice teens and young adults barreling by me on the street as though I weren't there. Blame it on the self-centeredness of youth occupying whatever space they're in, but I'm like an apparition suddenly appearing in their way. I wonder how much of it is the pressure to fit into the group, however, when I catch the eye of one of their numbers silently acknowledging rather than looking through me. Or does that covert glance mean "Alien life form detected!"?
Don't worry, I come in peace, but no deference here: I can take up my own space very nicely, thank you.
But it was another observation by Susan Moon that captured my imagination. She described that invisibility as
translucence.I wasn't much older than those adolescents when I began to collect for what I called my
hopeless chest. Others had their eyes on marriage but I was focused on my first apartment and life on my own, so no hope chest for me. I acquired a set of stainless steel pots and pans and I toyed with the notion of real china. It was my mother who schooled me in identifying what she called "porcelain" or "bone china" by its fine, thin shell through which you could see the shadow of your hand. That implied quality but also frailty, and I came to equate
translucence with
delicacy, fragility so
chose a set of dishes that were sturdy, had weight and substance, and that I liked.
My stainless cookware has survived over forty years of erratic use and will likely serve me as long as I need it, but those durable dishes I bought with youthful optimism...unfortunately they broke into large shards when dropped and became heavier to wield over time. It seems that strength endures but appearances and heft don't equate with longevity.
My stoneware shattered, but I've since learned that bone china tends only to chip if treated with care. One turned into trash or remainders passed along to strangers; the other might have gained patina and become a treasured favorite filled with memories. I could have been happy with my first choice: porcelain or bone china, if only in a tea set. It turns out that I've seldom sat at a table for meals but have consistently and quietly had tea every day, so I'd have been well-served by honoring my early impulses toward something both beautiful and unexpectedly long-lasting.
(No regrets, but interesting in the long view.)There are inevitable challenges and physical frailties that emerge as we age, but there is also no denying that we acquire a kind of tensile strength in the process. The stresses and strains that might show in our faces or knees are capable of building an inner resilience not obvious at a glance. Firing strengthens.
The fact is that we all become a bit chipped and worn with good use ~ and bad, of course. We might not command the same attention from strangers, rather appreciating the genuine favor of friends and loved ones. Aging doesn't mean sitting on a shelf and being trotted out on special occasions; our lives are meant to be lived and well-used. Although parts of me display signs of growing older, there are also beauty and refinement in becoming well-worn.
What others often don't recognize in older adults is their strength and resilience, tempered by life itself. We can see it in luminous old faces, chipped and crazed with fine lines...if we look. We can hear it...if we listen. It's their translucence that lets the light shine through.
Read an excerpt from Susan Moon's book at the Shambhala Sun web site.
