Margaret Berry speaks words straight from my very soul as I turn 77 today.

Old age, I decided, is a gift.

I am now,

probably for the first time in my life,

the person I have always wanted to be.

Oh, not my body!

I sometime despair over my body -

the wrinkles,

the baggy eyes and the sagging butt.

And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror,

but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life,

my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly.

As I've aged,

I've become more kind to myself and less critical of myself.

I've become my own friend.

I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie,

or for not making my bed,

or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need,

but looks so avante garde on my patio.

I am entitled to overeat,

to be messy,

to be extravagant.

I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon;

before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read until 4:00 am and sleep until noon?

I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 50s & 60s,

and if I,

at the same time,

wish to weep over a lost love, I will.

I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to,

despite the pitying glances from the bikini set.

They, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful.

But there again,

some of life is just as well forgotten and I eventually remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken.

How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one,

or when a child suffers,

or when a beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion.

A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turn gray and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. 

So many have never laughed and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.

I can say "no" and mean it.

I can say "yes" and mean it.

As you get older,

it is easier to be positive.

You care less about what other people think.

I don't question myself anymore.

I've even earned the right to be wrong.

So, to answer your question,

I like being old.

It has set me free.

I like the person I have become.

I am not going to live forever,

but while I am still here,

I will not waste time lamenting what could have been,

or worrying about what will be.

And I shall eat dessert every single day,

if I want to.

-  Margaret Berry

https://alcalde.texasexes.org/2015/07/old-age-is-a-gift/

- - -

 These words from Mário Raul de Morais Andrade resonate with me, as well

 I counted my years and found that I have less time to live from here on than I have lived up to now.

I feel like that child who won a packet of sweets: he ate the first with pleasure, but when he realized that there were few left, he began to enjoy them intensely.

I no longer have time for endless meetings where statutes, rules, procedures and internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be achieved.

I no longer have time to support the absurd people who, despite their chronological age, haven't grown up.

My time is too short:

I want the essence,

my soul is in a hurry.

I don't have many sweets

in the package anymore.

I want to live next to human people,

very human,

who know how to laugh at their mistakes,

and who are not inflated by their triumphs,

and who take on their responsibilities.

Thus human dignity is defended and we move towards truth and honesty.

It is the essential that makes life worth living.

I want to surround myself with people who know how to touch hearts, people who have been taught by the hard blows of life to grow with gentle touches of the soul.

Yes, I'm in a hurry, I'm in a hurry to live with the intensity that only maturity can give.

I don't intend to waste any of the leftover sweets.

I am sure they will be delicious, much more than what I have eaten so far.

My goal is to reach the end satisfied

and at peace with my loved ones

and my conscience.

We have two lives.

And the second begins when you realize you only have one.

                         Mário Raul de Morais Andrade

                       (Oct 9, 1893 – Feb 25, 1945)

                        Brazilian poet, novelist, musicologist, art historian and critic, photographer

Little Me

Some things never change.

I still love pretty dresses and nice jewelry.

I will often end my posts by saying

❤  Life is good  ❤

I'm not feeling that way since our most recent presidential election.

My feelings now are more in the realm of

Life is . . . precarious

As Joyce Vance reminds us in her latest column, "We live in times where courage is called for. We already see signs that some people will not be brave, that some people will obey in advance. But I take heart from the following quote, a line from the film “The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey”—that speaks forcefully to how I am feeling as we enter this holiday week: “Some believe it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love."

But, for today - remember to breathe

Happy Birthday to Me

Photo by Parisian Moments

Happy Birthday, Annabelle!.❤

 

 Princess Annabelle Turns Nine Today!

And now here she is, The Heart of Our Home

Happy Birthday, Annabelle

❤❤❤

Comfort Read

 

I've been spending so much time talking about it not being my birthday that I've ignored sharing comfort reads.

I need to do better.  

I love this beautifully written novel - 

Description from Amazon:

“Exquisite” (Lisa Barr, New York Times best-selling author of Woman on Fire) and “utterly engrossing” (Katherine Gray, cohost of the Netflix series Blown Away), The Color of Ice will wrap you in its spell, all the way to its unforgettable ending.

Set among the glaciers and thermal lagoons of Iceland, and framed by the magical art of glassblowing, The Color of Ice is the breathtaking story of a woman's awakening to passion, beauty, and the redemptive power of unconditional love. 

The stunning new novel by the author of award-winning novels Queen of the Owls and The Sound Between the Notes . . .

Cathryn McAllister, a freelance photographer, travels to Iceland for a photo shoot with an enigmatic artist who wants to capture the country’s iconic blue icebergs in glass. Her plan is to head out, when the job is done, on a carefully curated “best of Iceland” solo vacation. Widowed young, Cathryn has raised two children while achieving professional success. If the price of that efficiency has been the dimming of her fire—well, she hasn’t let herself think about it. Until now. 

 
Bit by bit, Cathryn abandons her itinerary to remain with Mack, the glassblower, who awakens a hunger for all the things she’s told herself she doesn’t need anymore. Passion. Vulnerability. Risk. Cathryn finds herself torn between the life—and self—she’s come to know and the new world Mack offers. Commitments await her back in America. But if she walks away, she’ll lose this chance to feel deeply again. Just when her path seems clear, she’s faced with a shocking discovery—and a devastating choice that shows her what love really is."

P.S.

It's still not my birthday.

Nope. Still not my birthday . . .

 

But - 

We did go out yesterday for lunch.  We went to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants.

We chose Mexican for two reasons.

1 - 'cause we love it.

