At seventy-three, oh, how I relate to this! I've never liked my hands. After years in the sun, they prematurely wrinkled. They have embarrassed me more than once. But still, when I was in my forties I relentlessly pushed myself at the gym until I had that sculpted body I was proud of. After sustaining a fall down some stairs that broke my neck at 49 and then other serious medical issues, I have problems just getting around on two feet (also arthritic in my feet). I watch children and young able-bodied adults and reminisce. One day, I looked at my hands and noticed how elderly they looked. I felt an unusual feeling of gratitude and love. "Thank you hands," I said. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years. You've been faithful." They no longer seemed ugly.
What a lovely thing to tell your hands. I have similar thoughts about my feet but have never talked to them. Maybe I should give it a go. As for your medical travails, aren’t you glad you didn’t know in your youth what life had in store? A broken neck! Yikes. But here you are and glad to be, it seems.
When I was in my twenties, someone told me that if we got a list at the first of every year, of all the things that would go wrong in the coming year, we'd have breakdowns, but because they happen one at a time you get through them. I'm so glad I didn't know in my youth what I was in for!
At the risk of overstaying my welcome, let me tell you one story.
When my son was five years. old, he began to pee in his pants, resulting in a dark stain on his light grey school trousers. When I asked him whether he didn't feel it coming, he said "No, Mum, it's sort of like an ambush:" He always had a facility with words and that one hit it on the head. Our bodies do ambush us from time to time.
About to be 77 and still can’t understand why I get tired by 4pm despite waking at 6am, creeping around not to wake my husband, walk the puppy for 30 minutes, do the washing, cooking, my artwork, gardening etc … surely it’s not old age making me tired? Everyone says I look 15 years younger - but my bone house knows the truth 🤣
My body has been through the wars. I am scarred from this surgery or that. My knees were, finally, replaced when one fell completely apart, and I couldn't step away from the kitchen counter. I worked hard, in those days, just to think through the pain of walking bone-on-bone. But let me stand before a moon at any phase, let me feel the rain upon my cheeks, let me hug the man who has shared 42-plus years with me, and I say it is all worth it. My body is my friend. It holds the woman that I have become. It has seen wonders that are stored in me. It carries the tale of a life well-lived - good, bad, or otherwise. Together, we'll carry on.
I’ve tried to enjoy each stage of my bone house and it continues to surprise me with each new decade/birthday. A couple of years ago, at 63, I climbed a rock wall, overcoming my fear of heights. I still can’t believe that I did it. But now, it’s gentle yoga and, yes, the two daily walks/jogs with a three year old pup that keep my bone house going. From bone house to bone yard, before we know it.
Thank you Rona. Pushing 74 and totally sedentary for the last year while dealing with an injury, then surgery and recovery, I have joined a gym and hired a personal trainer to try and get fit enough to enjoy walking in Paris and playing with my grandchildren. I keep being shocked when I look in the mirror at myself beyond my face.....how did this happen?
I guess the secret is less time in front of mirrors. I also recommend big hats—they soften the face. You are wise to start moving with the help of a trainer who can help you push yourself while giving your body time to heal. It’s slower in your 70s.
I always enjoy your essays and the ideas they bring up. But when it comes to exercise and taking care of my body, I’m a failure. I’ve never enjoyed it and never worked hard at it. When I was young I was slender for a time and did go to an aerobics class, the thing to do in the 80’s. But there were mornings where instead of attending the class before work, I took myself out for breakfast at a diner and ate biscuits with sausage gravy. I lived in Dallas at the time. It was my secret. My sister, 6 years older, loves her yoga and postural fitness classes, my husband goes on long walks several times a week, my friends do Jazzercize and water aerobics. But for me, I rather read a book, paint rocks, sew, embroider, mosaic…all my joys in life are sedentary. And I enjoy eating and my overweight body shows that I do well at that. I know in my head that this isn’t good for the long term and I'm already 66. Will I ever change?!!
