Another Year: Thoughts on a Milestone Birthday

“Every birthday is a gift. Every day is a gift.” — Aretha Franklin

A friend jokingly refers to the first week of August as my “birthday week” because I usually take full advantage of the opportunities to celebrate. This time around, however, I’m feeling a bit less celebratory and a lot more reflective.

My driver’s license proves that I’ve landed on one of those milestone birthdays — the kind that inspires black balloons from the party store and bad jokes about seniority.

For the past two years, I’ve facilitated a monthly workshop/discussion group titled “Aging with Grace & Courage” at a local library. Thanks to this group of thoughtful women, I’ve explored a wide variety of topics, including our cultural views on aging and how we face the inevitable challenges of growing older. As is typically the case when I teach or lead a workshop, I believe I learn more from the participants than they learn from me.

We all agree that one of toughest aspects of seniority — at least in this culture — is losing the relevance and visibility we had when we were younger.

We know, deep down, that we’re the same people we were at every age we’ve ever been. Better yet, we’ve gained valuable experience and expertise along the way. But others don’t always see us that way — if they see us at all.

As we age, our laugh lines deepen and our voices start to falter. Our knees and upper arms give in to the ancient pull of gravity. Editors and advertisers tell us we need to be fixed or exchanged for a newer model. (Our current president would back me on that.) As we age, we realize that our kids have been making fun of us behind our backs for years — but now they don’t even try to hide it. I speak with authority on this point, partly because I did that same eye-rolling thing when my parents said anything that seemed goofy, antiquated, or otherwise embarrassing to me.

At best, those of us who are willing to embrace and accept our elderly selves — while letting our freak flags fly — are affectionately labeled as eccentric. And let’s be honest: When most people refer to us as “old,” they’re rarely paying a compliment. Sometimes it feels as if maturity is a source of shame.

Major milestone birthdays also remind us that we can’t keep pushing the specter of mortality to a small dark corner of our minds. These days, I attend more funeral visitations than I used to. Some of my peers have also buried both parents, and a few are grieving the loss of a spouse.

In recent years, I’ve been seeing various doctors more often than I used to. A couple of them feel like lovely old friends; I’ve learned about their lives and families, and I always find comfort in their humanity. The older I get, in fact, the more I admire the self-sacrificing individuals whose careers revolve around healing people. As my primary care physician told me recently, “You know I’m always here for you.” A few friends might say something like that after a couple glasses of Pinot noir — but this doctor means it and proves it.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep late at night, I wonder if my symptoms are warning bells of something more serious. I recall that some of my closest relatives, including my father, were younger than I am now when they died. In those bleak moments, when my own future feels like a question mark, I try to remind myself that now is my time to live. It would be a shame to waste a minute of it.

Now is the time to stop ruminating over health issues, grudges, stormy weather, bad manners, and weird politics. Now is the time to listen to the needs of my own beating heart — before catering to the needs of others. Now is the time to stop investing in anything that offers little or nothing in return. Now is the time to stop tolerating less than decent behavior from anyone. Now is the time to stop taking the people and things I love for granted.

I’m always optimistic in the mornings, when I wake early with the sun and notice that my garden is looking better than it has in previous summers. That’s the gift of perennial gardening. When you plant perennials, you should prepare to be amazed. In years to come, you will look around and see that most of what you planted, seasons earlier, is still there — and it’s thriving. This is real magic. Sometimes you lose a few plants along the way, but you can fill the vacant space in the soil with something else, maybe something even more beautiful.

Every year, I’m awed at how the natural world keeps flowering on cue, and I’m grateful for all of it, no matter what else is going on beyond my own back yard. ~By Cindy La Ferle, August 3, 2024

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