Little Old Lady … in Waiting

Category: Uncategorized

  • The Reading Room

    ‘The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.’ – Alan Bennett

    




    

    ‘The first thing that reading teaches us is how to be alone.’     – Jonathon Franzen
    

    




    Author’s Note
    




    I have an insatiable appetite for story.  Books – their bindings, the cover art, their texture, and deckled edge… even their smell and, most especially, the marks and notes left by other readers – everything about them appeals to me.  I maintain a small library at home, I get uneasy when my TBR pile runs low, and have even planned trips around famous bookstores and libraries.  I felt teary the first time I entered the iconic Strand Books in NYC; I needed a moment to myself in the reading room of the Boston Public Library, and I could probably write a short story about my visit to The Bodleian in Oxford or Shakespeare and Company Bookstore in Paris. There is a small town in Wales, Hay-on Why, known as the ‘town of books’ due to its many bookstores, and I hope to visit it next summer with an oversized empty suitcase to celebrate my 60th birthday. 
    




    Perhaps my love of reading stems from a lonely adolescence, or maybe it has more to do with what I consider to be my best and worst quality…curiosity;  but I’m never happier than when I’m settling into someone else’s narrative.  For me, every book I open feels like a clue to the secret of ‘Life, the Universe, and Everything.’  Books find their way to me or I to them, often by happenstance, and seemingly at the exact time I am most ready to receive them. Others sit in small dusty piles in every conceivable corner of my home, waiting for the right moment to renew our acquaintance. I plan to spend an unhealthy percentage of the life hours I have left, turning pages, devouring stories and exploring answers to questions that greater minds than mine have plumbed. To that end I present to you The Reading Room, a new blog series showcasing a smattering of books, earnestly read, and scantily reviewed by a  Little Old Lady in waiting.
    




    




    




    All The Colours of the Dark is marketed as a thriller, a prosaic airport page-turner, but it did not hold me in suspense.  Set in the 1970’s, it’s the story of a traumatic childhood event and a lifelong hunt for a serial killer.  Although the book disappoints as a would-be whodunit, it is far more interesting as a study of the enduring bonds of childhood friendship, and the dialectic between good and evil inside each one of us, setting the reader up for an interesting examination of what exactly goes into the making of a hero/villain.  The book meanders down paths it need not have taken and does not satisfactorily resolve, but it includes characters that I will remember long after the close of the story including a career alcoholic and art dealer who had me hanging on his every word.  For him alone I give Whitaker – 7/10
    




    




    




    Easily one of the most enjoyable reads for me so far this year, Strout is a favourite author, and her story, set in a small town in Maine, is peopled with well-developed characters from previous books including Olive Kitteridge, Lucy Barton and Bob Burgess. Ostensibly the plot revolves around a murder investigation, but the book is really about the ordinary everyday events that make up a life and the stories we tell each other in quiet asides, on walks or with cups of tea in conversation with the company of people we call our own.  Strout can tell me everything and anything she chooses.  Her novels are packed with the kind of true to life details that strike at the heart of all good narrative and readers can’t help but pull up close to her stories and sit a spell. – 9/10
    




    




    




    My daughter passed me this book and while it is not my preferred genre the buzz on my socials piqued my curiosity. In summary, the book is a highly accessible, basic retelling of some ancient wisdom remarketed for the modern-day attention span. A reworking of Stoicism 101 or the Buddhist practice of detachment, the book’s easily digestible maxims, ‘Let them’ and ‘let me’ stuck with me and made their way into my everyday life, at work, and at home with my adult children.  Every time my inner control freak was tempted to interfere in matters outside my sphere of influence, I recited her magic words and presto my life became a lot let stressful. ‘Let Them’ gives you permission to stop trying to steer anyone else’s course but your own…marvellously freeing.
    




