As a kid I remember my mom and grandma talking about an older woman, a second cousin who'd done something scandalous. She's in her 60's, Gram said. And Mom said Oh I thought she was at least 70.
And I marveled, How do they know if someone is forty or sixty or eighty? I wasn't even ten yet and any one past eighteen seemed unimaginably ancient, the years not even worth counting.
I found doodling calming and once sketched my grandmother in profile, as realistically as I could. She was so upset with the drawing, with the proportions and my tactless attempt at realism. My nose is not that big, she insisted. But it was how I saw her, a small person sitting on the floor with a sketchbook and pencils. It was how she looked to my naive eyes. Distinctive. Glamorous, with her champagne blonde perm, capri pants and sleeveless tops.
I learned to hide my drawings after that.
I learned honesty is upsetting and will get you in trouble.
Now, I'm on the other end of that spectrum. Where I once wondered how older folks become so cantankerous and inward-focused, I now realize it's a lifelong act of resistance to stay nimble and open, to guide the mind out of comfortable ruts and into the broad, shifting path ahead.
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