60 is the new 60 ... {Borrowed from Huffington Post}
The article below was written by Priscilla Warner for Huffington Post where it first appeared June 22, 2013.
It struck a chord and it resonated with me. And while I am not yet 60, I know that I will be before I know it. I've never wanted to turn back the clocks. I've never wished to return to high school or college. I've no desire to be in my 20s again and while I adored my 30s, I dare say that my 40s are the decade I seem to be enjoying the most. I remember my mother telling me the same thing once. I think I was 20 when she did. Twenty odd years later, I remember the conversation. It seemed so odd to me at the time - I mean why would anyone rather be 40 over 20? Well, I certainly would! And while I have no desire to relive my past, I get it... There are moments I treasure and miss, moments I would have prefered to have sped through and moments I would have slowed down and paused for sure. I don't feel as though my life is passing by much too quickly, but I do feel that way about my children... Yesterday it seems they were babies. Today they are young adults with their own opinions and interests. I'm proud of all that they are becoming but I do miss the younger years... Graduations and the end of yet another school year doesn't help
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When I was ten I wanted to be
thirteen. I wanted unfrizzy brown hair down to my waist.When I was thirteen I wanted to be sixteen. I'd discovered how to
iron my hair, but now I wanted to drive all my friends to the beach.
When I was sixteen I wanted to be fourteen. My hair was straight,
my driving okay, but I'd suffered my first panic attack. My friends all seemed
normal, but I hated the terrifying sensations that were racing through my body
at the oddest, inexplicable times.
When I was eighteen I wanted to be five. I went off to college,
where my panic attacks worsened, and although I fell in love and made friends,
I cowered in the back of classrooms hoping not to be noticed by my teachers.
Hoping not to panic. I wanted to curl up in someone's lap and be safe.
When I was twenty-one, I wanted to be eighteen. College didn't
seem so bad after all. I was typesetting telephone books for a living (at least
my eyesight was great) and my boss screamed at odd hours for no reason.
When I was twenty-four, I wanted to be twenty. I'd landed a great
new job, but my boyfriend of four years had just broken up with me, and I had
no comeback to his breakup line (I'm not treating you the way you deserve to be
treated...)
When I was thirty, I wanted to be twenty-six, back when I'd met
the love of my life in a Boston bar. I'd quit my job, to move with him to New
York, and then couldn't get hired at an advertising agency where the work was
good and the people were decent. I wanted my old job in my new life.
When I was thirty-five, I wanted to be thirty-three. My father had
just died after a painful battle with cancer, and while I'd gotten married and
given birth to a beautiful, healthy son, I couldn't imagine life without my
father.
When I was forty, I wanted to be thirty-six. Our second son, a
three year old toddler with thick bangs and a precious pout, gave delightful
"sticky kisses" without much prompting. But I hadn't lost the weight
I'd gained during my pregnancy, and I'd moved from New York City to the
suburbs, where every woman in my town seemed to be a thin, happy mother with
answers to questions I didn't even know to ask.
When I was fifty, I wanted to be forty. My metabolism had slowed
down, and the graying of my hair had sped up. Why had I thought forty was so
old?
When I was
fifty-three I wanted to be forty one. I was thrilled to have my first book published, but my co-authors were twelve years
younger than me, and the grueling travel and speaking engagements on our book
tour seemed to energize them and enervate me. I felt old.
When I was fifty-five, I wanted to be back in my forties, when my
children's lives burst with possibility, filling mine with color. My mother was
fading into what would become her 12-year struggle with Alzheimers, and since
my boys had left home, my nest felt empty, my heartfelt heavy, my body was
sagging, and so were my spirits.
When I was fifty-six, things started to change.
I learned
how to meditate. I wrote a book about my attempt to heal from the
panic disorder than had started when I was fifteen. I found powerful healers and Buddhist
teachers who moved me
to tears with their compassion and insights. I looked back on all the years
when I longed to be someone other than who I was, and smiled.
I began to like being who I was.
Not at every moment, of course.
But I learned that moments come and go. Along with insecurities,
doubts, fears and heartache. Alas, happy moments come and go as well. Along
with thick brown hair down to my waist, weight gained and lost, friends who've
moved on, parents who've died, illusions I'd constructed to stave off fear, and
my ability to drink wine without staying up all night with a racing heart.
Still, life is good as I approach my 60th birthday. Even on rainy
days. (I've embraced humidity because it gives thinning hair more body.) My
heart is full more often than it is empty. These days, my tears come more from
being moved than being scared.
I'm happy. I'm healthy.
And I finally understand the title of my mother's worn copy of Ram
Dass' book from the 60s.
Be Here Now.
****
Priscilla Warner co-authored The New York Times bestseller "The
Faith Club." Her new memoir, Learning to Breathe - My Yearlong Quest to Bring Calm to My Life,
was published by Free Press.
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