I love how this essay covers the full spectrum—the body throughout life. I’m feeling a little battered these days (knees, shoulder, back, feet, ankle) but I’m grateful to walk a trail and not care how my body looks.
Well, this is true! And for a good chunk of the year I’m in puffy coats and fleece pants… and thanks re the photos. All our snow washed away in last night’s rain. Hoping for some snow tonight.
I just love this post, Rona. It hurts to read your description of your walks with your dog since he is no longer by your side. I try to remember that my Golden Retriever is a gift for my 60s (and early 70s) and to treasure each moment with Parker.
Your dog reminds you to look at everything, lift your head to the breeze, marvel at the falling leaf or snow flake, smile at every person who passes by on your walk, and take every opportunity to cuddle together on a bench.
I have been traveling for 17 days in Europe so I am ecstatic to be back home and taking walks with my dog again.
I am so glad to see all the people who mentioned the positive impact of yoga. I just retired and I plan to start yoga classes this week. I hope it will help with my stiff joints and creaky right knee.
Thank you for a delightful column. I eagerly read it every Sunday morning.
Thank you, Terri. I too have just started yoga, returning after long absence. It will help you stay flexible. I wish you and Parker many joyous walks together (just shed a wistful tear).
This is lovely to think about, all the ways our bodies betray us…and also carry us joyfully through the world. And Hokas! They are a good friend to bad feet.
Hokas are the best shoes ever for feet like mine. But sometimes I miss my blue suede shoes with silver heels. These days I couldn't even stand in them.
At the thought of jumping, these old bones quiver. Great line, though. Martha Graham danced with severe arthritis, although she hd to be carried onto the stage.
Loved this, Rona. I don’t remember if our skeleton had a name. It hung next to the door of the closet where they kept the frogs and fetal pigs pickled in formaldehyde. Oh, those adolescent days. So wanted to be a Coppertone girl, or at least to have something — anything! — to like about my body. I still struggle with that.
I haven’t been physically active for a long time, other than walks. I remember a time when I did yoga and lifted weights. That was the strongest I’ve ever felt.
Thank you for this beautifully written reminder of how precious our “bone houses” are. And yes, someday we’ll be in the bone yard.
Your description of what it felt like to receive Casey’s ashes was so poignant. I’m having a hard time preparing myself for Mini’s. Saying goodbye never gets easier. I think of David Lynch, and fall apart, remembering the love for his work my husband and I shared. David’s birthday is today. We would have had cherry pie. (Wow, where did that come from?)
I should buy some new Hokas, and get moving. Thanks, Rona, for this story of acceptance and appreciation.
"After the first death there is no other?" I've come to feel that every death contains all the others going back to the mother death, so to speak. Thinking of you and your husband on David Lynch Day--and wishing Mini many more good days to loll about, following the sunshine.
Beautiful essay. Thought provoking and moving. I’m 59. Being vain and somewhat insecure, I always wanted to be slimmer (not more fit). Now, as my knees start hurting and it takes me longer to recover from workouts, I just wish I’d loved and appreciated the body I had.
At seventy-three, oh, how I relate to this! I've never liked my hands. After years in the sun, they prematurely wrinkled. They have embarrassed me more than once. But still, when I was in my forties I relentlessly pushed myself at the gym until I had that sculpted body I was proud of. After sustaining a fall down some stairs that broke my neck at 49 and then other serious medical issues, I have problems just getting around on two feet (also arthritic in my feet). I watch children and young able-bodied adults and reminisce. One day, I looked at my hands and noticed how elderly they looked. I felt an unusual feeling of gratitude and love. "Thank you hands," I said. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years. You've been faithful." They no longer seemed ugly.
What a lovely thing to tell your hands. I have similar thoughts about my feet but have never talked to them. Maybe I should give it a go. As for your medical travails, aren’t you glad you didn’t know in your youth what life had in store? A broken neck! Yikes. But here you are and glad to be, it seems.
