You've already heard me extol the wonders of getting older. Lots of good stuff happens if we just lighten up and enjoy the ride.
But you also know that, at times, I've gone kicking and screaming into the future.
A few years ago, when I was flying somewhere, it became apparent that it was no longer safe for me to hoist my suitcase into the overhead. I was humiliated. I bought a smaller overnight bag but it's still not certain that I won't conk somebody in the head with it.
My friend, Art, and I shared our (exaggerated) sense of loss over this problem. His due more to an injury than age.
The New Yorker's poetry has the reputation of being so obscure that we mere ordinary folks can't make heads or tails of it. But, occasionally, it hits me between the eyes. Art alerted me to the one below. It's as if the writer is speaking for me. And for Art. And, possibly, for you.
LIGHTNESS IN AGE
It means not having to muscle your bag
Onto the baggage rack for the flight to Dublin.
A girl your daughter's age will do that for you.
It means the boy distributes the groceries justly
In your carry-alls so you'll make the car without spillage.
Those lightnesses are not to be taken lightly,
But more than those it's the many-faceted lightness
Of the goldfinch feathering down at morning,
The chickadee's darting blur for the one seed
He sprints away and devours discreetly,
And it's the tenderness of a long-known kiss
Touching your mouth or eyelid or anywhere
With this new lightness, its flickering back-lit by the glow
Of that consuming first one fifty years ago.
- Gibbons Ruark
Thank you, Gibbons. And thank you, Art.
***
But you also know that, at times, I've gone kicking and screaming into the future.
A few years ago, when I was flying somewhere, it became apparent that it was no longer safe for me to hoist my suitcase into the overhead. I was humiliated. I bought a smaller overnight bag but it's still not certain that I won't conk somebody in the head with it.
My friend, Art, and I shared our (exaggerated) sense of loss over this problem. His due more to an injury than age.
The New Yorker's poetry has the reputation of being so obscure that we mere ordinary folks can't make heads or tails of it. But, occasionally, it hits me between the eyes. Art alerted me to the one below. It's as if the writer is speaking for me. And for Art. And, possibly, for you.
LIGHTNESS IN AGE
It means not having to muscle your bag
Onto the baggage rack for the flight to Dublin.
A girl your daughter's age will do that for you.
It means the boy distributes the groceries justly
In your carry-alls so you'll make the car without spillage.
Those lightnesses are not to be taken lightly,
But more than those it's the many-faceted lightness
Of the goldfinch feathering down at morning,
The chickadee's darting blur for the one seed
He sprints away and devours discreetly,
And it's the tenderness of a long-known kiss
Touching your mouth or eyelid or anywhere
With this new lightness, its flickering back-lit by the glow
Of that consuming first one fifty years ago.
- Gibbons Ruark
Thank you, Gibbons. And thank you, Art.
***