    Robins also plies her tools to romantic relationships and reading those chapters I couldn’t help but wish I’d had access to this wisdom in my early to mid-twenties before I learned how to believe people when their actions showed me who they were. Acceptance of what ‘is’ is a liberating experience, and Robbin’s book is a powerful tool for reclaiming your own power, directing your energy to the only thing any of us can control, our own words and actions. – 7/10
    




    




    




    Small Things Like These is the first book I have read by Claire Keegan, but it will not be my last.   The slender novella has been made into a film starring my current cinematic crush, Cillian Murphy.  Set in 1980s Ireland, Keegan looks at her country’s relatively recent history of housing unwed mothers in laundry workhouses, run by the Catholic Church, where young women were physically and emotionally abused and forced to live in squalor. The protagonist, Bill Furlong (Cillian), is a compassionate and virtuous man who must decide between doing the right thing and risking almost certain formidable consequences for his family. The story line is compelling, but the party piece of the book is Keegans’ evocative, lyrical language that grounds the reader in a kind of cultural cellar transporting us to a dark, cold, shameful place where ‘so many things had a way of looking finer, when they were not so close’  –  9/10
    




    




    




    Helen Humphries is another favourite writer.  She could probably write about the head of a pencil and make it compelling for me. So, when I pick up one of her books and read that it’s about dogs and writing, it’s kind of a perfect day in the making.  The book chronicles the first several months of life with a new puppy as experienced by Humphries,  herself a little old lady in waiting, and the story chapters are configured around the writing process with a few nods to other famous writers and their canine companions.   Somehow the story falls short and, for me, I’m pretty sure it has more to do with the author’s nonfiction competence as compared with her narrative voice which never fails to hit the high notes.  I was a little bored inside her dog-eared story.  – 6/10
    




    




    




    Bletchley code breakers, Prince Philip as a young lover – The Rose Code is set in WWII Britain in a time when women were liberated from their homes and allowed to be active members of society, and  brilliant women were needed for the war effort.  The whole book was like a large piece of decadent cake with a nice cup of tea.  Throw in an asylum, a betrayal, and a story told in reverse and Quinn delivers another delicious read where smart girls showcase their grit, and live happily ever after, even without their prince.  A lovely few hours leisure – 7/10
    




    




    




    This title is the first in a series of 4 books that chronicles a lifelong friendship between two brilliant women who grow up in Naples between the wars in an Italian ghetto where access to education is a rare privilege that only one of them is afforded.  Their lives cross back and forth across socio-economic lines and class distinctions in a gripping tale of survival and emancipation as each woman finds her strength and eventual escape from a world they have each outgrown.  The book begins and ends in mystery.  The story is atmospheric and dynamic and beautifully written with a special focus on the hard-won independence of Italian women in the 60’s and 70’s.  I don’t know which of the two friends I admired most in Ferrante’s story, but I highly recommend the books to anyone who understands the joy of forgetting you are reading, so fully immersed in the lives of the characters that you are virtually transported to their world. – 9/10
    




    




    




    This book is a sequel or companion book, to Burkeman’s previous bestseller, Four Thousand Weeks.  Both books, I strongly suggest, are worth your finite time.  Comparable to The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Burkeman, previously a popular Guardian columnist, reads a bit more existential and cerebral and aims less for efficiency and more for enchantment.  His book helped me enormously in coming to terms with the fact that life is unfolding right now…not later when I’m more prepared or when I’ve completed X,Y and Z on my must do list.  Immersing yourself in Meditations for Mortals is a bit like going on retreat. It’s a reawakening, and a memento mori that none of us are getting out of here alive, especially we little old ladies in waiting whose book might more aptly be titled, One Thousand Weeks.  Thumbs way up on this one – 9/10
    




    




    Note bene 
    




    If you have any book suggestions please leave a comment. I would be thrilled to know what you are reading 📚.
    




    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Little Old Lady to Little Old Lady Wisdom
    
			
    

    Sister Rhona Gulliver
    




    




    




    




    Author’s Note: The following profile is the first in a series of interviews based on a standardized set of questions designed to illicit insights and wisdom from Little Old Ladies in waiting. For me the exercise might be likened to what London black-cab apprentices refer to as ‘The Knowledge’; a mapping or learning the grid…the Grand Dame essentials, all the best bits and bobs to be discovered on the road to little old ladydom. The guiding spirit behind the profiles is best captured in a line by Rilke; “I want to be with those who know secret things, or else alone.”  I hope to interview women with considered and varied life experience, interesting and unusual career paths, a sprinkling of accolades, and maybe a smidgen more than their just share of “je ne sais quoi.”  
    




