Edging Towards Old Age

I am about to nudge up against my three score and and ten years, an accumulation of years that somehow officially declare my arrival in old age.

I have never worried much about aging. One year follows another. But as the time arrives, it suggests that the time has come to take time to reflect on it.

My reflection in any mirror tells a story. The silver threads are definitely there among the gold. My face has a fullness, that I see in the photographs of  the face of my paternal grandmother. I don't  worry about wrinkles, as long as I earn the smile wrinkles, I have cherished in so many of the older women I love.

My mother lived exactly one hundred and a half years. Many were challenging years, but I am sure she would say the challenging years were also happy years. She loved being a grandma.

As the years tallied up, even my mother questioned the soundness of of her lifelong appreciation for fresh air, organic food and plenty of exercise that had served her living so well. Her extended lifespan had separated her from her generation of family and friends. She was not pleased. A compatriot told her she had to wait for her invitation to join them. She was only slightly amused.

Time is priceless at all times through life. Perhaps it is only as we get older we understand the value. I have also noticed in some of the very old I have loved, time seems to slow down. A day is too long to hold so much loneliness.

So it is time for me to set aside things over which I have no control, and focus on things I can do something about. Life is challenging and life is good.

I am most thankful that I am a grandma. One of my biggest regrets is that my young Toronto granddaughters have not been able to share in my everyday life and I in theirs. My impish little grandson is not so far away

I hope I can fill my time well and celebrate life, even if I have to celebrate with some from a distance.

After all love, laughter, companionship should  have no boundaries

Funerals, Nancy Reagan.

I have been to many, many funerals. My grandmother was the eldest of a family of seven and her father was one of eleven. As sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, a human being born into this world will someday leave it. Funerals are a part of living.

Funerals continue to hold importance in the Mackay clan. The family continues to spread throughout the country and beyond, from our early Canadian, deep roots, that took hold in the rich soil of Southwestern Ontario. The strong Presbyterian faith that was brought with them, as they left Scotland in the Highland Clearances, no longer dictates living in the way of the ancestors. Members of the huge extended family hold many differing understandings of an evolving universe; but, the equality of all people and respect for the preciousness of life pass from generation to generation, almost genetically.

We were all taught that we were no better, nor any worse in the sight of the Presbyterian god. (As a child I sometimes got sense that this was not completely true, because to be born Scotch gave a little extra something.)

Here in Nova Scotia, I find a respect for lives lived, that seems to be getting lost in large urban areas. Cars pull to the side as a funeral procession passes, the people of the communities continue to bring food from their homes for refreshment after a service and for the family and friends, and the empty space the living, now dead, took up is noted by all.

Most of the funerals, I have attended, both large and small, have really been celebrations of a life lived. Of course, sometimes, the crushing grief of a death makes this impossible; the death of a small child, a young mother or father, or an individual whose task in humanity is left tragically incomplete.

I watched Nancy Reagan's funeral. The hollowness of the occasion was hard to absorb. All was perfect. The ceremony she so meticulously planned was carried out exactly as she had planned.The flowers were beautiful, the coffin was impressive, the military pall bearers made no misstep. The speakers were honoured members of society, the day was glorious. The view from the room where the funeral was held, looked over the burial sight, where her husband waited and beyond to the rolling wild hills of California. The Anglican priest's white surplice was perfectly starched and ironed and the gold cross he carried shone

But where was the love? Where was the grace? Much was made of the of the completeness of the great binding love of Ronald and Nancy for each other. What was left unsaid by all except their daughter  Patty, was there had never been room in the perfect circle for anyone else.

Ron Jr. and Patty sat in the front row, very attractive, very composed and seemingly detached from each other and the illustrious guests around them.

It seemed to me that there wasn't much love left behind, as Nancy set out on her eternal journey, with the man she she adored above others.

It was sad indeed.