End of an Era

Our writing group has been running for nine years. We have aged from late-middle-age to middle-old-age in this time. Our youngest is now 70, our eldest 90. The tide of events turned sharply in November, and since then we have all been, Hilda’s term, “warriors for peace.” We have been organizing our communities with rallies and meetings, mentoring young activists, supporting our adult children in unexpected ways, and raising hell with the establishment, each in our own way. We all still write, and we all still cherish writing as one of the ways we make sense of events, hold onto the moments, appreciate what we love. Significantly, we all are a decade closer to death. Some of us are friendly toward the inevitability of death. Some of us are doing the best we can to ward it off.  Each time we wake up and open our eyes to a new day, it’s a surprise, a wonder, cause for celebration. 

We have decided to disband our writers group both because we have other priorities now, and because we are confident we will go on writing. At one time we needed the group for validation and encouragement. Now we feel that writing is so central to the way we live that we no longer need a monthly deadline. We have a larger deadline looming. On our last day together, I made some photographs. Two people brought poems--both about aging. I want to share both poems, as a way of rounding off our time together. So I’m posting one on Monday and one on Tuesday, each with extras that include others in the group. (Today's extra, Daryl and Hilda.) Sadly, Sheri wasn’t able to be with us for the farewell. We have loved our time together. And who knows? Maybe sometime we will start again. You never know. I’m posting Karen Tommee’s poem first because she wrote hers first, and this is a portrait of her. Check tomorrow’s post for Hilda’s.

Counting Blessings
by Karen Tommee Carlisle

I, who have always thought
naps a waste of life
now take naps. And they are delicious.

Not every change of age
is delicious. No.

There are losses, so I make
bargains with my body and my brain.

Recently, upon trying to walk into the sea
to swim in Kailua, I fell, twice.
I was not strong enough
to withstand the retreating waves’ pull
on the shifting sand
beneath my feet. I cried.
I love to swim in the sea.
I am a strong swimmer. I was.

Some days later, it came to me
that I could ask, or hire, two young strong
women to walk me into the water and to
swim with me...like dolphins.

I miss backpacking deeply.
But soon I will receive
my second bionic knee, and 
have a steady frame again. Who
says you can only hire sherpas
to climb Mt. Everest?

When I have atrial fib, all I can do
is wait it out, a time best spent sleeping.
The hours pass more quickly.
I’m able to heal my hinky heart
with deeply restful sleep, and
I do not fret that I waste my life.

There is no way I will expose my body
to eyes afraid of age. I remembered
photos of women from the early 1900s
wearing bathing costumes that had little
fluffly black dresses trimmed
in white lace over leggings.
A little frou frou for me, but I could make
a bathing costume myself.
No need, though.
I will buy a burquina!

Some age changes, though, are triumphs!
The freest moment in my life? When men
 no longer wanted me, a glory of age.
Now, some are truly friends.

Laughing at myself, at absurdity. Not
giving a damn what other people think of
me. Walking around with my heart wide
open. No fear. Believing that I am loved,
that I am good.

Each day. Each day.


1st draft, September 2016