Ageless

This is a poem I wrote three years ago in April 2021, not long after the peak of the of the Covid pandemic with its lockdowns, solitude, and extreme distancing from others so as not to be infected with a virus that was killing hundreds of thousands of people, mostly those over 65 like myself. The new vaccine had just become available. Hope was on the horizon. The terrible, frightening images of old folks trapped and dying in nursing homes that became hotspots for the disease, were still fresh in my mind.
Fortunately, in my case, an introverted nature, decent health, and ability to thrive living alone for prolonged periods, we’re saving graces. That, and my natural, lifelong cautiousness and wariness, enabled me to weather this grievous chapter in our civilization’s existence.

I walked in the park and took photos every day, and this preserved my sanity. Nature had never before been such a protector and comforter as I made my way along paths filled with gardens and flowers, and into small wooded areas of very old and tall oak trees.

It was this sanctuary and a comfortable home to live in that gave me enough peace of mind to be able to write the poem in its original form. I was still living in the beautiful house downtown that was my mother’s home for many years, and where I had moved in 2010 to take care of her as her dementia got significantly worse. So a year later, I was also still dealing with my grief over Mom’s passing in late January 2020, just a few months before the start of the pandemic. It was a time like none of us had ever experienced before.

I have this afternoon re-read and slightly revised the poem from 2021, making changes which can bear significance mainly to me. This, I think, is partly the reason we revise poems we decide to share with others when and where we can. Or. as with this poem, one written primarily to share and self-publish online The internet has made this possible for anyone such as myself to do.

This is the only poem I have written in the past 25 years.

“Ageless”

I
Growing old is not something
That time should allow
Because we age in our bodies
But not in our minds.
Our souls are young and eternal,
But our bodies are in mortal decay.
One lifts up the other
In a grand and exquisite dance of life,
A balancing act until the final breath.
And then what happens?
Is there the celestial light
I’ve so often heard about?
The spirit moves me to act,
To at least seek the answers
I cannot know beforehand,
For in seeking, I am knowing.
Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do
When we get old?
“Seek and ye shall find.”

II
I am old, but I don’t know it.
I was young, but I didn’t know it.
When you are young,
You cannot possibly know
What it means to be old.
But when you are old,
You are constantly reminded
Of who you were
When you were young,
Or at least what
You might have been like.

III
But now it’s okay
That I am old.
I try to remember
What it was like to be young.
My thoughts flicker among
Age and time,
Youth and death.
I never thought of dying
(seriously, that is)
When I was young.
Now it’s often,
Unyieldingly,
Almost casually
In the back of my mind.

IV
For you see, I realize my soul
Is waiting patiently for the right time
To take flight.
Will I struggle to remain here
Out of fear of the unknown?
No matter what
Earthbound mortality wants,
My soul wants to be free
To be someone
Somewhere else.
Or at least it appears that way
As I open doors of perception
And see hazily into the beyond.

V
Life has been pain and sorrow,
Joy and release.
Anguish and sadness.
And happiness that dashes off
In search of itself
But doesn’t last.

VI
It’s strange, but the older
I get, the more I realize
That when I was depressed
And afterward,
I was most aware
Of the deepest spiritual truths
Because I knew they could save me.
And I needed to be saved from myself.
On the other hand,
When things are going well,
In harmony with life,
I then have the misplaced confidence
To indulge in what grieves my spirit
And alters the flow of life
Toward its opposite:
Death.

VII
Why do I do this?
Because I want to,
And I’m feeling strong enough
To bear the consequences.
And then I fall,
Or at least lean far back
Into regret and guilt,
But then forward again
Into flow of life.

VIII
Cycles of my life.
Never ending
Until they cease.
Yin and Yang,
Good versus evil,
Light and darkness.
I think that without these conflicts
And opposites
Pulling me constantly
In different directions
I would be nothing,
Blank and empty
But content enough.
God save me from myself.

IX
I am old now,
But I’ve turned my suffering
Into a form of wisdom
That can never be taken from me
By others or myself,
Or by false prophets who come and go.
Wisdom remains
To weigh the words
And balance the thoughts and actions
Of others.
To look at how they are living their lives,
Through their thoughts and actions.
I’ll turn away from them when I have to.
I’ll get much closer when I need to
Despite everything,
Despite clinging to the deepest,
Most  impenetrable, solitary ways.

X
I still chase after butterflies.
I marvel at the miracles
Of rainbows and sunsets.
I can still smile
When I hear the laughter of children.
I can dance when I am sitting,
And climb up stairs easily enough,
And walk briskly.
I can move and bend,
And sway in the wind,
And listen to the chimes
And the birds pouring forth
Such songs of pure joy
That I stop in my tracks to listen.
Spring is the time of year
When my spirit literally
Does soar.
It takes in the blades of grass,
The new green leaves
The cool fresh air
And the sparkling clear light
Of late afternoon.
It is fully alive now
And then.
So life is good in his moment
Where discouragement, depression,
Anger and self-pity
Fade slowly away for awhile
And deep in the invisibly starry night
Comes  peace, and sleep
And beautiful dreams
Beyond my comprehension,
At last.we