In A Noisy World

“What you do speaks so loud,” said Emerson, “that I cannot hear what you say.”

When I don’t spend enough time alone with my thoughts, they get feisty, as if a neglected child, and start buying bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers on Amazon without my permission. It’s not that I don’t like the things my thoughts purchase, it’s just annoying, like an itch you can’t quite reach. 

Sometimes, I feel as if silence is the most elusive noun in the world. Our phones are constantly beeping, there’s continual construction in the suburbs, or the television is blaring, and just when you sit down with your cup of coffee, someone knocks at the door with your Blue Apron delivery. 

But the loudest of all and sometimes the most disturbing is the erratic clamoring of my own thoughts.

Noise pollution is a lot like air pollution; it hampers our ability to breathe deeply, think clearly, and sometimes, even move.

Not to add doom upon gloom, but there are so many complicated problems in the world today, which can be paralyzing in and of themselves, and I worry that collectively we have lost hope. I define hope as a survival trait because without it, we are not motivated to change the things that are wrong with ourselves, our relationships, our world. 

And it has to go in that order, put your mask on first, or everyone expires.

Without hope, we give up. We don’t take action. We sit, making an uneasy peace with inevitable disaster. (Which, by the way, should be the subtitle of every HOA meeting ever.)

This is probably not what you were hoping to enjoy with your morning coffee, but this is what happens when I get up early, breathe in the cool morning air, and then snuggle into my makeshift desk in the back of the room, allowing my erratic thoughts to dominate my writing. 

Today, I’ve given myself permission to just write, without direction or intent. I’m going to take long pauses so I can actually hear my thoughts, provide them with enough space to expand or contract, to wander off the page if needed. I’m using it as a therapy session, hoping to tame the frantic wayward side of me and maybe, in doing so, stumble on some universal truths. 

Yes, I’m skeptical too.

About ten minutes in, my ruminating slows down, the presumptions get softer, and when I finally put my fingers to rest, the ideas I see emerging between the lines are actually quite hopeful. Interesting, because I was in such a snit when I sat down to write. 

I’ve been debating the value of my writing for months, and now I’m wondering if what I’m honestly debating is how I value myself. Not only are my muscles, memory, and neck losing elasticity as I age, but so is my confidence.

What the hell?

It seems as if it was just yesterday when I had too much estrogen, a gaggle of kids, furry pets, a sick mom to care for, and a husband who traversed the globe selling memory (bahaha – in the form of a chip).

I was the calm in the storm back then, resilient, reliable, and endlessly flexible. Please do not fact-check these statements with my children. 

They lie. 

Now that the estrogen is gone, and apparently my progesterone has jumped ship as well, and although I’m adding collagen to my morning coffee, it remains undetectable. It’s like playing hide-and-seek with myself, but I can’t find the old me. 

So I did a little research.

It turns out that there are some upsides to this substance rebellion. Without estrogen, I’m now wired to worry about my own needs instead of everyone else’s. My sex drive has been radically diminished, okay, demolished, and so is my tolerance and patience. Oh my, could it get any better?

Okay, before you all go crying, “poor Larry,” you should realize the same thing is happening to him, but it’s less noticeable because his testosterone has always driven his ship, and unless you’re Captain Ahab, it’s usually not mutinous. Though he has been known to harpoon the thermostat without warning.

A very wise woman I know sent me a quote recently because she knows I’m wrestling with this stage of life. The quote referred to menopause as the phase when a woman is pregnant with herself.

I can not tell you how much I love that. 

As Richard Rohr says in his latest novel, Falling Upward, in the second half of life (or the third), “get ready for some new freedom, some dangerous permission, some hope from nowhere, some unexpected happiness, some stumbling stones, some radical grace, and some new and pressing responsibility for yourself and for our suffering world.” 

Now that’s a fabulously fertile statement.

Johanthan Swift said no wise person ever wanted to be younger. He most likely was not married to Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, or Bobbi Brown, who made millions on this very foundation, pun intended. 

When did the concept of aging become so distorted?

We are designed to age beautifully, but we have been convinced by the dominating culture that aging is a sin. The worst kind of sin if you happen to be a woman. We’ve been indoctrinated to fear our grey hair, every damn wrinkle, our charming belly fat, laden breasts, and mild shift in attitude. Bahaha.

I feel like the Tupperware in the back of the pantry, their color has faded, most of the lids are lost, warped, or cracked, and in general, they might make better bath toys for the grandkids than containers for my leftovers. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, but you already knew that. 

All is not lost, because with fewer responsibilities and fewer regulatory substances, we gain a new sense of clarity, becoming an improved version of our old self, with a deep and profound reverence for life. We are giving birth to a new entity, one who is not only feisty but outrageously warped. We’ve developed flexibility and resilience. We’re creative as hell, relatively calm, wildly empathetic, and ever so eager to share our wisdom with the grandchildren who are glued to their screens. 

This is precisely why we need radically aging people who can mirror life truthfully and foundationally for the next generation. We are a ray of hope in a dark world, and best of all, we have access to a fabulous generator. See what I did there?

Dr. Amanda Hanson beautifully writes in her new book, Midlife Muse, “Envision a reality in which women consider their look and body shape to be the least interesting things about them. In which women spend their money in ways that expand and enhance their souls rather than on products and procedures that disguise their perceived flaws.” 

That’s what I’m talking about. 

So how do we create an environment where we all feel as if we have a place at the coveted table in a world that bombards us with messages that devalue our worth as we age? 

Hope and belief are excellent starting points because the only thing that can possibly hold us back is our own lack of courage, faith in ourselves, and a proper-fitting bra (Interchange with jock strap, if necessary). I think we should gather up the people in our lives who are safe, compassionate, and trustworthy. You know the ones. They don’t flinch when you’re a vulnerable mess. They move closer, grab you by the shoulders, whisper in your ear, “Don’t forget, you’re the plot twist no one expected.” 

People who boldly love themselves attract people who are also self-loving. Booyah!

These are the ones who look for the best in others and refuse to gossip, they celebrate each other’s victories, mourn each other’s pain, and fiercely protect one another. It doesn’t matter if you gather to discuss books, beliefs, or which cruise ships have the best buffets. 

Just show up.

The world needs sassy, strong, and competent elders who have a passion for leading, but a healthy social network also means you need to plan regular “play dates.”

The beginning of this journey starts with knowing and loving ourselves, just as we are, and curating a life spun from our wildest dreams. Richard Rohr says, when we learn to desire deeply, desire ourselves, desire God, and desire everything good, true, and beautiful. God, like nature, abhors all vacuums and rushes to fill them. 

Perhaps this is how we allow the first half of life to give birth to the second right smack in the midst of a noisy world, held by the hands of those who love us without conditions, repercussions, or judgment. It’s in those ever-expanding circles that we stop apologizing for existing, and trust me, no one has ever died wishing they had eaten less cake, spent more time scrubbing floors, or exfoliating.

So, buy the bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers, raise your voice, write your truth, dance when the urge strikes, forgive graciously, and foster the young. In other words, be the plot twist no one saw coming, because in this noisy, impatient, imperfect world, the bravest thing we can do is to age unapologetically, treat every wrinkle like a merit badge, celebrate our vintage as if a fine wine (it’s gotten us through much worse). Go ahead, be a little brazen, and get knocked up with a brand new self.

I’m Living in the Gap, looking for those special people, who want to age without apology! Maybe Dr. Amanda Hansen will join us!