Yesterday morning, I walked outside at 6:30 a.m. to feed the chickens on another steamy Texas day. It was amazing how quickly I went from my plan to reality in less than 15 seconds.
First, my glasses fogged up so quickly that I couldn’t see. Next, I tripped over a dog toy. Then as my foot stepped off the porch, I found myself inside a spider’s web with the spider dangling from my nose.
I don’t know who was more startled. Me or the spider? I jumped and hollered, waved my hands around while the spider parachuted his escape, landed, and skedaddled down the stone path. The chickens would have to wait while I washed my face free from the sticky web that covered my skin and hair.
There was a time when I could see better; I was less clumsy; and I didn’t own chickens.
Those days were a long time ago. And that’s what I want to write about—aging.
I have a couple of anecdotes to share that I will knit together at the end.
A friend who has since passed away once spoke about the things in her house. She was in bed recovering from her third knee replacement on the same knee, and one morning she looked at her walls and exclaimed, “It’s all the same!”
“What do you mean, Jan?” I asked.
“Everything is the same. The same furniture, the same books, the same pictures. Nothing has changed in my house for over 30 years. It’s all the same. Everything is exactly where it was. This is not good. I’ve got to change things up.”
So, Jan began updating her family photos. She put away old knickknacks and took out different old knickknacks. The next time I saw her she was excited to show me. She felt better. Her energy was better. Most importantly, her outlook was better. Just a simple tune up in her house, and my 80-year-old friend felt re-energized.
Sybren and I have been reading Ecclesiastes, which Solomon must have written as an old grumpy man. He was full of regrets about how he had lived his life. He talked about having everything under the sun: gold and silver, furniture, buildings, huge herds of cattle, gardens, mistresses. None of it meant anything to him. It did not bring him any happiness. “But as I looked at everything I had worked so hard to accomplish it was all so meaningless—like chasing the wind. There was nothing worthwhile anywhere.” (Ecclesiastes 2:11)
I pray I never get that way. God is so amazing, and his creation is so amazing, I want to keep that sense of wonder and excitement about life even as I grow older.
Last week, I applied for Medicare and told my children that I’m now officially “old.” How old you feel depends more on what you think, not the number of times you have circumnavigated the sun, yet there are realities we must come to grips with. Like, who is that old person in the mirror? But “old age” hit me hardest, not when I signed up for Medicare, but when I looked at my butter dish.
If you’ve been reading my column for a while, you may recall that I let it slip that we got married when I was a child of eighteen. My mama, being a proper southerner, held a huge wedding for me while holding her breath and clutching her heart. Consequently, I received beautiful gifts, one of which was a silver-plated butter dish with a glass insert. It was one of my favorite things partly because my mother gave it to me. My grandmother had given it to my mother at mama's wedding.
Years later, when our children were little, the glass broke, my dear husband hand-scored and tapped a replacement glass to fit my special butter dish.
The other day, while sitting at my desk, the printer whirred and whizzed and out spit a photo. Sybren does this to me all the time. He can print from his laptop hundreds of feet. He loves to surprise me, or should I say scare me?
I studied the photo, and it was a picture of us at Christmas dinner. I was 19. We were just married in June. My dad is in the photo and so is my husband’s cousin and his girlfriend who later became his wife. Our little table is set with my beautiful Army-Navy tablecloth, our fancy china and crystal, and my butter dish.
What stood out the most to me was that my butter dish was shiny, new and perfect.
How it has aged! Sixty-six years later the silver is completely worn exposing the brass beneath. Like me, it’s faded and still works, but looks like it’s lived awhile. It’s more a work of character than a work of beauty.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Aging is a reality. Truth is seeing reality clearly.
Plato once wrote profoundly about truth and reality. His thoughts are a valuable insight whether we are discussing aging, human nature, or even justice. I am loosely quoting him here:
1. To perceive as much as possible all things as they really are and to live and act according to this truth.
2. All men are nurtured first and foremost by the truth. Not only those who search for knowledge, such as scientists and philosophers, but everybody who yearns to live as a true human being depends on this nourishment. Even society as such is sustained by the truth, publicly proclaimed and upheld.
3. The natural habitat of truth is found in interpersonal communication. Truth lives in dialogue, in discussion, in conversation. It resides therefore in language, in the word. Consequently, the well-ordered human existence including especially its social dimension is based on employing well-ordered language. A well-ordered language here does not mean primarily mean its formal perfections. No. It's well-ordered when its words express reality with as little distortion and as little omission as possible.
So, friends, this is how I like to write. I want to use “well-ordered language to express reality with as little distortion and as little omission as possible.”
Let us live life in wonder. See things as they really are and not distort reality. Let’s shake things up a bit but remember to treasure history and the things that keep us connected to others and to our roots.
It is through our connections we learn, we grow, and we see new perspectives that bring us closer to God and his Truth.
Life is only meaningless if that’s what you believe.
Comments? Write to Kathryn@TexasHeritage.net.