I love to bake. Like all little girls of the 1960’s, my Easy Bake Oven saw lots of joyous use, but it wasn’t until I spent some time at my grandmother’s house that I truly learned to appreciate the art of home-baked goodness. How happiness and love can be wrapped in the shape of a loaf of bread, an apple pie, that new brownie recipe…
But the story about her baking and recipes and cookbooks were just the icing on the cake. I found the real gem mixed within the layers of the article. What really struck me was Maida’s outlook on life and aging.
“I am so lucky, I can’t tell you,” Maida told the Miami Herald in 1997. “I know women my age who are bored. [She was 81 years old.] They have nothing to do. Even if they have family, their families are somewhere else—their kids, their grandchildren. I really don’t [have family]. But I always have so much to do, even if it’s that I’m going to go into the kitchen to bake a cake. I’m in seventh heaven—I’m having so much fun, and it doesn’t matter if I give it to the mailman…When you’re busy and you’re being creative, that’s something the outside world can’t compete with”.
Such inspiration — I wanna grow up to be just like her! PS: This amazing woman’s writing career kicked off by writing a best-selling cookbook when she was 58 years old.
Goes to show you are never too old to pursue – or achieve – a dream. Besides which, who wants to die of boredom? At any age.
It reminds me of something my husband has often stated throughout the many years I’ve known him.
“The best way to never be bored? ALWAYS have something to look forward to”. ~Doug Masnick
Reading Maida’s quote has brought a fresh, new light on his words.
Although I’m not quite “geezing” age yet, I can’t imagine ‘having nothing to do’. There are so many interesting things to see, experience, learn…how could anyone ever be bored?
Like Maida points out – being busy and creative – can come from the simplest of things. For her it might be baking a cake and giving it to the mailman. For me, it comes from a cool, east wind surfing the ocean until it reaches my doorstep, or from sharing the thrill of spotting a new wild thing that’s come to visit the fruits of my yard. I fear one lifetime is not enough to explore the multitude of fascinating things taking place every minute, of every day, all around me.
Have you ever looked at your child and wondered – spawn of Satan? How could this red-faced, lying brat possibly come from your loins? Then two seconds later they do something adorable, like bring you a daisy or share a toy with their brother, and you melt like a cream puff all over again. Mommy’s little angel. Daddy’s best girl.
It’s been Harry Potter marathon week and in watching “The Order of the Phoenix”, I’m reminded about humanity’s ageless debate over who is bad, who is good, and why.
When Harry Potter is afraid he’s turning bad because of Voldemort’s evil influence, Sirius reminds him that he has a choice. That we all do. These simple words express profound truth:
“… the world isn’t split into good people and death eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.”
It certainly explains human behavior better than the classic, decades-old debate of Nature vs. Nurture, which often gets bandied about by “experts” attempting to rationalize how good kids turn bad or why people commit heinous crimes.
“Nature” theory suggests that bad people are born that way. A result of inheriting nasty genetics from one or more of their parent’s blood-line.
“Nurture” theory suggests that bad people are created as a result of their environment or poor parenting.
Sometimes, it’s blamed on a bit of both.
The problem with these theories is that the child/adult bears NO responsibility for their own behavior, thoughts, or feelings. How convenient. Mother becomes a scapegoat and Dad? He’s just a loser anyway, right? I can think of a hundred more excuses. I’m sure you’ve heard your fill of them too. “It’s not his fault, he only needed …”
I can also think of multitudes of kids who, like Harry Potter, have beat the odds despite their being born into tremendous disadvantage.
Here’s a beautiful video that illustrates both darkness and light.
What is it that consumes your waking thoughts? What keeps you awake at night, tossing and twisting your bedclothes, or pacing the living room floor?
Are you trying to make friends, fit in, be accepted in a certain social circle? You’ve organized a party and you worry you’ll be judged. Will they even show up? What if you run out of food or drink? Is the house clean enough? A million tiny details run through your mind. You mustn’t be found lacking. Will they include you in their ‘reindeer games’? Or will you always be on the outside looking in?
