Being 50

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     Next month I am celebrating a milestone birthday and decided that I would share my reflections of the past five decades. I scribbled down thoughts on Post-its, thinking how those pearls of wisdom would turn into this magnum opus that would attract readers from far and wide. Instead, when I sat in front of my laptop with those scraps of paper, I couldn't write anything. Not one word. Zilch!

     My first response was to berate myself for ever thinking I could write in the first place. (I am very good at mental self flagellation!) It occurred to me, however, that my mistake was writing with the sole purpose of attracting the reader instead of writing for myself. If I am not being true to myself in my writing (and life) then everything I project rings hollow. There is always a risk in showing your true self. What if people see me and don't like that person? At my age I think the risk is worth taking, so I will share a few of those Post-its.

My cute shoe days are over, and that's okay.

     This may seem like a shallow statement, but in my younger days I could skip down the cobblestones of Faneuil Hall in three inch spiked heels at 2 a.m. without a second thought of spraining an ankle. A few years down the road I would wear the cute shoes and bring the practical ones in an oversized bag. Today, I test run a pair of shoes for 5 minutes before going out, and if I am thinking about my feet once during that time, I ditch them. I would rather be present in my surroundings and the people I am with, instead of thinking about my feet! The same applies to uncomfortable clothing and complicated hair.

I am never too old to learn something new.

    When I was 19, I went to Disney's Epcot with my mother and sister. The park was brand new and only half the countries in the World Showcase had been built. I remember viewing the progression of human communication on Spaceship Earth and marveling at scenes depicting future children talking to each other through television screens. Of course, the attraction has since been updated several times, because the progression far surpassed anything Disney could imagine.

     It has been amazing coming of age during this incredible surge in technology. Our “Spaceship Earth” has indeed become a smaller place, with the exchange of thoughts and ideas via social media and the internet. I know personally, I discover something new everyday, and with an open curious mind the capacity to learn is endless. Hopefully technology will some day help people see past their own stagnant dogmas and focus on our commonality instead of what sets us apart. It is indeed a Small World After All.

I am grateful for this body.

     I am starting to appreciate this vessel of mine no matter what its size or appearance, which is a giant leap from my 22-year-old self that thought she was too fat at a size 7. I am thankful for wide capable hips that brought new life into the world. My furrowed brows are a reminder of how many times I was able to squint into the sunlight and I am grateful to have laughed so much as to create some lines. I look at every scar, stretch mark and wrinkle as a road map to this body's journey. I also realize that I should treat this vessel a little bit kinder and in a more healthful way, so the journey may continue for years to come.

It really is all about L-O-V-E

     Millions of songs have been written about it, movies are based on it, and there are websites to help you find it (although be careful what words you put into your search engine). It is love. Everybody wants it, but strangely enough it is hard to define.

I recently found a wonderful quote from Brene Brown in The Gift of Imperfection. She writes:

Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow. A connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them—we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.

     Loving yourself is not an easy task, (see mental self flagellation above). I wish I were evolved enough to say, that it is rare for me to have a self-defeating thought during any given day, but I am getting better at recognizing those thoughts for what they are. Writing has helped enormously, although it still takes some courage to share what I write, as I am left vulnerable to scrutiny. I know that when I am feeling secure within myself, it opens the doors to better connections with family and friends, and especially my writing. It also points me into a direction of higher purpose.

     I have also learned that the best parts of me have always been there. I am still the little girl singing next to her father while he plays the piano and the giggling teenager surrounded by high school friends. I am still the young bride looking forward to a future with her groom and I will forever be a mom worrying about her children's welfare well into their adulthood. Though outward appearances have changed I remain essentially me, although now at 50...even more so.