    The very first person that came to mind, satisfying all qualifiers, was Sister Rhona Gulliver.  I consider Rhona one of the most learned and wise women of my acquaintance.  She has a sharp intellect, a rich interior world, and a well-established and dearly appreciated wit.  She is a writer and an artist, with the singing voice of a sweet young girl, and the conversational acumen of a late-night radio host.  She has a genuine love of people, asking questions that open up all those who enter her realm, and paying us the ultimate compliment of her complete attention.  She may be the most skilled listener I have ever met with an unparalleled capacity for friendship. 
    




    




    Tell me your life story in seven sentences or less?
    




    What I have done… I attended 7 universities including Dalhousie, McMaster, Ottawa, as well as Dublin City University searching for a career and life values.
    




    Where have I been… I’ve been engaged three times to be married, looking for romance and companionship. I entered the Congregation de Notre Dame in Montreal in 1970 to become a religious sister and after three years they told me to go home. I had come to know and love the foundress, Marguerite Bourgeoys, of Notre Dame. Ten years later I entered the Sisters of Charity in Saint John and it felt more in keeping with the career I had chosen, leading to a deeper spirituality and giving of my gifts to others.  I worked many years in the community as a nurse, social worker, family councillor, and teaching at Queens University specializing in forensic psychiatry. My desire through life was to encourage others to learn and experience the best they could and give back to others.
    




    What is the best thing about getting older?
    




    The best thing is that you have less responsibility, and you can speak your mind without worrying too much about whether someone is getting upset… you also take things with a grain of salt.
    




    What is the worst thing about getting older?
    




    Always worrying that something else will go wrong with your health… some little thing that hurts. Your health starts to deteriorate and there is nothing you can do about it… you’re at the back of the line.
    




    If you could retain or retrieve one quality from your youth, what would it be?
    




    Dancing… I love to dance. I took lessons until I was 14 or 15 and then it wasn’t cool anymore. I’d like to dance again.
    




    Do you have a favourite quote?
    




    Yes, it’s a quote my great grandmother told me.
    




    “When you educate a man, you educate a man. When you educate a woman, you educate a generation.”
    




    Do you have a favourite word?
    




    “Kretzimah” (Unfamiliar with this word, I requested a definition)
    




    I made it up. It means you’re soft or enjoyable, a gentle person… it describes everything delightful.
    




    Describe your perfect day.
    




    One that I would be free of all responsibilities – the telephone, visitors… with time to paint and write poetry, to read and have some spiritual time for rejoining my connection with God… maybe pieces of chocolate here and there.
    




    If you could have tea with anyone, real or fictional, dead or alive, who would it be and what would you talk about?
    




    Pierre Elliott Trudeau. I find him very fascinating. He broke the rules of etiquette and of government. He did what he liked to do. We would have a swinging good time. We could talk about everything: great books, philosophy, theology, politics. There aren’t that many you can talk to about such things.
    




    Do you believe in life after death? What does it look like?
    




    Yes, I believe in life after death. Most of life is getting ready for death. Life isn’t always pleasant but after this life all will be revealed, and the feeling of love will be so powerful you won’t have time to think of anything other than the love of God. Sometimes in this life after traumatic things have happened, I have contemplated suicide, but in the end, I thought I might be cheating myself of a higher form of love. I don’t mean to say that suicide is sinful, I mean that the more you can accept and survive the hard times, the greater your capacity for love… for other people, for yourself, and for God.
    




    Tell me three things that bring you joy.
    




    Chocolate. People. The Arts – painting, singing, music.
    




    Name a guilty pleasure.
    




    I like flirting with men. My brothers always told me if I kept my mouth closed, I could find a better boyfriend.
    




    What would you like your eulogy to say?
    




    I came… I was… I went.
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    On Mothers, Mothering, and the Mother Choice
    
			
    

    




    

    “Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” – Elizabeth Stone
    




    “You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars”                                                                              – E.E. Cummings
    

    




    Author’s Note:
    




    The decision to become a mother and the experience of being a mother is highly individual and personal.  My thoughts on the matter are based solely on my own experience of being mothered, becoming a mother myself, and a recent discussion with my adult children about the pros and cons of choosing to become a mother (parent).  The following essay is an opinion piece, not intended to critique or explore anyone’s choice or experience but my own.  It is part love letter, and part cautionary tale, as written by a little old lady…in waiting, the mother of two twenty somethings who recently asked, incredulously, “If you got to do it all over again, would you still choose to become a mother?”
    