How about that promotion at work? What if your colleague, the back-stabbing snake who has ingratiated himself so smoothly into your boss’s graces, gets that prized position instead of you? You’re the one that has worked your fingers to the bone. Not him.
And that pesky construction project. All those details and decisions. Did you pick the right color? Will you be happy with the quality? Why is the contractor taking so long to finish…will they honor the contract?
The list is endless. It’s natural and human to worry about the things that are important in our lives.
Getting little Johnny into the best daycare is of paramount importance – until tragedy strikes, burnishing life with a new perspective, shifting reality until all those things you once thought so important suddenly turn meaningless, demoted by a wave of fresh insight, hard won. You can almost laugh, rueful at the wasted time and energy spent on matters now deemed trivial by comparison.
I was reminded of this simple lesson on the morning of July 4th.
I awoke to a beautiful day that held no obligations or appointments, so I lingered over my morning coffee, turned on the TV, and settled down to watch “Independence Day”, a movie set in the USA on July 4th where we successfully garner our independence again – only this time, from an alien invasion from outer space.
What does this have to do with altering life’s perspective? The answer is nothing.
Only that in watching the actors portray panic in their mad dash to evacuate and escape the city before the aliens countdown to attack – it reminded me how in that moment of crises, that moment of mortal risk, normal life stresses cease to exist.
Who cares about jewels, the lawn that needs mowing, that scratch on the Audi…when aliens are landing and want to devour you and your planet?
I was brought back in memory, to one summer’s night, nine years ago. My husband was working second-shift for a company near Washington D.C., and was on his way home from work. I worked day shift, so normally I was asleep by the time he arrived.
That was during the time of former President Obama’s mission for a “green” environment, which included tactics like raising gas prices to just under $5.00 per gallon. It was for this reason only that my husband started driving our Honda Goldwing motorcycle for his daily commute to work. At forty m.p.g, it was the best way to economize his gas expense for the two plus, round trip, hours he was required to drive each day.
That was the night I received the phone call, the one that every spouse, every parent, knows and dreads.
My husband had been struck head-on by a drunk driver, less than five miles from home, and air-lifted to the Trauma Ward of a hospital nearly two hours away.
Time was of the essence.
It was 1:00am. The four lane highway stretched empty and I prayed, feverishly, for the simplest of things.
“Please God. Let him be alive. Let me be able to say goodbye.”
The next twenty-four hours were the longest of my life. I arrived to waiting staff who quickly ushered me to my husband’s side. He was alive, but unconscious. I couldn’t see much since he was lying on a gurney and covered by a sheet clear up to his chin. His face was also partially obscured.
I signed the necessary forms and the nurses immediately whisked him away to a prepared operating room. The surgeon approached me and said, “If he survives this operation, I’ll let you know about the next.” Hours passed. The surgeon came into the waiting room and said, “He survived. If he survives this next operation, I’ll let you know about the next.” Wash – Rinse – Repeat, two more times.
The good news is that my husband did survive. But the point I’m trying to make, is that in facing a crisis of that magnitude, where severe disabilities or death may be the final outcome for your beloved, nothing else matters.
The job, the house, the kids squabbling, the dog. Friends and money and community standing. None of it mattered. Instantaneously and forevermore, LIFE changed in the blink of an eye.
Who knows what our lives would have been like had this accident never occurred? There is no answer. But I can tell you this – the old saying is true. Every cloud does have a silver lining. The blessings are there, you just have to be aware so that you can see them.
However, it’s been nine years since that fateful day and I have become complacent in life once more; arrogant in my belief that tomorrow will come, as gentle and blessed as it is today. It’s so easy to take things – and people – for granted.
But the gods saw fit to send me a reminder in the form of a sci-fi story which packs powerful truths – about facing crisis, fighting for independence, and the glory of survival and second chances. The message came in loud and clear.
Do not stress the small things; for they are of little consequence in the overall picture of life.
But how does one determine what is “small”? How can we compare what is important to a 5 year old, 16 year old, 27 year old…87 year old? The answer will be different for everyone.