The Riddle

by Gail Balentine

          She had entered and left through that gate countless times during childhood and beyond. As she went through for this last visit, the usual squeak announced her arrival. She looked at the house and was sad to think of her parents in another place. Even though she and her brother had left years ago, it was still "home" as long as their parents were there.
     She walked up the path, into the house, and through each room. Family meals, pets, fights with her brother, Christmas parties, and friends' faces came to mind. And then she remembered the summer of her junior year and sat down on a stair to let her memories play out like a television rerun.
     She and her twin brother were 17, filled with thoughts of all the "cool" things they could do if only they had a car. Dinner discussions were dominated by efforts to wrangle the Chevy for Saturday nights.
     One particular evening, their father tried to introduce something different. Concerned they were racing so fast they would miss important moments, he cautioned them to pay more attention to details, to really look at their lives and the people and things in it. The advice fell on deaf teenage ears.
     Not one to give up easily, the next night he had a proposition. Whoever could solve his riddle in the next week could have the car every Saturday night for the summer. The riddle was: "The answer I seek is a representation of our family, something right in front of you that you see and touch every day, something that speaks when you touch it, and something that I doubt you ever really notice."
     Her brother, bragging he could get the car if he solved the riddle, turned to football buddies for advice; they were clueless. She went to the library and looked up famous riddles but after reading them was no closer to solving her father's particular riddle. Both of them put their minds to the task. They searched the house, the car, and the school for answers. she remembered her mother saying it was, hands down, the quietest week since they'd been born.
     The deadline came and went with no answers found. No amount of begging got him to reveal any more clues. Instead, he replied that he was confident one of them would figure it out one day and gave them his oft repeated advice: "Just try to slow down a bit and pay more attention to what's going on around you." The episode faded into family lore and while now and then she'd thought about the riddle, time passed and no solution had presented itself.
     She stood up and went to check that all doors and windows were locked. The new owners were signing the papers the next day and her father had asked her to make one final round. She sighed as she went onto the porch, stepped down, and paused for a last look around the yard.
      Finally, her eyes focused on the gate and there it was-"something right in front of you that you see and touch every day, something that speaks when you touch it"and certainly some-thing she never really noticed. When she was small, her father had replaced the gate pickets with five he had carved to look like a man, a woman, a boy, a girl and a dog - together they were a representation of their family. She lovingly touched each picket before she left.
     She was grinning on the way to her car as she reached for her cell phone.....

East Boston, Back Then

East Boston, Back Then
by Liz Ciampa

Today I imagine him in an East Boston dance hall
Back in his prime, in the late 1940s, the early '50s,

Because it must have been where he learned
To waltz like that.  To tango, swing, even to jitterbug,

But, mostly, to waltz to the big band --
Not to the digitally remastered recordings that

I listen to today.  No.  Instead, he hears the real thing, live:
The brass section.  Those horns.  The whinnying trumpet.

The onslaught of drums just before the singer --
Sinatra, Bennett, even a good baritone from the neighborhood --

Blessed with the velvet big band voice, takes over,
But just for a bit.  The crooner gives the crowd a taste.

Then, ever the gentleman, he hands the night back to the band
While the piano proposes transition with light, thoughtful chords.

As the saxophone swells, the piano trills quietly in the background
And the other instruments take a step back,

The young man finds himself in the middle of "A Moonlight Serenade"
With a "Satin Doll" on his arm, and no matter what,

He and I -- though it is sixty years later for me, today, his
Eighty-second birthday -- realize, suddenly, that we are

"In a Sentimental Mood."  I wasn't alive back then, but today, I can conjure him up:
The thick chestnut hair.  The dark-brown eyes.  The rhythm of his waltz.

The way he looks at his partner:  she glows.  He radiates honesty,
Strength and smarts and promise.  A rare breed.  Quite a man.

 

(Ciampa, Liz. "East Boston, Back Then." Wilderness House Literary Review. Cambridge, MA:
     Spring, 2010. Volume 5, Number 1. Print and online.)

Letter to Death

 by Law Hamilton

Dear Death,

I feel your foreboding presence again; as your hands grip and hold me: taunting, daring, challenging.

My race against the clock begins.

I take a deep breath to calm the rising wave of panic.  

But, you have taken away my breath and panic crashes through me.   

Battles being fought in my blood.  

Every cell a casualty.  

Deep and deeper it goes, we shall see who gives up his hold.

The seconds that tick by feel like hours, feverishly I watch the clock.

TIME CRITICAL - internal forces fail

For all the help I can reach, I grab

An outside source of adrenaline from which my thigh registers a stab.

te

        ine

        eigh

                   ven

                               six

                                          fi

                                                  four

                                                             three

                                                                                     Two

                                                                                               ONE

It is not the first, nor will it be the last time, I will see your face.

This time I have won,