What Kind of Eighty-Year-Old Do You Want to Be?

What Kind of Eighty-Year-Old Do You Want to Be?

This week, a family member went through a traumatic medical event that hit very close to home. My husband and I talked in the kitchen after the girls were in bed, and I asked how we can possibly keep our hearts open and alive when faced with such pain, for the older we get, the more we lose, and the pain of such loss only compounds with the years.

On Wednesday, I was writing at a bistro table across from the courthouse square when I realized I had to pick my daughters up from school. Closing my laptop, I slipped it into my bag, gathered my planner and phone, and carried my trash inside the coffee shop to throw it away. A senior woman with wavy red hair and gold hoop earrings was standing just inside the door.

Expecting her to come out, I held the door open but then she began speaking to me in a beautifully foreign accent. She said, “I saw you working out there, and I was fascinated. You were working so diligently, and then all of a sudden, you closed your laptop and gathered up your things and fixed your scarf and came inside. You were very methodical.”

Smiling, I said, “I realized I had to pick my daughters up from school.”

“You don’t look old enough to have daughters.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

Her eyes widened as she laughed. “And I’m eighty-five!”

Thirty-five suddenly seemed pretty young.

I asked, “Where are you from?”

“Zimbabwe.” She paused. “Do you know where that is?”

Nodding, I said, “I have always wanted to visit Africa.”

“Well, I wouldn’t visit now,” she said. “I wouldn’t visit if you paid me!”

We talked for a few minutes more about her changing homeland that she hadn’t inhabited in forty years and about, of all things, grocery prices.

The woman wagged her finger at me. “I would remember you,” she said. “I would remember you if I saw you again.”

“I would remember you, too.” I touched her arm. “I hope that next time you’ll say hi!”

My heart felt buoyant as I left the coffee shop and strolled down the sidewalk to my minivan, loaded down with groceries on ice. Despite inevitable, compounded loss, this eighty-five-year-old stranger was still actively participating in life by observing, and in order to observe, you have to have open eyes and an open heart willing to engage with the world.

One day, fifty years from now, I would love to come upon a woman working outside a coffee shop and observe her mannerisms and strike up a conversation simply for the joy of engagement. Our lives are not meant to be held close out of fear of pain and loss but to be shared with open arms. Regardless of our age, we can still make a difference, if we will only try.

What kind of eighty-year-old do you want to be? What daily steps are you taking now to reach that goal?