Growth and life lessons are both part of the same equation. We have to learn for ourselves what is meaningless and what is important, often gained as insights after experiencing hardship of one kind or another.
Personally, I’ve had my fair share of hardships in this incarnation and welcome the current respite of peace and happiness. It’s been hard won. And totally worth it. The blessings are many for “those with eyes to see”.
Life is so precious. Each moment is just a blip in the eternity of time. We should all endeavor to enjoy it – the good, the bad, the ugly – in gratitude and grace. The lessons and depth of understanding gained along the way, are well worth the cost of the ride.
So don’t stress over the small stuff. Really. It’s all just a matter of perspective.
I found a secret garden. It was there all along, hiding in plain sight beneath the brambles and waist-high grasses.
I felt like Mary Lennox as I pulled aside weeds to discover living treasures emerging from a moist earth. Each new find brought a fresh wave of joy – an antique rose bush here, feathery fronds of fennel there, a tiny lavender sighing in relief.
The picket fence surrounding Peter Burr Farm‘s colonial garden was almost obscured by wild brier and useful weeds commonly found in hedgerows or alongside foundation stone – ground ivy, cat mint, greater celendine, chickweed, cleavers – all tangled together in between grasses nearly three feet high.
The inside of the garden was equally overgrown, except for a small area by the entrance gate. I learned this progress was due to the valiant effort of just one person in a single-handed attempt to bring order back into the historic garden.
Quite the daunting task.
So I did what any self-respecting herbalist and veteran gardener would do. I volunteered.
Donning my battle gear against ticks and poison ivy, I sprayed myself liberally with a home-made, anti-creepy-crawly, bug repellent and got to work.
As did my husband, Doug. Who is only too happy (translation: minor grumbling) to join me in whatever current scheme I have devised for the day.
We make a pretty good team.
First I harvested some of the “weeds” that would have to be tamed, namely ground ivy and greater celendine. I’ve been wanting to experiment with the medicinal qualities of these two herbs for a while.
And then it was time to do some serious weeding.
While Doug concentrated on weed-wacking the outside fence, I went to work pulling weeds from the gravel walkways and border edges of the raised beds. We worked steadily for nearly two hours until the humidity and heat reached a whopping 95 degrees.
I would have liked to keep going, but Doug took one look at my reddened face and wisely called it, lest I drop of heat stroke.
Still, I’m pretty happy with the progress we made.
Since then, I’ve set my herbs to dry and brew — all destined to become tea, ointment, and tincture.
The temperatures have now dropped to a cool seventy degrees – but the forecast calls for almost a week of rain.
Again I feel like Mary Lennox, glumly looking out my window and wishing myself back to the secret garden.
I awoke much too early for the second morning in a row, courtesy of my overactive brain trying “to take over the world” like a bad episode of Pinky and the Brain.
It’s not only the extravagant landscape project, with it’s myriad of decisions, design details, and growing costs that’s keeping me awake, but also all the other plans I’m formulating. My mind is in a perpetual loop, vacillating between “need to do” and “want to do”, if-then-else statements, budgets, time constraints, and more.
It’s like an incessant mind-meld of plotting, planning, and strategy – with a little crystal ball gazing thrown in for good measure. I’m not complaining, mind you. In fact it’s the exact opposite.
The world is my oyster!
I am an extremely lucky duck to have these kinds of non-issues robbing my sleep instead of woe.
Which reminds me of a Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme, and how it relates to all of us at different stages of our life – regardless of the actual day of our birth.
Right now? I’m Monday’s Child, fair of face, dancing beneath the lovely Moon in all her splendid guises. A bright blessing indeed.
Perhaps this carefree joy is a well-earned reward for my time served as Wednesday’s Child, full of woe.
I’ve certainly paid more than my fair share, carrying the weight of the world and selflessly caring for others whether they deserved my compassion or not.
I do feel a little guilty though, my fiction writing has been taking a back seat to all the upheaval around my house. And I do mean that in the most literal of sense.
Bulldozers, hydraulic tampers, masonry saws, sound all throughout the day as workmen cut stone, mix concrete, pound in new earth, 360 degrees around my house – this has been my constant companion for well over two months and counting.