    This post is dedicated to everyone who has ever asked themselves if motherhood was for them and, however they answer, a celebration of the right to choose and define that role on their own terms.  There are many ways to mother, and we need not be corseted by traditional paradigms.  As every mother knows, there is a bottomless well of love inside to bestow on all those whom we choose to call our own.
    




    




    




    A few months back I was walking into a glass fronted store when I caught my reflection in the entrance.  It was my mother’s face that stared back at me, and not my own.  It shocked me at first, and then a feeling of such unexpected happiness and peace came over me, as though she was there with me for a moment, and covertly always close by, watching over me, even when she “walks invisible”. My mother passed away suddenly almost ten years ago now, a massive hemorrhagic stroke at the age of 82.  She was old, I guess, but I didn’t know it.  She had survived breast cancer and open-heart surgery and she was very much alive and present in my life, my companion most days, and my first and closest friend always. There are days when I miss her so badly, I surrender to the emotion, I crumple, and after a time I rise and try to remember everything she taught me about life, including how to be a mom.
    




    My mother, like so many women of her generation, stayed at home with us when we were growing up, and her constant companionship and attention informed our understanding of our worth.  Surely, we must be important if we could command so much of her time.  In those early years our family did not have much in the way of material wealth, but I was blissfully unaware. I felt like a princess because that’s what I saw in my mother’s eyes when she looked at me.   She didn’t work outside our home, so our humble abode was spotless. There was always a home cooked meal for dinner, and most days a cookie as big as your head when I got home from school.  And so beget a lifelong addiction to sweets … but that’s another post.  It’s always the mother’s fault.
    




    My mother took her work seriously.  She saw her role as the keeper of the home and the keeper of our hearts.  She never cared if we earned good grades, or made AAA sports teams, but she was hard core when it came to the inner workings of our moral compass.  She was always our True North and is largely responsible for what I have come to refer to as a strong Catholic sense of guilt.  We were just as rotten as other kids, of course, but Mom made sure we learned how to feel bad about it afterwards.  She was a master class in empathy and a maker of men who will, 9 times out of 10…perhaps with a little prompting, attempt to do the right thing…if convenient, especially with the promise of a sugary treat for good behavior. And I guess if we’re talking world peace and the survival of the planet and, you know,…the human race, there can surely be no more important work, no higher goal than making sure the next generation feels a bit bad about not being good.
    




    My own daughter, aged 24, has a slightly different take on the whole mothering concept.   She recently returned home from her first peer group baby shower with a serious case of “ick”.   Although she was happy for her friend, near bursting with an almost fully baked baby, she was a little disgusted by the idea of body sharing with what she currently considers a kind of parasite, and as a qualified nurse she is more than a little horrified by the idea of the coming out party.  It doesn’t take Psych 101 to understand in my small, Catholic guilted heart, that as her mother, I must be to blame.  Did I overshare when I recounted her own birth story, that in the absence of an epidural, if I could have gotten off the birthing gurney and thrown myself out the window, I would have.  Too much?  I mean it was still one of the best days of my life…right?  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that pregnancy, labour and delivery are the easy parts. 
    




    The truth is that I felt very much the same about becoming a mom when I was in my 20’s. I’m still not sure what happened to make me change my mind: falling in love, the biological imperative, socialization, FOMO.  I don’t know how it happened… well, I mean, I know how it happened …I’m just not sure exactly when or how the idea first came for me. I only know that when it came it was a complete knowing, not some indifferent or half-hearted decision.
    




    “Would I do it again,” they asked me, would I choose to become a mother knowing all that I know now about the sacrifices, the highs and lows, the weight of the responsibility and the constancy of the relationship?  Of course, I told them what every mother must, that knowing and loving them as I do, I could never choose differently.  But a little later that same evening I gave their question a more rigorous and honest consideration.  I thought about what I had willingly given up or done without to accommodate the mother role.
    




