It’s satisfying to discover menopause as an unexpected gift. No longer vexed or driven by floods of hormones, I’m far more able to settle into my body in a new way; to focus more acutely on what’s essential to my growth as a human being. There’s a time to every purpose under heaven. And I believe … I believe.
When I was twenty, thirty, forty, I didn’t dread aging, rather I simply didn’t give it much thought. My fifties were the pivotal years; a transition between what propels the young forward and what captures the imagination of the old; a segue between the fires of biology and the waters of intuition; between craving and contentment.
I love the peace I have discovered in simply allowing life to be what it is; allowing others to be the imperfect fools we all, at times, prove to be. Competition and comparison really have no useful place in the depths of profound human interaction. And though these attributes may appear to be effective in the shallows, I am left feeling hollow and bereft and inadequate in their wake.
I rise daily to the possibilities intrinsic in allowing others to assume their inevitable place amongst the striving and the cunning. Soon enough, they too may begin to question the folly of their ways. If receptive to the wisdom inherent in aging, they will know to their bones the futility in contributing to their own or another’s suffering. And though it’s tempting to shoot for the moon, thankfully these later years confer enough patience to realistically observe the grinding cycles of human evolution. Surely there is benefit to be derived at each stage of our growth in the greater, grander scheme of Creation.