2 - because ICE invaded us  here in the NC High Country for a few days and some well-loved local businesses closed their doors and stayed home to stay safe from the masked thugs.

The least we can do is show our support by giving them our business.

It was delicious, as usual, and there was a good crowd. ❤

So today the Chiefs are playing, it's a gorgeous day, and even though it is still not my birthday, here's another birthday poem.

Light bulbs on a birthday cake.

What a difference that would make!

     Plug it in and make a wish,

     then relax and flip a switch!

No more smoke

      or waxy mess

      to bother any birthday guests.

But Grampa says, “it’s not the same!

      Where’s the magic?

       Where’s the flame?

To get your wish without a doubt,

You need to blow some candles out!”

          BY CALEF BROWN

Art by Tricia Robinson

STILL not my birthday . . .

 

But i did buy myself a pretty new red dress. ❤

(i am not as old as Cheerios).

Cheerios by Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago

as I waited for my eggs and toast,

I opened the Tribune only to discover

that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerios

for today, the newspaper announced,

was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios

whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering

behind my stooped and threadbare back,

Why that dude’s older than Cheerios

the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,

only the hills are much older than Cheerios

or any American breakfast cereal,

and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

Source: Poetry (September 2012)

Birth Month Reflections

 I will be turning 77 years old this month.

Seventy-Seven.

No longer a spring chicken.

No more dancing on a tabletop after a drink or two too many.

Now I'm more apt to fall over my own feet simply walking through our living room.

All the more reason to stick to calmer activities - like sharing poetry.  😎

I once knew a woman

With lines on her face

Who’d lived most her life

In a much different place

A place where those lines

Were respected, revered

Where it was known

They held the wealth of her years

And here, in a place

That was scared to grow old

She made us all realise

The beauty age holds

For one day she stood

And attracted a crowd

She started to speak

As we all gathered round

And we hung on each word,

We were all mesmerised

For her voice was so powerful,

Knowing and wise

She smoothed down the crown

Of her hair on her head

Then she lifted her chin

And her voice as she said

“These lines are not something

To hide or to fear

But something that says

‘I have lived, I was here’

They’re not to be counted

Like bars of a cage

But like rings of a tree

That grows stronger with age

Grounded and grand

Persevering and proud

I’ve earned every stripe

So I’ll wear them out loud

And though you might think

I’d look better with none

Just wait til you learn

How I earned every one

Because I’m much more

Than the way that I look

And these lines on my face

Are like lines from a book

That holds all the tales

Of the things gone before me

So come, take a seat

And I’ll tell you my story.

     - - - Becky Hemsley

art | Krystal Kliedon

No, it's not my birthday . . .

I like celebrating birthdays.  

What makes more sense than to celebrate the birth of loved ones (AND your own pretty  self?!)?

So.  Today for no reason I decided to start Celebrating the Occasion of My Birth Month by sharing some poetry.

Stay tuned - more birthday poetry to come! 

Birthday

By Kathleen Rooney

At first, birthdays were
reserved for kings and saints.
But it’s rainbow sprinkles and
face painting for everybody
these days.

The best way to avoid having
your birthday ruined is to avoid
having any expectations for
your birthday.

Without the delineation of
years, time would become
an expanse of open water.
Horizonless, shark-filled. One
of my biggest fears.

A rush of Orange Crush—that
sparkle on the tongue—and
“Make a wish!” shouted at the top
of tiny lungs are a couple of things
I recall. Balloons and streamers
and the first piece of cake. Conical
hats with elastic chin straps.

Is a birthday party an instance
of what Durkheim meant
by collective effervescence?
Profane tasks cast away for
a sacred second?

Whence my ambivalence about
birth as a metaphor? Birth for
entities not brought forth from
a womb?

“Happy Birthday to You” is
a bit of a dirge.

It’s said that the party hat may
have originated with the dunce
cap. An abrogation of social
norms? Not punishment in
school, but foolish cavorting.
Worn for the pinning of tails on
donkeys. The tossing of eggs.
Sported for a sack race.

Don’t say “A star is born” unless
you’re talking about the movie.
Don’t tell a woman her books
are her babies.

For my next birthday, please
remember that I love getting
mail. You could send me a
funny card, and maybe a
package. A package full of
money. Or a necklace made
of lapis lazuli, believed by the
ancients to ward off melancholy.

What an ego boost, to have
one’s birthday suit evaluated by
another person as cute.

“Today is the oldest you’ve ever
been, and the youngest you’ll
ever be again.” Supposedly
Eleanor Roosevelt said that.

I wouldn’t say I have a problem
with mortality. If anything,
I tend to gravitate toward the
timeworn: a neighborhood
where the roots of the trees
crack the sidewalks.

Birthdays are about pleasure—
excess and decadence.
But pleasure is painful.
Because memento mori.
Because hoary cliché: We’re
not getting any younger.

The candles gutter; the candles
go out. Better to blow them
dark yourself.

Birthdays are okay, but what
about death days? Of the
365 days we cycle through
annually, on one of them,
we’ll cease to be alive.

Should the hour of arrival be
more of a factor? Should some
of us have birthnights?

Mayonnaise is my favorite
secret ingredient for cake,
birthday or otherwise.

There’s no predicting the
days of greatest significance.
Best simply to be vigilant.
Like my friend Beth said, not
even trying to be wise, “In
my life, the piñatas come
around pretty quick—I just
swing at them with my stick.”



Kathleen Rooney is a poet and a novelist. She is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press, a nonprofit publisher of literary work in hybrid genres.