My friend, so young at 50, a salsa dance, mother of two, had an image last night as she sat in temple about growing old. As she looked around she saw all the friends who had watched her children go through their rites of passage. She saw the wrinkles gathering around their eyes, the streaks of silver in the hair, the time that she had been away made so visible.
We are getting older and there is no way to stop it, she thought.
We can be numb to what is happening to us, but then, when we come back, there it is.
The cantor who started out thirteen years ago with such a beautiful voice now has something more substantial, a life that's colored with experience
The choir, with years of practice, sings deeper, stronger, soul filled notes.
She had never heard before such richness that only comes with age,
people who get better at what they do- and a community that honors how good it is to know that in time we will heal, these hard times will pass, good times will come again, and stories will sustain us.
She wondered how it could have been, and yet it was, her fear of growing old that had kept her away almost two years. Not the frightening forces of anti-semitism. Not the business of her life.
But at the very core this secret fear: the ism of age, the most universal.
I do not want to forget that I know what I know. I am who I am.
She listens to the prayers that speak of the celebration of creation, the cycles that return, night and day, season to season, generation to generation.
The polish man, celebrating his 83rd birthday, his wife beside him, still chant them, remembering those who chanted them before.
There is no need to deny her place in time, that for a moment is not going anywhere.
Here we are, all together, baby boomers, empty nesters, parents, and grandparents, all with our wisdom collectively grown. All with our memories.
She sits there crying, seeing herself accepting the age that is hers and greater than her.
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