When I was in my twenties, someone told me that if we got a list at the first of every year, of all the things that would go wrong in the coming year, we'd have breakdowns, but because they happen one at a time you get through them. I'm so glad I didn't know in my youth what I was in for!
At the risk of overstaying my welcome, let me tell you one story.
When my son was five years. old, he began to pee in his pants, resulting in a dark stain on his light grey school trousers. When I asked him whether he didn't feel it coming, he said "No, Mum, it's sort of like an ambush:" He always had a facility with words and that one hit it on the head. Our bodies do ambush us from time to time.
Now, that’s a creative turn of phrase. My son’s best, at around that age, was “There’s a war going on inside my head.”
About to be 77 and still can’t understand why I get tired by 4pm despite waking at 6am, creeping around not to wake my husband, walk the puppy for 30 minutes, do the washing, cooking, my artwork, gardening etc … surely it’s not old age making me tired? Everyone says I look 15 years younger - but my bone house knows the truth 🤣
Oh my gosh. The piercing precision of this. You in that gym then. You and this bone house now.
“Piercing precision” means a lot, Beth.
She nailed it with that description.
My body has been through the wars. I am scarred from this surgery or that. My knees were, finally, replaced when one fell completely apart, and I couldn't step away from the kitchen counter. I worked hard, in those days, just to think through the pain of walking bone-on-bone. But let me stand before a moon at any phase, let me feel the rain upon my cheeks, let me hug the man who has shared 42-plus years with me, and I say it is all worth it. My body is my friend. It holds the woman that I have become. It has seen wonders that are stored in me. It carries the tale of a life well-lived - good, bad, or otherwise. Together, we'll carry on.
Libby, how beautifully you’ve expressed the hard-won gratitude and love for your battered but still-upright physical self.
I’ve tried to enjoy each stage of my bone house and it continues to surprise me with each new decade/birthday. A couple of years ago, at 63, I climbed a rock wall, overcoming my fear of heights. I still can’t believe that I did it. But now, it’s gentle yoga and, yes, the two daily walks/jogs with a three year old pup that keep my bone house going. From bone house to bone yard, before we know it.
Bone house to bone yard! Ouch. Good one, Rachel. And congratulations on rock climbing in your 60s. I was a sprout of about 50 the one time I tried it.
Listening to the account of ashes, grief is hard.
And slow. Thank you for noticing this detail. It was important to me.
Thank you Rona. Pushing 74 and totally sedentary for the last year while dealing with an injury, then surgery and recovery, I have joined a gym and hired a personal trainer to try and get fit enough to enjoy walking in Paris and playing with my grandchildren. I keep being shocked when I look in the mirror at myself beyond my face.....how did this happen?
I guess the secret is less time in front of mirrors. I also recommend big hats—they soften the face. You are wise to start moving with the help of a trainer who can help you push yourself while giving your body time to heal. It’s slower in your 70s.
And oversized sunglasses.
Yes, although I'm a glasses wearer who can no longer wear contacts and balks at carrying two pairs of shades around. I do miss the look.
I always enjoy your essays and the ideas they bring up. But when it comes to exercise and taking care of my body, I’m a failure. I’ve never enjoyed it and never worked hard at it. When I was young I was slender for a time and did go to an aerobics class, the thing to do in the 80’s. But there were mornings where instead of attending the class before work, I took myself out for breakfast at a diner and ate biscuits with sausage gravy. I lived in Dallas at the time. It was my secret. My sister, 6 years older, loves her yoga and postural fitness classes, my husband goes on long walks several times a week, my friends do Jazzercize and water aerobics. But for me, I rather read a book, paint rocks, sew, embroider, mosaic…all my joys in life are sedentary. And I enjoy eating and my overweight body shows that I do well at that. I know in my head that this isn’t good for the long term and I'm already 66. Will I ever change?!!
"I enjoy eating and my overweight body shows that I do well at that." Your sense of humor is flourishing.
😆
I love how this essay covers the full spectrum—the body throughout life. I’m feeling a little battered these days (knees, shoulder, back, feet, ankle) but I’m grateful to walk a trail and not care how my body looks.
