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Posts Tagged ‘aging’

Through a Window

I had a dream last night. I was at a gym or a rec center, trying to sort out my gear which seemed to be spread all over the place when a custodian cautioned me to mind what I was doing, he wouldn’t want to have to call my parents. My parents? I shot back at him. My parents?! I’m fifty! I yelled.

Actually, I’m over fifty—but anyway, I made the point. Just recently I’ve begun to think that I now have the years on me to have experienced some things, and even chew them over for a while. It turns out a lot of stuff happens in fifty years, even in a fairly ordinary life like mine. In fact, everyone’s life, including mine, has remarkable moments. I think I had to get to fifty, almost, before I could even recognize this, or see them—the remarkable moments—for what they are.

Yesterday I stood at the big window over the staircase at the library, a wall of windows really, looking out on the garden under a thin blanket of snow: beds with huddled stalks and clumps of old plants draped in white, the sculpture (of a boy, balancing on a ball) and the benches anchoring the paths, the big spruce trees towering over all, lending scale. Beyond the garden I saw the ravine where the Paint Creek runs by, the far side rising steeply, all snow and a tangle of dark branches. The sky above the pointy tops of the spruces was gray but still light was flooding the immense window this cloudy November day.

I stood there just looking. In fact I’d only run in for a minute and I had no business on the second floor but I’d climbed the steps to the landing anyway, just to stand at the window and look out. Two boys half-ran, half-stumbled through the garden, scooping up snow and throwing it at each other in barely formed missiles. I could see they were laughing as they disappeared beyond the corner of the building. I went back to gazing at the sky, the spruce trees, the far bank of the ravine so dramatic in snow. Last winter while sitting at a table by a window upstairs I saw deer over there.

I stood looking out as people went up and down the stairs behind me and I was overwhelmed with the thought: all of this is so beautiful and often we give it the merest glance, going back and forth, on our way to and from. I’ve admired the view from the library stairs before but still it seemed a rare occurrence, to feel so strongly about it. I had the thought that maybe I was feeling something similar to what people who have had a reprieve feel, after their cancer has disappeared or their heart stopped and was re-started or they survived the plane crash.

I haven’t lived through any such dramatic turn of events, but I know this: I’m over fifty. To and from?

This is to, and from. This is where I was going. This is where I begin.

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