I can’t believe I’m saying this to myself or to you: I’m almost eighty.

How in the world did it happen so fast? One minute I was a young woman carrying endless dreams in her heart, and the next minute I was about to have a birthday that carried with it an endless stream of unsolicited warnings and cookie-cutter age-related assumptions.

I’ve been lucky so far. Most days, I don’t feel old. Sure, I’ve had numerous skin cancer surgeries, “glorious” age spots and wrinkles, and my knees, feet, hips, back, and neck occasionally remind me that they’ve faithfully been carrying me around for a while. And yes, sometimes I walk into a room and forget why.

But underneath all those minor, and sometimes not-so-minor annoyances, I still feel like that young woman whose heart is full of adventure, wonder, purpose, and possibility.

My mother lived to ninety-six. If someone asked her how old she was, she refused to answer them. Fiercely independent, the psychological stigma of ageism ignited her fury. She wanted people to see her as a unique, gifted, and whole person. Not an age.

I get why she made such a dramatic fuss. Here’s what I’ve been enduring lately:

“You should look into independent and assisted living. It’s time, you know.”

“Shouldn’t you move somewhere without stairs? I’m worried about you.”

“What’s your plan if something happens to you or your husband?”

Practical advice? Yes.

Did we visit a few continuing care places recently? Yes.

Are we ready to make any drastic changes right now? No.

There’s another downside to their well-meaning suggestions. I noticed that I was beginning to live inside an imaginary, catastrophic future that was starting to infiltrate every one of my precious moments. That’s not okay!

It’s also crazy-making to live in three time periods at once. Past, present, and future. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. Anyone else trying to do this impossible feat?

I’ve been trying to heal the past. That’s a tough one, right? The only person I can try to heal and care for is myself. I can’t force other people to heal if they aren’t ready.

At the same time, I’ve been trying to live in the present, create new and exciting projects, remain a positive presence, and enjoy every thriving minute. That’s not easy to do when you’re also thinking about the unhealed parts of your past.

And, as if living in the past and present at the same time aren’t enough torture, I’ve been worried about the future. Looking into different options for a myriad of unknown situations is—like I said before—crazy making!

Maybe you’re also living in these three different worlds at the same time, too. It’s unsettling, right? It feels like a rehearsal for situations that haven’t happened and may never happen.

Recently, I realized that enough is enough. I had stopped living in the only place that life can really happen.

The present.

I reminded myself that every time I rehearse for tomorrow’s disasters, I abandon the promise of today. Instead of asking, “What will happen if everything falls apart?” I’m asking different questions now:

What makes me come alive?

What makes my heart sing?

How can I continue being useful?

How can I contribute?

What will bring me more joy?

After hearing these questions, my wise inner guru answered me right away:

Nothing gives you more joy than teaching young children music, movement, and imagination. You loved that career for many years. Go back to it. Your age doesn’t matter. Give it a try.

I didn’t give myself time to over-think. In a blink, I sent an e-mail to the director of an early childhood learning center. It’s a loving place in which I had once been the children’s music teacher. I asked if she would consider hiring me again and what happened next made my heart sing.

“How can we make this work for you, Cheryl Melody? We’ll take you any time we can have you here.”

Dearest reader and friend, do you think that maybe there’s a higher reason why I never managed to sell or give away my favorite puppets, slide whistle, guitar, rhythm instruments, silly hats, mismatched socks, and oversized goofy glasses? Maybe it’s silly, but I do. I think they were all patiently waiting for me to come to my senses and come home to myself.

I can already hear their sweet little voices saying, “Hi, Cheryl Melody! Oh goodie! We’re doing music today!”

These young children with old souls teach me far more than I could ever teach them. Children remember important things that many of us forget along the way:

They laugh with their whole bodies.

They dance without worrying who’s watching.

They sing without wondering whether they’re good enough.

They become completely absorbed in the moment they’re living.

They know how to be playful.

They are endlessly curious and openhearted.

They don’t divide the world into “us” and “them.”

They don’t care who has the bigger house.

They don’t ask about political parties.

They aren’t born carrying the darkness of prejudice.

Young children are simply ready to play, learn, imagine, hug, and love. That’s it. I think that’s why children have always been my greatest teacher.

They don’t spend time rehearsing for tomorrow. They live where life vibrates love:

In this song.

This game.

This story.

This hug.

This magical moment.

No matter how old we are, sometimes magical moments of delight and wonder don’t take center stage enough. Especially these days. The news is both scary and heartbreaking. I don’t know about you, but if I’m not careful, fear could consume my life.

I can’t let that happen. I need those little voices, music, imagination, and laughter to remind me that goodness is alive and well and thriving.

While those in a position of power are bullying, abusing, and disappearing another human being, others are planting gardens, comforting strangers, making music, feeding hungry families, standing for justice, praying, painting, volunteering, or quietly helping a neighbor.

If you catch yourself rehearsing for tomorrow’s catastrophes, maybe it’s time to ask a different question:

What makes me come alive?

Then listen. Really listen.

Maybe it’s painting.

Writing.

Gardening.

Volunteering.

Being still and deep breathing for a few minutes.

Dancing.

Taking a walk on the beach.

Holding someone’s hand.

Listening to the birds.

Singing.

Creating.

Forgiving.

Sitting quietly with someone or with yourself…listening, sharing, caring, loving.

So, please think of me and wish me luck in October. This young eighty-year-old will be singing, strumming her guitar, marching in imaginary parades, bringing multicultural puppets to life, telling stories, encouraging children’s imaginations to dream of the impossible becoming possible, and looking for those beautiful and unexpected moments to teach kindness, friendship, empathy, cooperation, and love.

Oh, and one more thing. You’ll also find me giggling and laughing far more than any respectable almost-eighty-year-old is “supposed to” laugh.

Before I close, I’d like to offer you, my dear reader, a bit of unsolicited advice, too.

Keep a focused lens on all the elements in life that create more light and joy for your body, mind, and spirit.

Take time to deep breathe your breath. Don’t inhale anyone else’s breath, negative thoughts, or toxic emotions.

Notice more of your moments. Stay in the present. Magical moments may happen to you when you least expect it.

Smile at a stranger, ask their name, make them matter, and chat with them a little. The world needs your soft power. Now, more than ever.

Laugh more often.

Don’t overthink.

Take risks and a leap of faith.

Release your inner critic and send it off to a planet far away. This character doesn’t serve you or serve anyone else around you either.

Do all the little and big things that make your heart sing.

Find new purposes for your life. It’s healing medicine for your spirit.

Make plans, but don’t plan everything. Let go. Leave room for spontaneity Trust the mystical magic of the unknown.

None of us know how many tomorrows we’ll be given. Today is here, and today is asking us to love, sing, dance, and laugh more often than we did yesterday.

Oh, and by the way, happy birthday. Even if it’s not your real birthday, I’ve always felt that every new day is an opportunity for rebirth, gratitude, renewal, another chance, and celebration.

~

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