Aging and Sage-ing; Ponderings for the Introvert Within

I took Sweetie on her favorite walk through the woods this morning; the deep December snow was not glistening but more like a Currier and Ives print. If  you’re old enough to know what those Christmas illustrations were—of  horse drawn sleighs and solitary men walking home at dusk against a moody sky—then  then these ramblings of a ‘woman of age’ might just be your cup of tea.

Younger folks are welcome to read of course—aren’t we all curious of each other’s interior lives? Perhaps these ponderings are simply for the introvert within; any age will do.

 In my late twenties I was a fond reader of the diarist, May Sarton, who chronicled her way into my Soul with her daily journaling of an ordinary-extraordinary life. She was an Elder; tough, sensitive and observant of the simple things in life; nuances and synchronicities did not slip by the power of her pen. I devoured her writings and grew up by learning how to observe the late afternoon sun dancing on the walls…and the way the light fell upon Christmas narcissus blooming in winter.

 Deep wisdom?  No, but I began to find the sacred in the commonplace; I began to find a resonance between what was around me and what was within me…I was beginning to notice my Soul.

Today in my morning dog walk I brought a Christmas ornament with me to adorn a small solitary pine tree standing humbly beside the path. Someone had started a good tradition there and I would add my red bulb. As I placed it carefully on a branch I could imagine a lonely walker finding the happy display of human celebration on the spindly pine among the deep wildness of the woods. I could almost hear the echo of a child-like thank-you; and I thought of Robert Frost’s poem, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” 

The snow crunched under my feet as I returned home. The Sunday blues had left a shadow on my heart yesterday that I didn’t want to carry into today. This was a fresh start; watching Sweetie’s tail wag like a windshield wiper as she pranced along the path was the perfect cure for such a malaise. I would leave her red sweater on the counter when I returned home to remind me to come back tomorrow…she would take me where I needed to go…

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
                      ~

Robert Frost

My purpose in writing this 'journal' is to help me, and possibly you, thrive in the "third act" of life and to find grace in aging I hope it will help us seek out 'the poetic place' inside of us that finds meaning and joy in the simple ordinary things of life. I will bring in my experiences as an astrologer and therapist as well as simple observations--often gained in dog walking or pre-dawn morning musings. I value and appreciate any comments you may have...leave them here, or write to me at: elizabethspring@aol.com   or visit my website at: www.elizabethspring.com