Large construction projects are always stressful to a certain degree, so it really helps to hire the right crew. By all means, do your homework upfront and choose a company wisely. They will be your partner for the duration and the vehicle for making your idea a reality — on time and under budget if possible.
By these standards, our contractor has exceeded all expectations and we couldn’t be happier. They have proven themselves to be extremely professional and highly skilled artisans. There’s never a problem that can’t be fixed or detail too small to discuss.
It makes a world of difference.
Piece by piece, day by day, my vision of landscape nirvana has slowly been taking shape. A long awaited dream is coming to fruition, more beautiful than I had even imagined.
That’s when I decided to go for the brass ring. I just couldn’t stop myself.
As a former IT Project Manager, I’m well aware of things like scope, requirements, and mission creep. But I’m wearing ‘two hats’ now. I’m the customer too and I want what I want.
In other words, I just doubled the original project – multilevel patios, outside fireplace, connecting terraces, yada yada yada – all currently in the design process. Decisions, decisions, decisions.
It doesn’t look like we’ll be finished any time soon.
But what a paradise it will be! My sanctuary, my home. I am so happy, I may never travel to distant places again. Well, never say never but a stay-cation is looking pretty high on my list.
I’m hoping to have everything done by Midsummer so hubby and I can host a big party to celebrate. Not because the disruption ends, or that the project is completed and ready to be enjoyed — although that does call for a certain degree of celebration — but to commemorate a turning point in our life.
This massive landscaping job marks the beginning of our Golden Years. Age-wise we’re getting a very early start, but these next years are destined to be golden nonetheless.
My husband and I turned the page and found an exciting new chapter. So many adventures await! And our journey begins now.
According to Dr. Seuss – love is defined when one person’s weirdness is compatible with that of another’s.
That’s one way of putting it…but how do we define weirdness?
Is Aunt Tilly’s predilection for hosting tea parties with garden gnomes as guests – weird? Maybe so.
But Uncle Walter doesn’t care one way or the other. He only sees that it makes Aunt Tilly happy, and so, works extra hard to make their garden a beautiful spot for her to enjoy her tea.
I would argue it’s more about matching someone’s perception of reality.
My perception of someone else’s weirdness is colored through the lense of my own experience, thoughts, feelings in the same way that ten different witnesses to the same crime can report conflicting observations. Our perceptions, the things we “see”, are unique to each of us.
This fact is further complicated by those folks who fool themselves into creating a reality that doesn’t really exist – refusing to see anything other than what they want to see.
It is no small wonder why the human race is at such odds with one another. So many opinions…and each thinks the other is wrong – haters hate, lovers love – blinded by a perceived reality of their own design.
Maybe we should take a page out of some 17th century wisdom.
“For whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…No man is an island, entire of itself”
But what do these phrases actually mean and how does it apply to us today?
John Donne is referring to the human condition.
For whom the bell tolls – signifies an individual’s death.
News flash – we all die, every single one us. But Donne tells us that each death offers valuable lessons, if only we can properly understand, if we have eyes that can “see”. He speaks about hardships as blessings. Because it is mostly through tribulation that people grow as individuals, expanding their consciousness, learning and gaining new insight. According to Donne, these are the things in life that are more valuable than gold.
No man is an island – refers to the fact that each of us are pieces to the whole of mankind. Thus every death holds meaning because we all share the human condition. In other words, whatever happens to our neighbor – can happen to us too. Does the bell toll for you? Or for someone else?
Take a moment and endeavor to see reality through someone else’s eyes. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, your perception will expand and possibly change.
And if not? No matter. You will, at the very least, have gained insight into another’s definition of “weird”.
Humphrey Bogart… What can I say? He makes me want to swoon.
As such, I’m a big fan of 1940’s movies, particularly those labelled (after the fact) “Film Noir”, described on Google as:
“a style or genre of cinematographic film marked by a mood of pessimism, fatalism, and menace. The term was originally applied (by a group of French critics) to American thriller or detective films made in the period 1944–54 and to the work of directors such as Orson Welles, Fritz Lang, and Billy Wilder.”