    I spent 12 years at home with my kids in their formative years.  I had never mentally prepared myself for that kind of mothering, I had my mom set up to be the 9 to 5 Nanny, but after her heart attack, it became clear that I had just landed a full-time position well above my aptitude test.  Let’s just say I wasn’t a natural. I had never really learned to play, I had the patience of a gnat, I hated crafting, and organized sport remains a mystery to me to this day.  I had only the vaguest understanding of toddler milestones.  Looking back on those challenging years I will admit it wasn’t all idyllic or Instagramable.  Being a mother is, without a doubt, the hardest job I’ve ever had.  It’s a learn-as-you- go deal with no gentle onboarding.  The hours are unacceptable, the pay is shite, and the performance reviews can be eviscerating.
    




    The pragmatics of mothering, the meal prep and lunch bags, the homework, the chauffeuring and learning to tolerate the child centred activities: the birthday parties, the bowling alleys, the soccer fields and hockey arenas… all of that can be managed.  For me, by far the hardest part of being a mother is that you’re “only ever as happy as your unhappiest child.”  The scraped knees and fevers, the broken hearts, the car accidents, and the plethora of little wounds that befall our children are far more agonizing than anything we could experience ourselves. The mother bond is like a Chinese finger trap and cuts deep when tested.
    




    Despite all the hard graft of mothering, the blessings…the gifts far outweigh the grievances.  I am not the person I was before I became a mother.  My children changed me.  Mother love is the fiercest, most intense, highest frequency, unconditional love that we can experience.  No one… no one will ever love you like your mother does.  Motherhood is a transformative experience.  It taught me humility and patience, it showed me how little we can control and how much we have to be grateful for every day we get to spend together.  Even as adults my kids continue to help me grow with their contemporary take on what constitutes a life well lived and their insights on how we should best spend our time. To be clear, I am in no way suggesting that cohabitating with twenty somethings is easy.  It is not.  But the Zoomer zeitgeist does keep things interesting.
    




    In short, being a mother, in my experience, is both the best of times and the worst of times.  Would I choose to become a mother again, with the perspective of time, and the convenient memory of a woman well past the heavy-lifting years of mothering – an emphatic, “yes.” Adding up all the mom hours I have logged over a lifetime, do I sometimes wonder what I might have accomplished had I spent that time in pursuit of projects more in keeping with my natural inclinations  – again “Yes.”  Do I crave a more serene environment with less shoes at the door, fewer dishes in the sink, with more time to read and walk and wonder, without consideration of anyone’s needs but my own?   “Perhaps.” Do I sometimes fantasize about an alternate life where I am a lady of leisure and letters, in Rembrandt-lit rooms filled with books, reclining in a Chaise-lounge overlooking the sea… CBC radio my only company?  Of course, I have…Moms are human beings too you know.  Did I live up to the bar my own mother set?  Did I do my job well?  Am I the True North that will help guide my children in making decisions that align with their values and beliefs when it is my time to “walk invisible?”   I hope so. All I know for sure is that I would rather be a merely adequate or average mother to my two darling descendants than an excellent anything else.
    




    If you’re still searching for the perfect gift for Mother’s Day, take some advice from a little old lady in waiting – make dinner, wash the dishes, clean the house, do the laundry, and if you still live at home, maybe take yourself out for the day.  Give your Mom some time to herself, time to remember the woman she was before you owned her entire heart, in the days before your chapters of her story, when she belonged only to herself. 
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    To Retire or Not to Retire…that is the question
    
			
    

    




    

    A Blessing for One Who is Exhausted
    




     “…There is nothing else to do now but rest and patiently learn to receive the self you have forsaken for the race of days…
    




    You have travelled too fast over false ground; and now your soul has come to take you back.
    




    Take refuge in your senses, open up to all the small miracles you rushed through…
    




    Be excessively gentle with yourself. Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
    




    Learn to linger around someone of ease who feels they have all the time in the world.
    




    Gradually you will return to yourself, having learned a new respect for your heart and the joy that dwells far within slow time.”  – John O’Donohue
    

    




    There comes a moment in the life of every little old lady in waiting to consider the merits and limitations of retirement, il dolce far niente (the sweetness of doing nothing – English translation…taking time to smell the roses). Perhaps it’s just a whisper inside yourself for now, that smiles a knowing smile on sunny days that seem too precious to trade for mere money; or maybe, like me, that whisper has mutated into a belligerent bitch who wins every argument and laughs openly at your attempts to ignore her. The truth is that the voice within always knows best. Once you entertain the notion of retirement, it establishes a little foothold somewhere between your world-weary gut and your hard-working heart. It grows strong on a steady diet of IDGAF workplace disenchantment and a flirtation with a trending new prescription known as self-care. The decision, once taken, is definitive.  For this little old lady in waiting, it is time to retire.
    




