It’s not being old that I’m so fearful of. Old people (old people) are wondrous in a way that I can’t clearly define. They are often frail and yet unequivocally sure of themselves. They have roots, deep ones, and they have scattered their seeds and have watched themselves grow in capacities that I know nothing of. They have had gardens and houses, lived lives marked with births and marriages, fading ink in pages, dancing in living rooms, snoring in beds. They have watched decades of change- dresses and clutches and pin-ups and wars and rations and the intranet and the internet and Tiger Woods and organic butter and too-tight jeans.
Lots of life has been lived when you are old.
No, it’s not being old that I’m so fearful of. But what I do lose sleep over is the in- between stuff. The time between young and old, when the wind seems stronger and the world a stern teacher, and the probability of waking up unsure of myself seems all the more likely with each decision I make and with each bill I pay (late). Fragility, when you are young, is pretty. But fragility in the days marked by real jobs and babies and marriage and divorce and degrees and loans and mortgages isn’t as ravishing. Lives don’t just appear fashionably and ostentatiously worn. Instead, they break. Into a million pieces. And the glue required to string them back together can be hard to find.
Yeah, it’s the in-between stuff that I think about so much, that I wander around and wonder about. Life is too good to let a million broken pieces define the lapse, the meat, the middle. And so, I'm on a hunt for the good glue. The really good glue.
Grace, yes. But also the laughter, hugs, words, moments-
the stuff that makes even the sharpest of pieces bearable, redeemable.
I want hope.
Because there is still lots of life to live when you are in-between.