70 Feels Just Fine

I’m 70, born March 21, 1954, nine months and 15 days after my parents’ wedding day. I feel like I’m looking out an airplane window at my life. The more distant I get from my beginnings, the better I see the pattern, the path, and how it connects to the larger tapestry, how the unimaginable and the obvious flow together to become ordinary. When I turned 60, I was a widow living in the Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, farming cows and goats and chickens by myself, living a dream I had when I was 50. At 60 I realized I wasn’t going to be able to continue the hard physical labor of managing livestock. It was a heartbreaking realization in a chain of heartbreaks that I was coping with at the time. At 62, I sold the farm and went searching for a new self. It wasn’t the first soul searching journey of my life, and I expect it won’t be the last. That’s the pattern I see from up here at 70.

We can be intentional about change, or we can wait for circumstances to change us. I swing both ways. Sometimes I have a plan for how I want my life to be. Other times, shit happens. Since 2020, my personal life has been a happy accident. But in the back of my mind there’s an atomic clock ticking away in subtle reminder that this too shall pass. The irony I feel in my bones is how I’m living the Mary Poppins Practically Perfect in Every Way life, while civilization unravels. Shit is happening on a global scale. The pandemic seems to have been the opening act of a Shakespearean tragedy where power hungry archetypes drag us into cataclysm. And yet, I’m having a good day. The sun is shining, and the flowers are blooming. My happy accident has evolved into conscious coupling with my cohabitant. At 70, my plan is to get small and shelter in place, a very nice place. 

My secret sauce is faith in the future. There was only one path to this moment, and it is the path I took. The odds are not stacked against me. My odds of success are even. My personal situation could go either way, good or bad. Luck of the draw. It’s a crap shoot. Been there, done that. I am resilient. That gives me an edge. I’m living a minimalist lifestyle prepared to adapt to the changes ahead, whatever they may be. If I live to be 80, I’ll be 11 years younger than my dad is right now, and he just rode his motorcycle 30 miles for a cheeseburger. That’s my gene pool. So, 80 here I come! The youngs may look at me and see an old lady, but I’m looking forward to adventures they can’t even imagine. 

70 feels just fine. In my 60s, when it first hit me that I was getting old, I thought a lot about the end of time. When I looked at the horizon I saw tombstones. I started this blog to give myself a purpose on a schedule that would keep me moving through my weeks. The title of my blog then was Beyond 60—Loving Life, Staying Relevant. Never imagined I would still be doing it at 70. Recently, I changed the name of my blog to Living Out Loud. I can imagine doing that as long as I can breathe. Part of writing this weekly epistle is sharing the process of aging. It has worked for me. I have taught myself to be satisfied. The blog enlarged my perspective to include women everywhere in the English-speaking world. I feel a sense of community, and I am grateful for the many points of connection. I feel whole, and that in itself is a small miracle.

So, at 60, I was afraid of getting old. Now at 70, I’m fucking Mary Poppins. Yahtzee!!! I can only hope the next decade goes as well as the last. 70 is a grandiose elevation. Somedays I feel like I know everything I need to know. Age confers a false sense of omniscience. When you’re 10 you think you can boss your little brother around, and when you’re 70 you still think you can boss your little brother around. Self-confidence is risky business. There remain plenty of wrong turns to be made, stories to get lost in, misguided insights, and cringey laughs. My future mistakes are out there hiding in the bushes like hungry cats waiting to pounce. I expect I’ll make a fool of myself running naked on the internet. But that’s the plan. Staying connected, sharing perspective, and listening as we witness the unimaginable and the obvious flow together to become ordinary.