Henry David Thoreau wrote in the chapter in Walden entitled “Where I lived and what I lived for,” “Our life is frittered away by detail . . . I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand . . . “
Montaigne, the 16th Century French essayist, asserted that we all share the human condition. I am you, and you are me. Sooner or later, we have the same experiences and thoughts if we live long enough.
My inner life has undergone a drastic shift during the past few years. Time was when my days were jam-packed with being a Realtor, serving as President of the Benton House Association, writing, enjoying our varied cultural life and traveling, doing my share of the housework, cooking, reading, socializing . . . I was busy, busy, busy. There never was a day when all of the items on my to-do list were crossed off.
And now? My list consists mainly of five-minute chores, the dinner menu for the day, kitchen cleaning, making a few calls, medical appointments and litter-box cleaning. I no longer volunteer or have real estate clients. I don’t even have to do the hated dusting — the Merry Maids do that. My social circle has shrunk. Friend Phyllis warned me that after a certain age one becomes invisible. And, oh, ‘tis true, ‘tis true! Incredibly, the beloved and charismatic Gerry Gray the wonderful folk musician, said sadly, “People don’t call me anymore.”
I’ve come to realize that I’ve had many acquaintances, but few friends. Perhaps it’s my own fault. As happened with another woman, I grew tired of calling people who never called me, and I stopped throwing what appeared to be fun parties that were not reciprocated. I truly am not complaining or whining. Thoreau said to love your life even if you live in the alms house. I’m a long, long way from either physical or mental poverty. I love my life with my husband who is my best friend, the most interesting person I’ve ever known and who patiently puts up with me. It is just that I’ve never really adjusted to changing gears and fully accepted old age. My body is a rusted out old pickup truck with no get-up-and-go, but my mind is a red-hot, high-performance Ferrari.
I could be in worse shape. One day Bill was dropping me off at the hospital. I opened the car door and fumbled with my seatbelt, purse and cane. A woman at the curb said, “Can I help you?” She was in a wheelchair! Ohmygod! That was a wake-up call. Here I was — still able to walk, albeit with a cane or a Rollator — and a wheelchair-bound person identified me as worse off than she!
As Thoreau urged, I have tried to live consciously, rather than randomly. He wrote, My life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel . . . Follow your genius closely enough and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every hour.
Every season of my life has had its own delicious flavor: the effervescent champagne of springtime; the brandy-hot passion of summer; the honey-mead of autumn; and the mellow, full-bodied wine of remembrance that warms me during winter.
Poet Dylan Thomas wrote,
“Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should rave and burn at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . . “
It’s so tempting to accept the quietude of a snowbound winter’s day and live cozily and more deeply with Bill, but my restless heart sometimes yearns for more. The problem is, taking into account my physical problems, what can I accomplish of consequence with the time that remains? People say to us seniors, “You’ve done your share. Just take it easy and rest.” I shall have eternity in which to rest.
What to do, what to do? wclarke@comcast.net