Not caring must be easier when it’s just you and the trees and the trail. I’ve been enjoying your photos of New Hampshire in its winter beauty.
Well, this is true! And for a good chunk of the year I’m in puffy coats and fleece pants… and thanks re the photos. All our snow washed away in last night’s rain. Hoping for some snow tonight.
I just love this post, Rona. It hurts to read your description of your walks with your dog since he is no longer by your side. I try to remember that my Golden Retriever is a gift for my 60s (and early 70s) and to treasure each moment with Parker.
Your dog reminds you to look at everything, lift your head to the breeze, marvel at the falling leaf or snow flake, smile at every person who passes by on your walk, and take every opportunity to cuddle together on a bench.
I have been traveling for 17 days in Europe so I am ecstatic to be back home and taking walks with my dog again.
I am so glad to see all the people who mentioned the positive impact of yoga. I just retired and I plan to start yoga classes this week. I hope it will help with my stiff joints and creaky right knee.
Thank you for a delightful column. I eagerly read it every Sunday morning.
Thank you, Terri. I too have just started yoga, returning after long absence. It will help you stay flexible. I wish you and Parker many joyous walks together (just shed a wistful tear).
Bone house, I love it.
Thank you for this post.
From my bone house to yours, thank you!
Our forever cradle.
This is lovely to think about, all the ways our bodies betray us…and also carry us joyfully through the world. And Hokas! They are a good friend to bad feet.
Hokas are the best shoes ever for feet like mine. But sometimes I miss my blue suede shoes with silver heels. These days I couldn't even stand in them.
My shoe selection keeps getting smaller and smaller!
Etta, which is good because our oldster shoes get more and more expensivep!
It takes a lot of money to have frumpy feet.
Yep! No more cheap shoes for me!
Love my Hokas! They took me all over London and Edinburgh on my last two vacations. Never a tired or sore foot!
Oh, I believe it. My mother used to say of her Mephistos, the best walking shoes available at the time, "My feet are in the hands of God."
The best activity to keep those bones jumping--in the words of the great Belgian singer Stromae, "Alors, on danse!" Wonderful post, Rona!
At the thought of jumping, these old bones quiver. Great line, though. Martha Graham danced with severe arthritis, although she hd to be carried onto the stage.
Loved this, Rona. I don’t remember if our skeleton had a name. It hung next to the door of the closet where they kept the frogs and fetal pigs pickled in formaldehyde. Oh, those adolescent days. So wanted to be a Coppertone girl, or at least to have something — anything! — to like about my body. I still struggle with that.
I haven’t been physically active for a long time, other than walks. I remember a time when I did yoga and lifted weights. That was the strongest I’ve ever felt.
Thank you for this beautifully written reminder of how precious our “bone houses” are. And yes, someday we’ll be in the bone yard.
Your description of what it felt like to receive Casey’s ashes was so poignant. I’m having a hard time preparing myself for Mini’s. Saying goodbye never gets easier. I think of David Lynch, and fall apart, remembering the love for his work my husband and I shared. David’s birthday is today. We would have had cherry pie. (Wow, where did that come from?)
I should buy some new Hokas, and get moving. Thanks, Rona, for this story of acceptance and appreciation.
"After the first death there is no other?" I've come to feel that every death contains all the others going back to the mother death, so to speak. Thinking of you and your husband on David Lynch Day--and wishing Mini many more good days to loll about, following the sunshine.
"Bone House" - reminds me of that Rumi line "This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival” So many metaphors come to mind! 😊
Oooh, I like it.
Beautiful essay. Thought provoking and moving. I’m 59. Being vain and somewhat insecure, I always wanted to be slimmer (not more fit). Now, as my knees start hurting and it takes me longer to recover from workouts, I just wish I’d loved and appreciated the body I had.
So many of us feel this tug of wistfulness as we age. We didn't know how lovely we were. Thanks, Katrin.