A cohort of penguins.
A friend called us a “cohort.” Each each age group, each cohort, she noted, touches ground at the same time. Meaning, we have babies, we buy a house, we send our children to college, we become grandparents, we buy a smaller house, we move into a condo. We do this, or something like this, in unison. At the moment, it appears that “we” are moving into a senior “Club.”
We’ve lived at the south end of this building for eight years. We’re moving to the far north end.
This would have sounded apocalyptic to me just a few years ago. The best I can describe the feeling at present is relief. The idea of having our dinner prepared, a gym available plus exercise classes, plus various classes, all under one roof, ours, is a relief. I admit, this is largely because Jerry’s mobility is limited and his health is shaky. But I won’t mind the change at all.
“Our” (the collective, again) energy declines. My original, excellent body has been battered over the years by cancer and various surgeries. I’m pretty darn good, considering. But the long walks and bike rides I used to do make my back hurt. Cooking for a dinner party makes my back hurt. I am continuing to write, of course.
So Wobbly, for now, will be the saga of our move. We went to the intake meeting with the CEO, COO, Marketing Manager, and Wellness Director. It was quite lovely. They asked us about our history, our careers, our lives. They asked us about our needs. They were really listening, with interest.
One person mentioned my “avocation” of writing poems. She probably said that automatically, without thinking. It happens a lot, the idea that poetry is something done “on the side.” Often there’s a “day job,” of course, as my entire university career was. But as you know, if you’re a writer, it’s not a hobby. It is the expression of your being that keeps unfolding no matter how you might wish it to quit troubling you. If you fail, if no one wants what you’ve written, you are tortured half to death. I’ve seen it so many times.
Just joking, kind of.
As I said last time, we must enter through the usual purgatory. In order to get on the “internal” waitlist, we first have to first take whatever is available, which in this case is a very small one-bedroom apartment in the assisted living section. We’ll store most of our furniture and sell the rest.
The Residential Services Director and I have mapped out every inch of the space, put tape on the floor, to see what we can fit in. BUT who knows, by the time we move in, there may be a different one available.
We have our first showing on Monday. We’d thought the hordes would immediately swarm, considering the beauty of our condo and the lack of places to buy in Traverse City. But it’s slow. The stock market is shaky right now. People may be skittish.
So, you’re listening patiently to these details. But what you’re really interested in is how it feels. When I was younger, I’d have wanted to know, how does it FEEL to be old, or older. Answer: it feels the same. That is, your consciousness travels along with you so that you can’t say how it’s different. Was that really “you” twenty years ago? Weren’t you that “you,” not this “you”?
Photo by Beth Trepper, one one of many tries for the cover of Breathing In, Breathing Out. She loved glamor. A friend once called this “Poet as Babe.”
I try to imagine myself 40 years ago. Not possible. The me of the present goes along for the ride. We all imagine who we are anyway. We make it up. Other people don’t see the person I think I am. They see what they imagine. Not to worry. It has always been thus. I think if we really soaked in this fact, we’d quit fretting about how we appear, both to ourselves and to others.
Revelation: old people are not “old people.” They’re individuals who have had, and often are still having, complex lives, marked with joy and suffering.
In our cottage there are stairs that go to the loft. Before we replaced them, each one was smoothly concave from wear. They had a noble shine. One would have wanted to go on climbing them forever. But nothing is forever.
The P.S. . . . .
This Friday at 7:00, “National Poetry Month’s Last Blast!” at Horizon Books in Traverse City. I’m reading with Jennifer Steinorth, Catherine Turnbull, Anne-Marie Oomen, and Teresa Scollon. We’re doing a spontaneous round-robin, one poem, one poet, responding to the other. Please join us if you can.
May 16th, at 10:30 -12:00 a.m., I’ll be at the Dennos Museum, leading a poetry workshop called “Looking for the Magic.” We’ll look at some poems that find the spark of magic in some paintings. Then we’ll explore the museum and choose one object that sends a jolt of excitement through us. We’ll study it and take notes. How is it made? Why does it attract us? What parts of the object catch our attention? Then we’ll come back together and work on a poem that attempts to capture that moment of excitement on paper. This is FREE, supported by the Dennos and the Traverse Area District Library.