The past can always be romanticized, and for me – the 1940’s films exemplify a bygone era of style and class, when men wore fedoras and women silk stockings. It was a time when polite society dictated manners, grace, and etiquette. There were no computers or cell phones. Detectives had to call for back up from pay phones and information gathering was done the old-fashioned way – questioning people face to face.
However, lest anyone misunderstand my ‘wistful’ tone, I wouldn’t want to actually live in the 1940’s – no more than I would the 1840’s. To enjoy ‘historical’ fiction, one must temporarily put aside the reality of the times (like social injustice) in the spirit of entertainment — just like we do when attending a Renaissance Festival (let’s face it, the reality of medieval Europe was no picnic, but it sure is fun to dress up as a wench or knight, drink mead, eat turkey legs, and watch ye ‘ole jousting tournament).
It was while watching TCM movies one day… ok, gorging myself on a marathon of 1940 black & white oldies, when inspiration struck.
Months earlier, I had been invited to participate in a new writing project, in collaboration with a group of fellow writers, to write a book with “short-story” chapters that shared a common theme and set of circumstances. YET — maddeningly — my creative muse had fled the building and remained missing in action. I had only a general idea for my story, missing key details like plot line, point of view, tone, and voice.
But thanks to Humphrey Bogart, my germ of an idea sparked into flame, and within a few short days, I had a completed story. My muse had returned in full glory…
The book is about to enter its editing phase next month, so the following is subject to change. Here’s the opening scene to my “chapter”:
Retired detective Sean Malone absently sipped the seltzer brought to him by Nurse Flechette and watched the stormy procession of Ravenwood’s newest inductee from his perch beside the parlor room windows. The boorish tittering of the old ladies having their afternoon tea faded as his attention was drawn to the tallish woman marching up the Manor’s stone walkway. He maneuvered his wheel chair for a closer view, feigning nonchalance lest he betray his interest to the resident gossips, and took note of the woman’s clenched teeth, tilted chin, and stiff back. She was accompanied on one side by a long-haired woman whose pinched face looked as if she was sucking on lemons and on the other by a well-dressed man scurrying to keep pace and talking non-stop like a lawyer arguing a case.
As the troupe drew closer, Sean’s pulse quickened. This was no common resident. She wore a tailored suit that accentuated a trim figure, in the same tawny shade of her loose, shoulder length hair. The woman moved with such grace that it was like watching a gazelle in stride. But it was the sharp intelligence in her honey brown eyes that captivated him. This was a lady that could rule kingdoms. What on earth did she need an old folks home for, he wondered. True, Ravenwood was as classy a place as they came, a marvel that he found himself spending his last days in such a place, but still, she seemed much too young. In fact, she didn’t look a day over fifty. And given her vigorous parade up the flagstone steps, she looked to be in the peak of health.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine…”. Humphrey Bogart’s voice echoed in Sean’s memory. A warning perhaps? Or was something awakening. He felt the dull shroud of medicine bottles, patronizing nurses, and murky sunshine begin to lift, it was like a brisk autumn wind stirring layers of dust from his dormant senses. Call it professional intuition if you will, or the by-product of experience gained from a life-long career, but the street-smarts he thought long since dead were making a grand return entrance. He couldn’t deny his immediate gut response to this striking, self-possessed woman approaching the house. Sean’s lips absently sought the ghost of his time-honored cigar.
More to follow once the book is published. Suffice it to say for now, I borrowed on the Film Noir genre’s “mood of pessimism, fatalism, and menace” to tell a very modern story.
What does “Self-Care” actually mean? It seems like a simple concept, but like many things – the devil is in the details.
In the 1980’s, the term self-care was used to describe activities that directly related to improving the state of one’s physical health.
By 2008, psychologists and New Age practitioners broadened the term. It became the focus for altering one’s behavior so they had more time for themselves, apart from the demands of work and family obligations.
More recently it has gained political significance. Activists call on self-care as a rallying cry for self-preservation in a world of oppression.
