itsawonderfilledlife

The fifties, a decade of changes, once known as the time in a woman’s life as ‘the change’. In the beginnings I joyfully embraced this season of freedom to wear white pants every day of the month. Rediscovered the new me, without the highs and lows of hormone fluctuation. Added to the physical changes were family changes, as the rooms of our children began to empty, as changes in hubby’s career meant less demands on myself.

Now, sitting squarely in the middle of this decade, along with the pounds that refuse to budge, the aches that come from sleeping too long on one side as opposed to tenacious physical exertion, the fatigue that seems to never go away, the hairs that grow inches in the night on chin (only to be discovered after the work day), the wings that have developed from the flesh of my upper arms, the tugs (real and perceived) of generations before and beyond, the areas of life where one of this stage is simply no longer needed … one might wonder about identity, purpose.

“I used to float,
now I just fall down
I used to know,
but I’m not sure now
What I was made for?”
-Billie Eilish

Yet, there is something more to being a woman in her fifties, more than the oft common feeling of being dried up and drifting …

There is a connection, a solidarity with all women, of all ages.

A woman shared a new song with me. It was the same day a young mum at church was holding her precious child, bellowing loudly his hunger, unhappiness, fatigue (so many reasons to bellow in this life). The same day a young woman shared her thankfulness for her foster mum who taught her what her mum of blood and flesh and DNA could not, due to her dependence of drugs. The same day a friend messaged it’s time for an ice cream, even though we will probably need to wait until the end of the school year. The same day a young man, living away from family, came for dinner and the realization set in that this is how we fulfil vows made by a congregation to one who is baptized or become a member. As I looked across the room to one who has become like a daughter, whose own momma lives so far away,

I smiled as I realized the grace in being a woman, loving for other women, loving other’s children, supporting each other, lifting each other up, laughing and crying with other women. A word, a touch, a connection whispering into the souls of other women.

“She’s the artist that paints in the colours unseen
Every stroke of her brush is an act of belief
She’s a true work of art
She is playing her part of a woman
What a woman”
That Woman

Read Full Post »

In my lifetime I have memories of making cards for my mum, feeling sorrow on this day as pregnancy loss seemed to overwhelm, joy to hold the hand of my littles, overwhelm from the expressions of love from my grown ones, and feeling regret for what I’d done or undone as a mum.

It was Friday night past, though, when my three gifted my mother-heart, in a most deep and meaningful way … and they hadn’t an inkling.

Earlier in the evening I’d noticed posts from Eastern Canada of the gorgeous Northern Lights thanks to a rare, high level geometric storm. This fueled my desire to witness this natural phenomenon. So, after the sun had set, I ended up on our back deck, seeing the show of a lifetime just overhead, with hubby and our son, while taking SO many pictures.

As I stood with my son, looking up, I was transported to dark August nights, from years ago. My three and me in our backyard, sitting in lawn chairs, or lying on the ground, eyes to the heavens, waiting with anticipation for falling stars in the annual meteor shower. I remember smiling, ear to ear, in the dark, as my children were rapt in awe. The same awe and wonder that has fueled my life, given me hope and joy when life was challenging, hard, unpleasant.

I almost mentioned that memory to my aurora-seeking son but …

well,

what if he didn’t remember? what if that memory was mine alone?

No. I would just enjoy this moment of shared joy.

Then, he directed me to his phone, to the images sent on our family text group. Images of the same lights we were viewing. They were images from 40km NW, 50km NE … where my daughters were, also looking up to the sky, also rapt in wonder.

In that moment, I knew I had shared something good, something even eternal, with my kids. I had shared my sense of wonder to my littles,

who grabbed onto it, years ago, with grubby, chubby little fingers, eyes and toes,

and they are still rapt in awe of the creation all around them.

He who can no longer pause to wonder
and stand rapt in awe,
is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.”

Albert Einstein

Read Full Post »