Telling the Truth Can be Difficult
by BB Webb
Telling the truth can be difficult, the raw edge of truth. For instance, moving past the image of ourselves we most want to project, the attractive ones we cling to, but instead, into the depths of what it is to be alive, vulnerable, feeling at times unattractive in our own human messiness. I consider the anticipated sting of feeling unlovable or not embraced for who we are; feeling the ache of our limitations or fear, aware of the fact that our bodies are losing the power we once knew, elasticity and inches. Like a plant we feel ourselves going to seed, our fresh body blooms wilting.
No one wants to admit weakness, an ache, a health challenge or the occasional weariness that persistent challenges at times present. I’m no different and at age 64 I’m presented with what feel like symptoms of my own mortality. Yet instead of celebrating it, I find myself fighting it in ways, some good certainly, others not so much. I’m not yet ready to allow my red tresses to be engulfed in my now natural grey, or who knows, maybe it’s white hair that I pay to disguise at great cost every 4 weeks.
With equal verve, I’m dogged about moving my body, challenging my mind regularly. However, there are aspects of aging I think it better to allow without resistance or fear, but with grace and perhaps even a sense of pride.
“Here I am! I’ve lived all these years and I’m still doing my best to smile, share what I’ve learned, I still have ambitions and sex drive, I’m doing my best to be kind to others and accept myself exactly as I am, annoying warts and all. What the hell! Really!! Bring it on!”
I stumbled upon a cooking show hosted by an infectiously charming much older English woman, clearly in her late 70s or early 80s. She had masses of wrinkles, creases celebrating their own traversing design, gone wild throughout her face and neck. There was no hiding, but instead a bold presence and honesty in her agedness. Her hands were spotted with a connect-the-dots of old age marks, bent and slightly crooked with large protruding blue veins. She had a slight and somewhat tilted stance, full white hair and the energy and enthusiasm of a young puppy. I instantly fell in love with her style, her energy, her looks and her copiously expressive, deepset wrinkles. She instantly became my new role model.
As she marinated an army of drumsticks in a rosy dark mixture of savory and spicy ingredients, all measured carefully in small bowls, she nearly danced throughout her kitchen. With one swift move she whisked her drumsticks, lined up like soldiers, with an audible plop into the oven, leaving the pan and oven racks vibrating from her swift move. She had both a bold and direct exactness in her moves, juxtaposed with a witty, amicable casualness in the way she delivered and shared her recipes with the viewing audience.
She was both imp and bull, driven, confident, funny and above all charming. How could any audience not adore her! Watching her carefully taste her culinary delights held a fascination. I found myself awaiting with great patience how she might describe the colorful notes of her spicy twice baked potatoes or recount the autumnal seasonings and flavor of her grandmother’s gingerbread recipe.
Her age did not separate her, it instead added rich layers to her allure. I found her beautiful in every way, a wakeup call to my own fears around not knowing where I might fit in or moreover thrive as my aging moves me toward another kind of blooming. I’ll consider it instead a blossoming from within, fully and with growing abandon. I feel certain that upon arriving there I’ll have but two words which I’ll be compelled to repeat, ‘at last…at last!’