THE ENTIRE THING COMES DOWN TO JUST ONE SINGLE WORD
Photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Unsplash
Enough.
That’s the word — so you needn’t read any farther if you’re in a hurry. But of course hurrying isn’t great for successful aging either. Calm is. Kindness is. Today’s word, however, is the oft-ignored secret.
When one passes 90 — as I did, ahem, several years ago — one starts getting these What’s your secret questions, as if age somehow brought wisdom and the answers to all of the world’s queries. Spoiler alert: it does not. It does, however, bring teeny little insights and this is one —
Just about the best thing in the world for your blood pressure, heart rate, brain cells and general physiology is the sense of Enough. This day is enough, this latte and peanut butter cookie are enough, this quiet moment in the middle of universal angst is enough.
I didn’t wake up with a light bulb over my head on this; I simply began to recognize the general sufficiency, the enough-ness of things.
For instance. I love traveling and exploring, especially hiking out-of-the-way trails, visiting museums and galleries and the British Library, cities in general. One day I reflected upon the reality that I will never hike the Himalayas, or visit Sidney or Reykjavik — and that is perfectly okay. I’ve had some glorious times at the Musée d’Orsay, wandering around Shanghai and St. Petersburg or awestruck by the beauty of Iguaçu Falls. Enough.
It doesn’t indicate The End! I’m currently looking forward to a return trip to ruggedly beautiful Cornwall soon, including a visit to my favorite museum in the U.K. (apologies to numerous second-favorites) the Tate St Ives. I’ll be taking some of my husband’s ashes back to the land of his ancestors, who worked in the mines for generations — that’s likely to be another essay. Enough, though, simply means it’s good, all is well, breathe. Be grateful.
The arts are a category all their own. One problem with living in San Francisco, at least as a nonagenarian, is that you just can’t do it all. For decades I delighted in the SF Contemporary Music Players, SFJazz, Cal Performances and our multiple marvelous museums and galleries. I do still subscribe to the two San Francisco Symphony seats husband Bud had worked his way into (Second Row, Right Terrace, directly above the bass section) because it would just feel traitorous to let them go. But two friends now split the series with me, divvying up the twelve performances. It’s enough. And whenever I find an hour or two to hang out at MoMA or one of the other great museums I still support it feels like a glorious gift; I do not meditate on the recent show I totally missed.
Nonagenarianism is, IMHO, a good time to forgive oneself for roads not taken and opportunities passed up — meanwhile counting the blessings of remaining activities without dipping into either sorrowful or smug.
The one exception to all of the above, In My further Humble Opinion, is the writing game. If one happens to love writing better than eating (and I’m not even getting started on San Francisco’s dining scene, intimate knowledge of which was de rigueur in years past,) there are never enough hours in the day to finish whatever literary projects are underway. There are always too many essays to work on, books and articles still in progress, letters (despite the computer having largely replaced the cursive) to be written, stamped & mailed, and occasional social media commentaries waiting to be posted. Because, after all, there’s still this astonishing, bewildering, challenging, intriguing, enchanting thing called life going on. Day after day.
Which is enough.
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