This commentary is by Elayne Clift, a writer based in Brattleboro. Her latest book, an anthology, “A 21st Century Plague: Poetry from a Pandemic” was published by University Professors Press in 2021.
Having just passed a major birthday last month, I’ve been thinking about a seminar I’ve had the good fortune to lead recently. “Being Wise Elders: Life Lessons and Legacies” was for people in an adult lifelong program.
The six-session seminar called upon participants to reflect on life experiences that had led them to personal growth as we’ve aged. It helped us explore, recall, and pass on life lessons we had accumulated over years of mindful living. Recalling those experiences told us a lot about who we are, and where we find ourselves in this stage of our lives.
Together, in confidential sessions, we shared insights, feelings and reflections in a way rarely afforded elders in a culture that views death, loss, sadness and life adjustments as generally taboo topics. We read poetry and prose, wrote and shared some of our own, and allowed the breezes borne of truth-telling and gratifying friendship to refresh us.
Our weekly time together became a gift given and received that brought comfort and validation along with new insights, a few tears and much laughter.
That seminar made me think a lot about my own aging as life grows ever more dystopian and Kafkaesque for various reasons, including having gone through Covid’s unrelenting mutations. One thing I shared was that I was becoming more fatalistic. The plague of our time, and the loss of my birth family in just three years some time ago, had begun to diminish my fear and loathing when I contemplated dying, I confessed.
At the same time, I thought about death more. How can one not, when we lose friends, family, colleagues, or peers whether because of a virus, dreaded disease, or simply old age?
I often recall Jennifer Jones’s line as Catherine in the film “A Farewell to Arms.” “I’m not afraid of dying,” she tells Rock Hudson. “I just hate it.” Like her, as I age, I’m not so much afraid of dying, but I hate it too, and hope it will not be painful, pathetic, or undignified.
Of course, we all begin the journey to our farewells the moment we are born. We don’t think about it much until we become elders unless, sadly, we or people we love become fatally ill, but it’s always there at this age, lurking in our not-so-subconsciousness.
There is mystery inherent in the idea of our own demise. None of us knows what lies “on the other side,” after we’ve had our “courageous battle with cancer” or other illnesses, cliches that I forbid anyone to write in my obituary or utter at my memorial, which, by the way, I would love to attend before “crossing over.” As an inveterate traveler, I like to think that when we die, or “pass away” into what, if anything comes next, we begin the trip of a lifetime, full of heavenly vistas, kind people with great senses of humor, and satisfyingly unique experiences that include fabulous cuisines and good wines.
Dying does have one benefit. It offers the end of worrying about so many things — kids, toxic relationships, global warming, more pandemics, gun violence, failing infrastructure, polluted politics, friends who disappoint us, and more. We can relinquish guilt, filters, boundaries and self-recrimination. We don’t need to apologize for our shortcomings anymore.
Personally, I’d like to die like the Lady of the Camellias did, pale and beautiful in her lover’s arms. Of course, I can write about dying in this cavalier way because I’m in pretty good shape if you ignore the thinning hair on my head and the wisps on my chin. I can still walk and talk at the same time, at least downhill. I do, however, cringe when I can’t remember my cell number or where I put my glasses.
Despite the drawbacks of aging, I find it liberating. I can do what I want for the most part. I no longer engage in futile discussion with people whose values don’t align with mine, nor do I take the bait from those who challenge my brand of feminism.
Also, with age comes a certain clarity. I know who I am, for better or worse. I’m clear about things I feel passionately about, and what I won’t tolerate. I think I’m measurably wiser than I once was. I try to be less judgmental. Even though I rant a lot, I’m fundamentally a nice person.
I consider myself lucky to have shared thoughts like these with special people who are now friends. I am grateful to each of them, along with my lifelong friends, with whom I could be entirely myself all these years.
These lines from a poem, “Call Me by My True Names,” by Thich Nhat Hanh, say it all: “Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow because even today I still arrive. … Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once … so I can wake up, and so the door of my heart can be left open…”
To that I say, L’chaim!” To life!