Eyes Sharp and Shiny

Spring, which comes early in North Florida, has intoxicated me. But, my head is not so buried in blossoms that I’ve forgotten about my mission here: to discover the beauty in aging, in general, and wrinkles, in particular.

Things are looking up! Since those bleak days in late January and early February when I was recovering from the flu, I have been a busy bird. Attending two classes the entrance requirements for which were age—only those fifty-five and older were allowed—have kept me and my red truck flying up and down the road.

And, wrinkles! For the past couple of months, my friends, I’ve had a flock of wrinkles to gaze upon. What better opportunity for me than finding a group of wrinkled writers!

Flashback to February and March:

I am sitting in a room at the university, surrounded by twenty or so aspiring writers. We are signed up for a memoirs writing class. Each week for six weeks we are prompted and inspired by the instructor, a woman who proved to be extremely adept at finding something worthwhile in our earnest chicken scratchings.

Every Tuesday morning the classroom flutters with creative energy, eyes sharp and shiny, claws clutching a life-time’s worth of stories. There is Patricia, who’s written about her nocturnal escapades in search of an offending armadillo, and Denise with her stories about her adopted daughter. There is Bill who’s got a tale about losing his footwear, and nearly his life, going over a waterfall, and Cam, who writes a story about her daughter that will stop your heart.

And, there is Mary Jo, who’s lived a long and rich life, grateful for all of it, and eager to get down her stories for her grandchildren. She doesn’t know it, but I am as fascinated by the lines and grooves on her face and arms as by the stories she tells. Her face is expressive and when she talks, her facial wrinkles jiggle and re-adjust themselves, emphasizing what she is saying, like quotation marks and exclamation points punctuating her prose.

I perch on the edge of my chair in the room each week and gobble up the stories of these people like me who are confident enough to believe they have something to say, humble enough to learn, and courageous enough to risk exposing who they really are.

But this spring brought me not just a group of writers. It also brought me a set of ten elderwomen, juicy with adrenaline and the willingness to step out of their comfort zones, to try…(the drums are rolling, the mockingbirds are singing)…improv. Yes, improv, as in improvisational acting.

In one class, we were given the opportunity to choose a hat to wear, then in a minute or two to come up with a character who might wear that hat. With no time to think about it, we were paired with another member of the class and were given a setting in which to dramatize…something. In one skit, I wore a red-feathered, prim little hat and was a Frenchwoman whose husband had gotten lost at a carnival. The exhilaration of winging it through this silly drama had me flying high for the rest of the evening.

This group of ten women came together, once a week for eight weeks, through the efforts of a woman named Martha who has taught acting classes for a decade to people over the age of fifty-five.

There was Tisha, quick on her feet, who gave an improbably engaging monologue on the red reading glasses that hung around her neck. There was Sue, who cracked me up as a park ranger, imposing in her wide-brimmed hat, drolly insulting her audience. And there was Ann, whose blue eyes and body language had me laughing as she cried in an imaginary clock shop over her dear, departed—also imaginary—husband.

What prompted these women to risk looking inept? What made them want to stand in front of others with no script, just wits and wrinkles? Likely, it is the same thing that prompted me. It is that gift of aging—that wriggling and writhing, primitive urge to come unbound. It is the sometimes kindly, sometimes raspy voice from within that says, “If not now, when?”

So, I sit now, poised, surveying the landscape. Both of the spring classes are over, but have allowed me to see, more and more, how eager I am—a fledgling that’s finding her wings—to create what I can in the time I have left. And, how about you? What is one thing you are doing today that is prompted by your inner voice to take a risk, to step off your comfortable limb and test your wings? What is it that you do that keeps your eyes sharp and shiny and makes you want to sing?

These past couple of months have also brought me the acquaintance of some like-minded, creative little chicks whose blogging efforts are something to behold. Please check them out. And, oh my, there is serendipity in the wind! As I am finishing this post, I have visited the site of Piglet in Portugal (http://pigletinportugal.wordpress.com), who has some wonderful pictures of weathered old men and some engaging comments about her own aging process. And I have stopped in at the site of Enjoy Creating (http://enjoyscreating.wordpress.com) to find some lovely photos, including a robin with nesting material in its beak. And, lastly, I have recently met Midlife Train Ride (http://midlifetrainride.wordpress.com) whose posts are beautifully honest, as she explores her yearnings for balance and a more creative life.

I invite you, also, to see my other writing at http://madwomandancing.wordpress.com and http://dancetheriver.wordpress.com. At http://www.elderwomenmusings.wordpress.com you will see my writing and photography and that of three other elderwomen.