Maybe the meaning rests more in how we apply it. There’s an old saying about the world containing two kinds of people: Givers and Takers.
We already know all about the Takers – Narcissists by their very nature generate lots of attention. These folks certainly have no issues with practicing “Self-Care”.
Which is kind of ironic. Selfish people hide acts of pure self-indulgence under the guise of self-care and are then applauded by their peers for putting themselves first, over and above all others. It’s a crazy world.
But what about the Givers? We don’t hear too much about them.
Within the classification of ‘Givers’, there are those of us who – for a variety of reasons – give so wholeheartedly, we run ourselves ragged caring for everyone and everything within our personal scope of the world.
I did this for decades, sometimes out of a sense of responsibility, other times out of empathy and love. I gave until I bled – for family, close friends, The Job – all of which is important … but I gave exclusively, over and above, to the point of exhaustion; until I finally crashed and burned.
And that’s what happens when we don’t achieve balance within our lives.
Givers must also be Takers. This can be a hard lesson for someone who can’t grasp the importance of this simple truth.
When my husband, after being struck down by a drunk driver, lay in the Shock Trauma Ward, hooked to every imaginable life support system known to man, the nurses repeatedly told me to go home, take care of myself, because the road ahead was going to be long and hard.
I looked at them like they were crazy.
Go home? While my husband lay there fighting for his life? Uh huh. Wild horses couldn’t drag me from that room. Not even after days turned into weeks, and then into months.
It would be years later, when the wisdom of those words would finally sink into my consciousness. I had pushed myself to the point where my own health and sense of well-being was now in jeopardy. The choice was mine.
Take care of myself? Or keep giving until I drew my last breath. So simple, yet so profound.
I feared it was too late. Could I still turn the tide, and alter a course of behavior inherent to my very soul? I knew I owed it to myself to try. So for the first time in my life “Self-Care” became my mantra.
Except — I had one, teeny, tiny problem. How? I couldn’t even define the term. “Self” had always come in last.
Self-care… It sounded silly to my ears. And the very idea of putting myself “first” felt – selfish. Until I remembered part of the standard, airline stewardess’ pre-flight instruction. In the event of crisis, one must FIRST apply the oxygen mask to SELF, before attempting to help others – including your own child.
This seemed a perfect analogy for my situation, because if you incapacitate yourself – by failing to take care of SELF first – then you are useless in helping others.
It took due diligence and perseverance, but eventually – with loving support from my husband and a few good friends – I not only regained my health, I had learned how to be nice to myself.
These days I treat “ME” no better and no worse than I would my truest friend. It’s a sentiment I use as a type of barometer to keep myself in check – a cautionary measure – so that I don’t slide back into old habits, where I only think about the needs and desires of others, thereby sacrificing “self” for no sound reason.
Brightest blessings can indeed be found, even in the midst of our darkest times.
Hedgewitches, Shamen, Mystics, and Herbalists alike, are the gatekeepers to hidden knowledge that can heal or kill, reveal messages from spirit, and provide the means to manipulate a wealth of unseen forces inherent in Nature. This is one reason why they were, and still are, feared by the uninitiated.
Put simply, *normal* folks just don’t understand.
Which may be one reason why Hedgewitches of times past lived in domiciles outside of the village proper or at the border of dark forests, often rife with imaginary dangers. The knowledge they held was fearsome, but useful too. In times of need, there was many a villager who would knock, knock, knock, upon the witch’s outer door.
As an Herbalist, I am always surprised when friends turn a “hairy eyeball” at whatever I’m spouting about in abject fascination – for to me, it’s completely normal… Like the time I wanted to grow a ‘Poison Garden’.
Before I go further, let me just share my oft stated, personal motto: The only difference between a poison and medicine, is dosage.
My latest foray into the world of ancient knowledge, is the discovery that toads possess the same ‘poisonous’ – and useful – chemical as does toadstools, which is the very reason for the similarity in name. Okay, perhaps ‘tea time’ with the ladies wasn’t the most apt venue to broach the topic, but hey – I was excited about this new book that I had just received:
This does tend to be a sensitive topic to most, as well as dangerous information in careless hands, so it’s hard to find adequate resources that properly delve into the what and wherefores of advanced practices. Ergo, my excitement – quickly dampened by my friend’s reaction.
