Love Letter to My Life #70: Life list of a different color
And, maybe I'm just dandelion fluff
(We know the day we were born, but most of us do not know the day we will die. This love letter to my life is written on the day I've designated as my death day: the 17th of every month, and reminds me to be grateful for my joy-filled life.” —Joyce Wycoff)
(Aside for all writers and particularly Substack writers: as good as Substack is, they can’t give us the statistics that really matter. Out beyond likes and comments, subscribers and paid subscriptions, there is a thing called connection which is impossible to measure, but critical to remember. Below is a “proof story.”)
Months ago (1/26/2024 to be exact)
and I had a conversation (to be a bit more accurate, he wrote a post and I wrote back to him in my journal). His post was: When You Arrive, Send Me a Postcard 10 Things I Would Tell My Younger Self ... yeah, one of those lists ... been there; done that … however, this one took an interesting twist.I was skimming through my too many emails, as most of you do most mornings when his first line stopped me.
“Living is hard.”
I actually felt my brain screech to a halt. Is living really hard? This gift of waking up every morning? Or is it easy, like the song says, “... and the cotton is high”? Or maybe it’s a bit of both or absolutely neither? Perhaps, beyond the hard times and the sweet times, it’s just a moment-to-moment making of it whatever we make of it.
Pondering on that, and wondering why we need another one of those lists, I made it to #1 of the 10 things he said he’d tell his younger self: (Remember, I have a lot of younger selves to tell things to.)
1. You might be unique, but you’re not special. Yup, 172 self-help books later, I know that one.
However, suddenly I’m thinking about all the ways I really want to be special ... I want to be as kind as Mother Teresa (which I have to google to remember whether or not she uses the “h” in her name ... obviously not); with as much grit as Amanda Palmer and her 8 foot bride; as much simple humor as Annie Lamott; as wise as Maya Angelou, as word-beautiful as Amanda Gorman ... (aha a clue, maybe I should change my name to Amanda) ... and I go on until I get to a would-be state of perfection, at which point I would, indeed, be special.
Until I remember I’m 78 and can’t possibly live long enough to get to any of those “special” places. Fuck it, and move on to #2.
2. No one is watching you so stop performing. One gift of getting old is that you know no one is watching. They probably stopped watching some time ago, but it’s perfectly clear at this point that I am free from the expectations of others. Breathing regularly seems to be enough.
At the beginning of the year I got seduced by the idea of having a grand adventure in Mexico. I planned it out, talked about it with friends and everyone here on Substack ... “Wow! Old lady adventure in the dark dangerous halls of Mexico. How cool Go, for it,” the responses came in.
Then I started waffling and the responses turned to, “That’s ok! Do what you want!”
Part of me wanted people to say ... “No! Go! It’s an adventure.” The other part just felt relief and like a long nap would be just fine.
I’m not sure how old I was when I realized that the world had no expectations of me. On the whole, it is a good thing ... I have the freedom to do what I want ... however, it means figuring out what I want when I’ve already done a lot and doing very little at all is right nice.
Ben gets around to this point in #4. You must know what you want to get it.
About that time, I hit the wall, check out and decide I’m on the wrong list and switch to a new one. (Thanks, Ben … you prompted a lot of thought.)
What would I tell my older self?
The one who may no longer have the health and energy I currently have. The one who may already see the light shining through the crack in death’s door. The one who as Erma Bombeck said doesn’t even buy green bananas. What should I tell that self?
Love someone or something. A child, a pet, a petunia. Connect with some living thing. Sit in a garden and feel life growing around you.
Remember the good times. You loved and were loved. You had friends. You got to see sunrises and sunsets and different parts of the planet. You saw many beautiful things and places, experienced a rapidly changing world, and contributed what you could.
Create as long as you can. Take photos. Make art. Write. They were great gifts in your life, let them tell the story of the last phases of your life. You may have to find different ways of creating, but don’t stop.
Be generous and leave a piece of you behind. Even if it’s just a thank you note to the people helping you through the end or a rock that was special to you.. Give away your treasures; they are the sacred relics of your life. You are an ancestor to more people than you will know ... maybe only because you once said a kind word at an important moment.
Hold on to the possibility that you’re off to a different adventure. Maybe you’ll come back for another round on Earth or go off to explore a different Universe. And, if not, you won’t know it anyway so you might as well look forward to the possibility.
Don’t say yes to anything you don’t want to say yes to. This is still your life. If you don’t want extreme medical treatment, it’s your right to refuse it. If you have your paperwork in place now, it will help.
Tell your love stories to anyone who will listen. They need to be constantly reminded that there is love in the world. And, listen to their stories; you will always need love also.
Forgive your body. It’s old and it will break down. If you drool, you drool. You needed diapers when you were a baby; you may need them again. You’re human.
Let people help you. You need them and it’s good for them to serve others. Show them that it’s okay to receive gratefully and gracefully because one day they will also need to be helped. But, also say “thank you.”
Savor every moment. Whatever senses are still functioning, feed them. Food, music, soft textures, art, conversation, touch, warm sunshine ... if it makes you feel cared for, loved, treasured, make time for it and accept it.
Make peace with your losses and last times. There will be a last time for everything. If you have savored everything that came your way, the memories of those times will become your treasures.
Remember, older Joyce, you were blessed with a good, long life. Don’t become a grump at the end! And, leave this with someone who can read it to you in case you can’t.
I might just say “Yes”, still I can do that Now
That's your best article, ever, Joyce. That's saying a lot to someone who produces one winner after the next. Talking to the older self seems real because we might do something with that great advice. Talking to our younger self seems silly, unless it is overhead by someone who has not yet gone as long and as far as you.