On Ageing

I have just read a long newspaper article [Daily Telegraph. Sat 11^th June, 2016] on 'The Middlepause; On Turning Fifty' based on the eponymous book. I really admired the wonderful writing of Marina Benjamin though I was quite bemused by much of the anguish which she expressed. Bemused, principally, because I didn't remember experiencing those anxieties and sadnesses myself at such an early age. Of course, I have endured quiet losses and I do remember thinking that I really must get a Headship before I was fifty because, mysteriously, the task would become so much harder after that. That reflected the conventional wisdom mirrored in what one could see happening. But I don't recall any angst about declining appearance, thinning hair, memory problems. There must have been some but not enough to cause remembered agony. No indeed, but these unwelcome developments have presented themselves in my upper seventies. I can't say that I worry about them however and I certainly don't look at photos of the youthful me [I only seem to have one picture anyway!] and beat myself up over pointless comparisons. Why would anyone do that? So the Telegraph article and my subsequent bemusement, have caused me to ponder my own ageing, and my attitude towards it. Hence the Bruggeblog is temporarily metamorphosed into a spot of introspection!

Physically, the photograph I have of me-as-a-young-woman is lovely; interestingly, perhaps like

many young women, I now see, she had no idea just HOW beautiful she was. That realisation took about fifty years to percolate through and by then the potential power of it had waned or perhaps, disappeared. Not that I did not comprehend that the beauty I had, brought with it sexual potency and the constant feeling of entitlement to attention; it was more that I wasn't interested in exploring the extent of that power. I just took for granted all the easy, effortless attention I received in the street, restaurants, buses, meetings, work, play, parties, dances, Life. NOW I do notice the lack of attention I receive, the lack of physical interest I arouse, and have come to terms years ago with the fact that at almost 82, these pleasantries cannot be expected. However the invisibility of the old does concern me, in particular, of course, My Own Invisibility! It encompasses and reinforces the general view in society, of the relative unimportance of the aged, acknowledging their declining powers, of their lowly status, less equal to the rest in the citadel of Life, more languishing, somehow reduced, in the cellars; of their comparative worthlessness in the population balance sheet. I long to shout, and wave my temporary crutches, that the pretty girl is still there, swathed in sag and wrinkle perhaps, but still attractive in a certain kind of way and infinitely more interesting and well-informed than her younger self. The foot may be arthritic but the mind still works and the optimism and desire for fun are the same though the necessary energy is reduced. Not one of the many, many younger people who pass me in the street every day without a glance, could believe that I still regard myself as a sexy, attractive, beguiling woman. The response, if they heard that, would be disbelief, incredulity, hilarity. However, their responses would cut no ice with me; I know who and what I am and I have confidence in who and what I am!

Which leads me on to the sunnier aspects of ageing, the greener uplands beckoning. Confidence and belief in self are strong; an almost complete disinterest in the judgement of me by others is there with a keen interest in events and people around me locally and  in the further world. My expectation that people behave well, in spite of evidence to the contrary, bolsters my own self-regard and security, and contributes to my general sense of well being and optimism about the future. Gone are the ambitions of a previous professional life; replaced by more modest hopes of things I want to do or achieve or places I want to visit. I see my family relatively rarely but I feel in touch through emails and Face-time and intermittent visits, and through my family, I love and feel loved. I have few friends now where I live but left behind many where I lived in Kent for over thirty years and the latter, or some of them, keep in touch with news and memories. The friends here are becoming more special and perhaps increasing in number! And from them, and the kindly, day to day recognition and friendliness from local neighbours, owners and waiters in several cafes and restaurants and shops, comes a sense of belonging and a quiet mutual appreciation, providing beneficial reassurance that, in small ways, I matter and I belong. And it is the small ways that really do count now; the grander needs and gestures are long gone, no longer needed. The old become interested in the essentials of life.

 

The fact that I have voluntarily and cheerfully uprooted myself to live in another country, in another language, with other customs and norms, surprises some but not me. It is a tiny bit adventurous, a little psychologically daring, simply because there was no imperative externally so to do. I thought I would have a little adventure and gratifyingly, I find I have. And equally gratifyingly, not only is my life more fun, more challenging, more satisfying than my former, much-loved and much-enjoyed life, by chance, not by design, I find I am keeping the brain exercised and the body in reasonable shape [for my age!] Must comment that these parentheses are now so often implied; by doctors ['You're doing well (for your age)]; acquaintances and friends, [You're looking good [(for your age!)]; museum staff etc. But I am amused by, and rather like, all of that. They are scraps from the Top Table both well intentioned; and well-received!

As I may have mentioned [repetition can be a hazard!]I know who I am now; I am burdened with neither false modesty nor excessive arrogance. I know my limitations and my possibilities; I know that I can deal in a mature way with death, grief, sadness, regret. I know that I chiefly lack the capacity for envy and grudge and that my greed is modest and governable. I know that I live effortlessly in the present and take pleasure sometimes in remembrance of times past, or with others, in events from our shared history, or in a sudden idea for a future holiday or visit. I think I hardly need the approval of others but when it comes, it is a beautiful surprise and a reassurance I didn't know I needed. I do need other people; though I choose to live alone, I need to be with others at times, outside home, surrounded by others or at least in contact with others. Equally I need to be alone, with my thoughts, books, pictures, computer, terrace, familiar possessions, all of which provide nurture and delight. In the last few weeks, seven so far, I have spent the vast majority of the time, alone in my flat, and the pleasure experienced has been immensely enriching. Just to be, to read, to write, to look around, to sit, in a space that has become so dear to me, has reminded me of how very lucky I am. It is quite possible that living in the here and now, so beloved in counselling and therapy, has happened for me almost by chance; at least, almost without conscious intention. Just following one's instinct and expecting the best, seems to work! 

My conclusion is that ageing, that inevitable development, is, at the very least, OK. Set against the losses, there are compensatory gains; set against the diminishings there are new possibilities. And the inevitable physical and mental decline can be comfortably acknowledged, managed, mitigated, disguised when necessary! At least, so far. Dream on, some would say. And I do!