“Ewwww. The poor toads. You’re not actually going to kill one, are you?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Besides, there are plenty of toads already dead. The sheer number that die just from mating…” I paused after seeing the look of horror on my friend’s face. “Well, I’m not saying I would actually experiment with such a thing, but it’s fascinating all the same.”
I thought it best to stop the discussion there, while I was ahead. So I cracked a few jokes about dinner time at my house, and my husband’s reluctance to “upset me” for fear of what may be contained in his soup.
I am also amused by the fact that toads and toadstools seem to have been a running theme throughout my life. Coincidence? Who can say.
Crewel embroidery kits were all the fashion for young girls in the 1970’s. I was no different. My favorite project was a picture of – you guessed it. I loved it so much, I still have the original design entitled “Leaping Frog” – but hey, close enough.
Later on, I bought a green Jeep Liberty dubbed “Kermit” and chose a windshield decal that I loved so much, I couldn’t bear to throw it out after it had become too worn.
Toads come often to visit my house. It is not unusual to see them by my front porch steps, and sometimes on the porch itself, as if they are trying to come inside the house to say hello.
The best experience happened two years ago, in May 2015. It was early evening and a gentle rain was falling. I stepped out onto my covered porch to enjoy the night sounds of rain drops through the leaves. And then it happened.
A chorus of toads began to sing.
I have never again heard a more beautiful sound. I had no idea there were so many toads living in my garden, but I was enchanted and so moved, that it brought tears to my eyes.
So I guess it’s little wonder why I find the subject of toads and toadstools so interesting. My guardian angels knew it all along. I share an affinity with toad that up until now I had been completely unaware. They must want to slap me against the head and say, “DUH”.
Congratulations, you are a card carrying member of the human race.
And as such, we know that in the cycle of life – we age. All of us. If we’re lucky.
So why does society marginalize their aging population?
All forms of media, movies, books, music, etc. – they tend to glorify only 25% of humankind.
If you’re very young, or in the blush of puberty and new love, society applauds you. If you happen to be at the age of sexual prowess, society desires you. Even young mothers and fathers are admired – as long as they are beautiful and sexy.
But what about the rest? Those men and women aged 40 – 95? Where are their stories?
Gone are the days when “old” people were forced into retirement, in fact – corporations and small businesses are newly recognizing the value of an older populace, so often hidden from the skewed viewpoint of social media and youthful perception (dare I say ignorance?).
The above 40 crowd have a lot to offer besides advanced wisdom born from experience, education, and training. They are also dependable, reliable, and often exhibit a higher degree of patience and fortitude than a younger generation.
And who says life is over after 50?! I am astounded that our newly elected President of the U.S. is 70 years of age, as is a large part of Congress. Who better to hold the responsibility for running our beloved, expansive, country than men and women who have been tested over time?
Yet, (generally speaking) we have a generation of young adults that throw away their parents – after becoming “self-sufficient” that is. Once these youngsters think parental monies are no longer needed, parents are relegated to the back burner, with little respect or recognition of the tremendous value they still hold.
Think of all that untapped wisdom – ignored and lying fallow.
But I’m going to divulge a little secret; one that is shared by all those who are on the downhill side of 40.
Life becomes even more beautiful than ever before.
In the words of Agatha Christie, written in her autobiography at the twilight of her years:
“I have enjoyed greatly the 2nd blooming that comes when you finish the life of the emotions and of personal relations; and suddenly find – at the age of 50, say – that a whole new life has opened before you, filled with things you can think about, study, or read about.
You find that you like going to […] with the same enthusiasm as when you were 20. For a period, your personal life has absorbed all your energies, but now you are free again to look around you. You can enjoy leisure; you can enjoy things. You are still young enough to enjoy going to foreign places…
It is as if a fresh sap of ideas and thoughts was rising in you.”