    Two months shy of 59, I have traded life hours for money for almost 45 years now. I have had a long and varied work history and worn many different hats in my career.  I’ve worked in libraries and restaurants, offices and classrooms, hotels and bars, hospitals, bookstores, and teashops, and even from the comfort of my own home while freelancing and raising my kids. I have, overall, enjoyed my working life and all its compensatory gifts. My mind is most at peace when engaged, and so work has been my ally all these many years, my morning coffee, my daily talk, and at times my evening companion as well.  If I factor in all the extraordinary humans I have met along the way – the work wives, the confidants and confessors, the friends who carried you on the hard days, and allowed you to carry them in return; it’s clear that work, for most of us, is a lot more than what we produce with our hands and minds, it’s also a journey into each other’s lives in a very real and lasting way. 
    




    Work has far more value than whatever dollar amount that magically appears in our bank accounts every two weeks, so whatever it is that starts you down the path to reclaiming your freedom, it’s important to consider the metrics and logistics very carefully.  Are you absolutely sure that you’re ready to embrace your freedom, because I think we all know why the caged bird sings. Agendaless days and a wide-open appointment book can be a bit overwhelming for the uninitiated.  I mean, when is the last time you asked yourself what it is you would like to do today?
    




    Let me be frank, a practiced readiness and a thorough accounting of your life goals is an essential prerequisite to any serious retirement discussion. What price freedom?   How grand a lifestyle does your current salary maintain?  Does your retirement require the maintenance of a cottage, a boat, travel, seasonal wardrobe revitalizing, adult children, aging parents?  Maybe your only essentials are a good pair of walking shoes, a library card, and the company of someone who can still make you laugh.  I fall somewhere in between.  My non-negotiables include a towering TBR pile of books, a pickleball squad on speed dial, and the occasional stimulating conversation.  I can make do with two out of three in a pinch.
    




    The decision to retire is hugely dependent on how much your work adds or detracts from your life. I have friends working well into their 60’s whose work transforms and inspires them:  artists, chefs, academics, writers and makers whose work is so intrinsically a part of their lives that retirement would seem a sort of death, at least of the spirit. They are the lucky few. I have other friends, smart and autonomous, who make their living comfortably ensconced in their own homes, using only their brilliant minds, and lifting no more than a finger or three to upload their work. At the top of their monetary game, “why on earth would I ever consider retirement,” they cluck. Huge monetary earnings … minimal effort… bit of a no-brainer really. 
    




    For everyone who feels fully engaged in their work, who love the role they play in their workplace, and who might even feel lost without their work, I say play on.   But for those other friends, no less successful in their chosen fields, who count the days and the dollars needed to free themselves from the alienating chains of industry, or those who spend even one of our apportioned days contemplating a life more fully lived, I say retire and God’s speed. 
    




    My own decision to pull the retirement rip cord was ignited by a few seminal life events including a devastating personal loss, and an injury that necessitated a protracted period  away from work.  The first put me in touch with my own mortality and taught me that time, specifically time with loved ones, is the only real wealth. The second provided a safe space to test drive what a life free of the shackles of gainful employment might be like.  It did not disappoint.
    




    Earlier this week I retired from a position I have held for over a decade as a Palliative Care nurse.  In that time, I have watched hundreds of people die and, of late, anecdotally at least, it seems I have nursed a great many little old ladies…in waiting.  None of the patients that roll down the hall onto the Palliative Care unit are ever truly ready for what comes next, even those with significant disease burdens and those who have been unwell for a long time.  It always takes these brave souls a bit by surprise when they come to fully understand, that they are living their last days and hours, that they are lying on their deathbed, where they will take their last breath.
    




    It has been a great privilege to attend the dying in their last days of life, to understand the absolute value of time through their eyes, and bear witness to their unspeakably beautiful, quiet acts of courage and grace.  Despite every small  aortic tear my work has cost me, to stay present and care for my patients and their families, they have paid me back a thousand-fold in what they have taught me about life and about death. Nothing is promised.  There is only now.
    




