I recently reached the age of 70. It’s what they call a landmark birthday—the kind that stops you in your tracks and makes you sit down on a stoop and wonder where all those years went. I do this thought-exercise now when out walking. As I’ve almost reached the parking area, I say to myself, “That is the road that is in front of me.” Then I turn around and point to the length of dirt road behind that is so long you can’t see the end, “This is how far I have come.” Try it sometime. It makes an impression on me every time.
Seven decades! Whew. Still, imagine my surprise that this is a time I am learning to enjoy more than any of the other decades that came before. To compare this phenomenon with another septuagenarian, I called my friend Carol, whom I have known almost my entire life. She turned 70 three weeks after I did. She said, “I know what you mean. I’m liking it too. Why do you think that is?”
“For some reason, I’m getting a kick out of the simplest things. I was always too busy before.” One thing that thrills me suddenly is watching the light change throughout the day. When I was younger, I would never be awake when the sun rose, unless, of course, I had stayed up all night at a music club, or later when one of my kids was sick. I love a good sunrise now. In the summer and early fall, the low angle of the rays creeps over my personal view of the Northfield ridge of Vermont from Scrag to the Waitsfield mountains. When they reach my meadow, they catch the pockets of pooled morning dew and scatter circles of reflections that reach the walls of my dark green room and dance there until the sun gets higher in the sky.
Nestled under a quilt, sipping coffee or ginger tea, I scrutinize all those precious moments of movement. The reflections eventually shrink and, in a poof, disappear. I know it’s going to happen and hold my breath. When they do finally vanish, I feel the same disappointment I felt as a girl when I watched this happen to Tinkerbell in my first viewing of Peter Pan. Here at home, my heart sinks just a bit; I take the poof as a signal that it is time to get up and start my day. And I do—ready for the next display of light across the hours.
Let’s talk about the obvious—sunsets. Who doesn’t want to savor a good sunset? But at our age, my friends and I practically make a ceremony of the thing. Over the last ten years, between the rise and the set, I have made a study of golden light in between: golden light filtering through the leaves midmorning; the golden light across the ocean as the sun sets and also across scattered ponds. I savor the light, thinking that this must be why they call my time of life: The Golden Years.
But the reality of this dreamy state came to a screeching halt very recently. I thought my observations of golden light were part of the mellowing that has come over me as I age. But the color I had been gushing about when a landscape was awash in sunshine was not what I thought it to be. At my yearly checkup, I was told it was, in fact, the color of the cataracts that had been forming in my eyes the last few years. Turns out they turn yellow over time and need to be replaced with a new lens. Talk about a plot twist!
As I stood in the doctor's office, grappling with this unexpected news, I realized that life, like the changing light, is full of surprises. Just like the sunrise and sunset, there are phases that bring beauty, but also challenges. Perhaps the golden years are not merely about basking in the warm glow of life’s simplicity; they are also about navigating the shadows that come with aging.
I’m working hard to make peace with this new knowledge. What if the surgery goes wrong? Could I guarantee such a mishap wouldn’t break my spirit. My son-the-doctor tells me it is so routine you almost shouldn’t call it surgery. And the friends I know who’ve had it done are thrilled with the results. I’m trying to look forward to it. To be eager to see, as my friends tell me I will, the world in vibrant colors again. Maybe, I will embrace the golden light in all its forms—whether it’s the soft glow of the sunset or the glaring brightness of midday.
I’m going to pray to savor what’s left of the road ahead and the adventures that await me. With each new dawn, I will try to cherish the moments, be they clear or clouded. To continue to explore the simple joys, making memories with friends, and with my first grandchild coming, savor the beauty of life in all its stages. After all, the golden years are not just about the light we see; they are about the warmth we feel in our hearts. Can me corny if you must¾ I believe it is true. The big question is: Am I brave enough to pull it off?
Life is such a rollercoaster ride now. All the health problems that are coming up– if it’s not me it’s my husband. We were so smug in our sixties, still hiking and doing all kinds of active stuff. Seventy is a whole other thing. When I reach a period where I’m feeling good, I call that a plateau, well it’s like I have to run as fast as I can to get where I want to go.
As Robert Frost said:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Mehuron lives in Waitsfield and is the author of Down on the South Beach Drag and other novels and books.
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