Growing Old

Poem No. 177

I’ve been feeling my age recently.

I can see the marker of my first half century peeking at me, from just over the horizon, and this phase comes with… unique delights.

I seem to have suddenly acquired the ability to sustain minor injury by ‘taking a weird step’ or ‘sitting the wrong way’. Some scoundrel has gone through my books, retroactively making the print smaller. And I recently got very animated when discussing a new pair of socks.

But here’s the thing I’m discovering about ‘feeling my age’:

My new socks are comfy as hell.

I have been feeling my age recently, in all sorts of wonderful ways. Yes, there are pains and fears and losses, but I’m also calmer than I’ve ever been. At peace in ways I could not have imagined in my youth. I feel a vast gentleness approaching, and I welcome it. I’m braver now. More joyful. Less certain, more assured. Less likely to waste time or resources on things I don’t care about. More likely to invest in daily delight and buy the really good socks.

More patient, more curious, more in love.

More and more of so many things.

---

---

Untitled

We do not call it 
withering old
or fading old
or cracking old
or crumbling old
or breaking old.

We call it
growing old,
to remind ourselves
we are gardens
that bloom right through
to our final dawn.

---

---

I hope my poem today finds you wearing amazing socks.

If you would like to share it with someone, I would be so honored. Here’s a handy image for you:

Thanks for reading,
~ A

---

If you enjoyed this poem, please like, share, comment, and/or subscribe, all of which help to promote my work:

You can also:

---