In Praise of the Second Half (poem and prompt)
I’m still here on the Oregon Coast but am beginning my journey home to Kentucky today. It feels odd to write those words because being here, surrounded by so much beauty and by a place and community that has wholly captured my heart, every day feels like a joyful journey home. I hope there’s a place on this planet that feels that way to you—and I hope you get to be there often!
Here’s my poem for today . . .
In Praise of the Second Half
There’s so much praise of waves, their wild power, their crushing roar, but I am taken by the quiet return, how—drama done, crescendo complete— wall of water paper thin trembles singing back to sea, every wrinkle reflecting light.
Prompt: Growing Older
This poem is about the ocean and about the shimmering return of water after a wave has crashed, but it’s also about life. Our culture is obsessed with youth, vigor, Olympian strength, and Hollywood sex appeal. I’m only 42, so feel free to scoff, but in my experience so far, there is such magic to growing older. I have more wrinkles than I used to, and I certainly have more gray hair, and my body and brain aren’t as fit or able as they once were (thanks, long Covid), but the creativity and light inside me grow with each year. I don’t need to be a roaring wave. I think I’d rather be a shining mirror, gently finding her way back to ocean.
This is, of course, just one way to think about growing older. There are as many ways to relate to aging as there are bodies and souls. It’s valid to rail against the indignities and discomforts of aging. It’s valid to be angered by the ageism and ableism in our society.
When you think about growing older, what comes up for you? When you settle into your body, what do you notice? What poem is waiting to be born?
I look forward to reading whatever you share!
(a crusty haiku from a cranky crab)
chance things start their stop.
and that dang check engine lite
keeps winking at me.
I lost my dad four years ago on February 22. I have found myself wondering what he would have been like had he been given the opportunity to grow old. He was so fiercely independent I’m almost grateful at times that he did not have to suffer the physical decline of aging.
On Not Aging
Sixty nine years had taken their toll,
In a dozen perceptible ways.
The bum knee that plagued you for years had grown worse.
The black curly hair grown thinner and gray.
Would old age have been gentle?
Its effects have been kind?
A gradual fading
Of body and mind?
Or would there have been ailments
And battles to fight?
Crippling your spirit
And dimming your light?
I suppose it’s a blessing
You had so little time
Six weeks not six months
Or six years of decline.
If aging’s a privilege,
Then so too was your death.
As you passed from this world
With your dignity left.
Karri Temple Brackett
02/07/24