I will survive
As I approach the 8th decade of my life, I become more appreciative of the comparison between the seasons of the year and the seasons of one’s life. It is not surprising this analogy is common among social scientists as well as poets.
Whether I am gathering with friends and colleagues in the mountains of North Carolina, enjoying hours of stimulating conversations with “retired’ friends and colleagues in Florida, gathering at the funeral home to help celebrate the life of someone who nearly reached the 9th decade of life, or enjoying amazing music at the Blossom Music Festival, it seems most of those I know who are now in the 7th, 8th and 9th decade enjoy a new sense of freedom and excitement in this stage of life. To be sure, some parts of the body may require a little more WD-40 than they did at 20, but even if some cane or even wheelchair assistance is needed, no place is too far away to make new discoveries of interesting food, refreshing opinions or amazing music.
As a young man I, as I am sure is still true for many young people, was constrained by the pressure to “make something of myself”, climb the highest professional mountain, make my parents proud, and obey all the culturally imposed rules. I often described this stage of life as life happening to me rather than me making choices. I “ended up” at places and institutions. No matter that they might have been considered prestigious places or institutions by some, they were not those which would encourage me to blossom into the man who would dance his own dance.
By the time I was in my forties I was emerging from my self-imposed cocoon. I was studying classical dance, exploring new possibilities professionally, and discovering that I could disco dance to the sounds of Gloria Gaynor’s “I will survive” until the hour when respectful people were in bed.
I began to discover that I had opinions and my own bounce. Some of my friends began to label my dance as flamboyant. It seemed that my spirit engine had been taken over by the likes of the energized bunny, Gloria Gaynor, and a cat with a curiosity which could complete with any scientist.
One might say that I had arrived at the ball and I did not notice when the clock struck midnight.
As I approach my 8th decade I am still in the process of arriving and claiming the zest for life which is not bound by anyone’s else rules; what others might think or say. Although I do not want to be disrespectful or offend anyone, neither will I sink into the winter season unless, of course, it is in the comfort of a spa in the Swiss Alps or even the West Virginia mountains surrounded by exciting, sensuous, people who are also claiming the spring of winter.
Let’s dance! Welcome winter, spring, summer, and fall!
September 5, 2018
501 words
As I approach the 8th decade of my life, I become more appreciative of the comparison between the seasons of the year and the seasons of one’s life. It is not surprising this analogy is common among social scientists as well as poets.
Whether I am gathering with friends and colleagues in the mountains of North Carolina, enjoying hours of stimulating conversations with “retired’ friends and colleagues in Florida, gathering at the funeral home to help celebrate the life of someone who nearly reached the 9th decade of life, or enjoying amazing music at the Blossom Music Festival, it seems most of those I know who are now in the 7th, 8th and 9th decade enjoy a new sense of freedom and excitement in this stage of life. To be sure, some parts of the body may require a little more WD-40 than they did at 20, but even if some cane or even wheelchair assistance is needed, no place is too far away to make new discoveries of interesting food, refreshing opinions or amazing music.
As a young man I, as I am sure is still true for many young people, was constrained by the pressure to “make something of myself”, climb the highest professional mountain, make my parents proud, and obey all the culturally imposed rules. I often described this stage of life as life happening to me rather than me making choices. I “ended up” at places and institutions. No matter that they might have been considered prestigious places or institutions by some, they were not those which would encourage me to blossom into the man who would dance his own dance.
By the time I was in my forties I was emerging from my self-imposed cocoon. I was studying classical dance, exploring new possibilities professionally, and discovering that I could disco dance to the sounds of Gloria Gaynor’s “I will survive” until the hour when respectful people were in bed.
I began to discover that I had opinions and my own bounce. Some of my friends began to label my dance as flamboyant. It seemed that my spirit engine had been taken over by the likes of the energized bunny, Gloria Gaynor, and a cat with a curiosity which could complete with any scientist.
One might say that I had arrived at the ball and I did not notice when the clock struck midnight.
As I approach my 8th decade I am still in the process of arriving and claiming the zest for life which is not bound by anyone’s else rules; what others might think or say. Although I do not want to be disrespectful or offend anyone, neither will I sink into the winter season unless, of course, it is in the comfort of a spa in the Swiss Alps or even the West Virginia mountains surrounded by exciting, sensuous, people who are also claiming the spring of winter.
Let’s dance! Welcome winter, spring, summer, and fall!
September 5, 2018
501 words
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