Eudaimonia

I didn’t mean to be absent from here for so long, but I’ve been busier than usual. Most of you would be quite surprised to learn what’s taken up a large chunk of my time of late.

[Originally published April 2005]

I have never been concerned with my age, or aging in particular. Like my approach to race and sex, my approach to a person’s age—including my own—has always been: “You are what you are and you can’t (easily) change that”. Even so, as the silvery strands populate my crown more thickly, I can’t deny that I have been thinking more about the effects of the years—and miles—upon myself.

The impetus for this introspection has been the recurring topic of growing older in an email conversation with a very good friend. Being of like minds, it’s been mostly a positive exchange. I think we’ve helped each other with what might otherwise have been some rough spots, since it’s hard to completely ignore a culture that seems perpetually enamored with youth and firm, lithe bodies. When she mentioned that an acquaintance of hers recently celebrated her 50th birthday by throwing a “crone party”, the idea resonated with me very strongly. Why not celebrate an important, and potentially rich time of life—and the achievement of getting there?

I remember my grandmother calling the lines at the corners of her eyes “crow’s feet” when I was a youngster. The term horrified me, then and now. To me, the lines weren’t ugly; they were the sign of a face that had smiled and laughed much, enjoying the sun and wind and weather. I see the beginnings of them at the corners of my eyes, and instead of feeling a sinking dread, I welcome them. They’re reminders that I, too, have enjoyed much in my life thus far.

Similarly, my once-flat lower abdomen now curves a bit, a testament to my body's production of two children. As I enjoyed being pregnant very much, and enjoy my children, that new curve is a mostly pleasant reminder of two very special times in my life. To use a Heinleinian phrase, my baby-chewed breasts are softer now, but I wouldn’t trade their previous firmness for the many hours with a baby in my arms, gazing into his or her eyes as my body nourished theirs.

These days I’m moderately fit, instead of the very fit person I used to be—also something I refuse to feel guilty about (most of the time—again, those messages are hard to totally ignore). My life is so full that devoting the time it would take to maintain the body I once had is not a choice I want to make. I want to play with my children, who can’t hike, rock climb, or ski (yet); I want to savor the time spent reading a good book; I want to exercise because it feels good to feel my body stretching and moving, not because I have to maintain buns of steel.

I also refuse to count calories, or fat grams, or any such silliness, even though my body seems more likely to want to store excess than it has before. I’d much rather enjoy a decadent chocolate cake, a glass of red wine, and good conversation with beloved friends, and be a little wider in the behind for it, than be obsessed about thunder thighs and the Atkins diet, and be skinny and alone night after night.

I hope that I’ll be around to savor the intense spark of life in a grandchild. My mother railed against this sign of aging more than any other, and I’ve never understood that. What could be a more precious affirmation of life than creating new life—passing a bit of your spark into the future?

When I see a woman with stunning silver hair, I find myself hoping that when I’m completely grey, my hair is as gorgeous as hers. If not, I may just color it—something I’ve never even contemplated before—as a celebration of cronedom and the unique beauties it offers. I certainly will not cut it almost completely off, then curl, comb, tease, puff, or permanent the remnants, until I startle at my own appearance in the mirror every morning. My mane will remain long and flowing for as long as I’m able to care for it, or have someone willing to do so—and when someone isn’t, then it’s time for me to go.

My underwear—and nightwear, when I choose to wear it—will continue to come from Victoria’s Secret or similar place, even though I never have and never will look like their models. Must one be under 35 to appreciate the glissando of silk on one’s skin? Or even better, the caress of satin under an appreciative lover’s hand? Both feel better now for having slept in some of the interesting situations I’ve found myself in over the years.

In short, as I progress into another phase of life, I fully intend to drink fully of its offerings, learn as much as I can from both its pleasures and its pains, and do things the way I want, rather than the way “little old ladies” are expected to. That’s the way I have always been. Why should I stop when I become a crone?

It’s been said before that I’m a mutant. Maybe I am. But I see no value in denying what one is—who one is—for the sake of fitting in with a culture that is in many ways profoundly unhealthy. To me, becoming a crone is an important milestone, one well worth celebrating.

I think I’ll begin planning my crone party.

To me!

... Gang aft agley.

I’ve been spending way too much time sitting in front of my computer, so—even though I owe all of you seven, and several other people, email—after I finish this it’s going to be shut down for the rest of the weekend.

Before I go, I’d like to share this vid that a dear friend brought to my attention. It is just lovely:


Thank you, friend! I hope everyone reading has a good weekend.

Alternatively titled as Making the World a Better Place, Part the Second. (And if anyone needs/wants a refresher on what “S.E.S.” stands for, here you go.)

This particular S.E.S. is pretty brutal. We’re required to be physically and mentally sharp; and if one of us isn’t, a frequent result is pushups for us all. There’s a lot of protocol one must adhere to as well; and bowing—a lot of bowing. Just in case my comments haven’t given it away to everyone, the S.E.S. of which I speak is karate; and what I’m doing in it can best be summarized as, “Loving it!”.

A good deal of my absence here—and the lightness of subject when I do post—can be attributed solely to fear.

I didn’t mean for it to turn out that way—actually, I didn’t intend to undertake the experiment at all—but I’m certainly glad it worked out the way it did.

Is just that: a story.

That would be me.

Bill St. Clair very kindly emailed me this morning, bringing my attention to an addition to one of his web sites that he thought I would particularly appreciate. Even though we’ve not yet met in person, he knows me well.

I know today is the obligatory day here in the USSA for giving thanks; and while I am commemorating it in offering mine, I want it to be clear that my gratitude runs deeper and wider than simple holiday offerings.

That is probably not news to regulars here—after all, my interview of B.W. Richardson displayed my high regard of him; and I’ve pointed to several of his blog posts here. But if you’ve not been by Montag ... lately, take a mosey over there and you should easily see why I’ve titled this ramble thusly. He’s been on a powerful tear lately—and lest you think you can suss out my favorites based on my commenting pattern there, to that I say “Nay!” Of late I’ve been racing the heat as well as very busy, so I often let great bits slip by without comment.

But today’s post is simply too good to let pass, nor to keep to myself. Hie thee over there and bask in his inspiring words. Thank you very much, my friend.

Way back (well, it feels way back to me) on the “Locallectually” Challenged thread, our foamy thinker Mr. Pint of Stout offered an observation that is well worth exploring. Now that things are starting to settle down in my physical world [I got to enjoy a bath yesterday! O rapture!], I’d like to focus on his comment for a bit.

Given how frequently I’ve been pointing to him of late, it probably comes as no surprise that I’m pointing to another essay by Peter Saint-Andre this morning.