    If you’re a little old lady… in waiting, like me, then maybe it’s time to explore a life unfettered by labour, or, at the very least, time to ask yourself how it is you’d like to spend your days in the last quarter of your life.  If you’ve grown weary “running up that hill”, it might be wise to have a listen inside yourself, a little away from the madding crowd, with time and space to hear what you’re thinking in there. Steal away with me awhile.  I’ll be sat low to the ground somewhere near the sea, with my dog and a flask of tea, looking out on the water’s unknowable depths and meditating on a fine line by T.S. Elliot, “to make an end is to make a beginning.  The end is where we start from.”
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    The Diary of a Little Old Lady in Waiting – A Letter of Introduction
    
			
    

    




    




    




    I am a little old lady in waiting. Aged 58 and 10/12ths years old at the time of the launch of this blog; by no standard or statistical myopia may I still refer to myself as middle aged. I might best be considered a gestating senior, a “dear”, but not quite past my best before date. On any given day, I feel somewhere between 28 and let’s say 78, but I trust that my litany of aches and pains, parcels of loosening skin, and what I generously refer to as laugh lines, together qualify me for the job – diarist of a little old lady… in waiting.
    




    Time is passing quickly for me now. The days of the week are indecipherable from one another, and the weekends offer very little punctuation to the day-in and day-out of it all.  The seasons come and go in a seamless cycle of sun and snow, Fall back, and Spring ahead. Even the infamous Canadian winter lets go its icy claws and drops you into the week we call Spring in this country before you’ve had a chance to pack away your woollies or located your gardening hat. The summers that once seemed to last forever, now pass like a few glasses of fine wine on the deck, a BBQ, a bonfire; and then we’re right back inside, donning long sleeves and corduroy, and carving pumpkins. Stuff a couple of turkeys, and it’s time for another verse of Auld Lang Sein and another set of birthday candles to blow out. Father time always has the last word. And let me be clear my dear…it’s later than you think.
    




    I remember reading some years back that C.S. Lewis or maybe his chum,Tolkien, suggested keeping a journal to slow down time, to distill meaning, to separate the wheat from the chaff of life.  Not to discredit the chaff…sometimes the best bits are in there. And so, The diary of a Little Old Lady… in waiting was conceived and is born. I present to you a place to muse on the wrinkles and cankles of life for women privileged to make it through the busy early and middle years. A virtual room of one’s own to explore the world that comes after the confines of the biological imperative, and the dictates of career building.
    




    It is my intention to present an inventory and analysis of the myriad, idiosyncratic joys and steady challenges experienced by a little old lady in the making, as she learns to embrace her freedom after a lifetime of work and family commitments, in recovery from a socialized martyr syndrome that prioritizes the needs of everyone else first. 
    




    We, little old ladies in waiting are, after all, the essential life orchestrators. We are the vacation planners, the gift getters, the Christmas makers, the cooks and meal planners, the keepers of the home, most often the primary parent, and the carer for aging parents, the cleaners and laundresses, the bill payers, accountants, and financial planners. It’s a lot to let go of all at once but I have faith that if we have the strength to carry such a load, we can find the grace to let it all go.
    




    This blog is meant to be a recipe for a life well lived after 50 and beyond.  It’s a time for unpacking the weight of long held responsibilities and for learning to cultivate joy.  It’s the moment for putting ourselves first and exploring the projects and plans we placed on the back burner until we found time to get to them. That time is now, because if not now, then when?
    




    I hope my friends and family will enjoy the sojourn as I stumble into this last quarter of my life, which I hope will be the least busy, the most purposeful, and despite the great losses we incur when we lose those closest to us, and consequently, huge, bloody hunks of ourselves; I hope these last unpromised years will be the most cherished and meaningful.  I pray my friends and peers will find comfort in my chronicles, in learning that they are not alone, and that my children will have a repository of story to explore when they are my age, and I am no longer able to share my unsolicited advice. Posthumous mothering if you will.
    




    Regular features to be included:
    




      

    • Profiles of interesting little old ladies
      • 




    • What this Little old lady is Reading
      • 




    • Little old lady to little old lady wisdom and quotes
      • 

    




    And so…to begin
    




    Next up – To retire or not to retire….that is the question.