The Sixties

 I wake up every morning, look in the mirror and see “me.” There's a young soul inside even though my hair has turned completely silver and my hands have that weathered, wrinkled, translucent sheen. My eyes continue to sparkle, though surrounded by creases and thinning eyelashes. I wonder if most people in their sixties are as astounded as I am by the whizzing whirl of time. How have I lived so long? Yet why does my life seem so short? It is as if all the other passages of my existence have taken place on a different planet or in another dimension. Who was that kid who organized neighborhood carnivals? And that young, naive girl in her twenties who had no fear of crossing the globe to live and travel in foreign lands? Was that really me?

Have Dan and I really been together for over thirty years? Did I really have a baby and nurture her to full blown womanhood? Sitting here at my kitchen table it is as if I have always sat here while my life happened around me. My home breathes with the parties and gatherings thrown, the voices echoing off the walls, the thunderous clunking of children and friends. And I continue to sit at my kitchen table. And I continue to struggle to find the words to describe how life feels, how life simply is. At times I miss the noise; at times I cherish the surrounding silence.

On my neighborhood walks, I watch as elders use canes to maneuver their steps on the sidewalk. I listen attentively as friends share about ailments or healing from long ago surgery. I give compassion to an acquaintance whose father has alzheimer's and sometimes forgets who she is. Do I have to get old, I wonder? I mean, do I have to get old in the traditional way? Even as I sat with my dying mother I cannot say this experience encouraged me to be any less afraid of aging and dying.

A friend remarked, “Aren't we all afraid to die?”

“Yes, I suppose, but I don't want to die; I love life so much.”

“Oh,” replied this friend.

Death has been more on my mind since entering the sixties. I remember in my early twenties, sitting in my new miniature boarding room in Germany, getting ready to begin teaching in a German “Mittelschule” for the following year. It was to be my second extended living and traveling in Europe and this time I felt totally lonely and asked myself what the hell I was doing half way across the world from family and friends. I brought my treasured The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda and was thumbing through the well worn pages seeking definitive answers to my existence. “Death is always on your shoulder,” stated Don Juan. I scanned my second floor room: one twin bed, one sink and one white wooden closet; one window to the courtyard, one door to open to a new world, one me to open the door. Tears surface as I think about the young searching girl I was then and how that teaching year brought me amazing students and two of my dearest friends, Imre and Isabel.

My fears, my challenges push me into living my fullest life. The sixties are bringing me new words, new women friends, renewed confidence and gratitude for an adventurous spirit ready to roam. Death is right out in front of me, where she has always been. But now I can see her clearly winking and smiling. After my mother's death, the first thought that entered my mind was, “As the family's oldest, I'm next in line...I'm next to walk off the cliff into oblivion.” Death reminds me, however, that the young girl I was and the elder woman I am becoming can join hands and step together into the future, embracing my older years. I am not convinced I will ever be able to prepare for death. However, when I've sat at my kitchen table long enough, possibly I'll know my life simply is and death is simply part of this life. Hold on dear girl and when the time comes we shall jump together!