I just have one thing to say--aging sure does stink.
A brave friend of mine posted on her blog how she is not too happy with the aging process. And I have to agree with her. I hate that society, especially Western culture, puts so much superficial value on appearance. No matter how hard we try to convince ourselves that we will age gracefully and not morph into vain women who think too much about their looks, we still do morph into that. One day you wake up and realize you have turned into a pathetic woman who is mourning her youth. I admit it. I am pathetically watching my cuteness fade away. And I hate every second of it fading away and I hate even more every second that I waste on mourning its demise. I am PATHETIC.
But there's nothing I can do about it. I have no money, no insurance. Therefore, I should count my blessings that even if I was tempted to undergo some dreadful plastic surgery or face a needle full of poisonous Botox, I can't. So back fat, wrinkles, thick mid section, and hormonal acne it is for me. Bring it on. At least I can dye my white hair. Maybe I should just dye my whole body. Tie dye would work. (Is that the correct way to spell tie dye?) Now that would be making a statement, wouldn't it? Or, maybe, I could just move to a part of the world where a woman has to cover up. You know, I think those women are on to something. The older we women get we actually envy that. This is a well kept secret. Come on, you aging women know I'm speaking truth.
Hmmmm, or maybe I should just join a convent or become a hermit--is a female called a hermitress? I envy the lives of nuns and hermits. Actually, the contemplative hermit existence appeals to me. I love being alone. And I love conversing with God. And I think there must be such freedom in never thinking about what you are going to wear or what makeup will cover your wrinkles or what lipstick will not creep into the lines that are creating road maps to heaven or hell around your mouth. But what an act of submission to God that would be. To be seen without makeup. I don't think I have done that since I was 16. And I have not been sans nail polish since the fourth grade. Yes, a hermitress life for me would be best. Spare the world.
What's really depressing is that I actually fooled myself into thinking that because I have never had children, always work out, for the most part eat healthily, and hardly ever drink alcohol that this would not happen to me. HAH!!!!! What a lie, It's all a lie.
It's like that health fanatic runner who dropped dead jogging in his forties. And look at George Burns. He smoked cigars and drank every day and lived to a ripe old age. You just never know. When God decides your number's up, it's up. Ugly or beautiful. We all end up dead.
You know what? It just isn't worth the energy to think this much about myself. And I'm probably cheating God by wasting so much of my energy.
So let's talk about what I did in June. At the end of June I saw Mother Teresa's relics. They are touring the USA and Canada. Now there was "real" woman. Most of society would think she was nothing if they were basing their feelings on the superficial and on how modern culture defines beauty.
I sometimes go over to the hospice that the Mother Teresa nuns operate here. It's a hospice for men with aids. And each nun there is truly beautiful. They each own one pair of sandals, two habits, and belongings that fit into one paper bag. They spend 24/7 helping the worst of the worst. The poorest of the poor. And they live the same way themselves. No air conditioning for them.
Every time I'm in their presence I feel nothing but joy. And the men that live with the sisters truly love them. The ones that are well enough help the sisters with chores. They jump at the the opportunity. These men that once were homeless have such a deep respect for these women. That's because sincere suffering knows true beauty. Here are some pics from the relic showings--
This a street person who I used to know. He doesn't even recognize me anymore. My mother used to know his mother. When his mother was alive he lived with her and she took care of him. Since she died he spends most of his time on the streets in a wheelchair. One of the nuns decided to take him inside the church and show him the relics. He came alive. He was beaming--the first time in years I have seen him smile. When he was looking at Mother Teresa's rosary and crucifix he became transfixed. It was as though he was having a private conversation with her. It seemed like time stopped in the Basilica.
Me at the hospice. Mother Teresa's rosary and crucifix. She received the crucifix when she was 20. These were both with her when she died. The two stands are holding a piece of her hair and a drop of her blood. Not a very good pic of me. But since I was hanging with Mother Teresa nun's I shall consider it a lesson in humility to post a bad pic. Ha ha. 
Something beautiful happened when I was at the hospice. The relics were being displayed in the hospice's tiny chapel. I decided to stay a while and pray. All of a sudden the men who live in the house came in and sat down. I asked one of nuns what they were doing. She told me, "The men say the rosary everyday. They are going to pray it now." 10 men live in the house. 9 black men and one white man. Various ages and various stages of sickness. In order to live at the house they have to have no where else to live. And they can't be drinking or using. The praying is voluntary. To see these men who have had, shall we say, colorful pasts humble themselves is inspiring. Each man said a decade of the rosary out loud in his own style, rhythm and cadence. One guy even rapped it. Ha. I loved his rapping. It was so great. I bet God looks forward to this rosary recitation everyday. It must put a huge smile on His face. It was the most sincere praying I've ever heard--straight from the heart. Of course, the oldest and sickest man sat next to me--practically on top of me. He kept dozing off. In between dozes he would perk up and shout, "Jesus! Hell! Jesus!" I thought he was going to fall asleep on my shoulder. I sort of was propping him up. When the praying was over, I patted his knee. He opened his eyes and managed a little smile and nodded his head. Hmmm...life. The journey goes on.
Tonight on a phone conversation, I said to my 86 year old mother, "Mom, I guess we're all on a journey. And the purpose is to make it to heaven. There doesn't seem to be any other purpose or explanation." She said, "What do you mean guessing? No guessing about it. Dear, that's all we have. I just can't imagine not knowing this." My mother has had a horrible time lately. Eight weeks ago she broke her hip. She had the beginning signs of dementia before the hip fracture. And now the anesthesia from her surgery has advanced it. She's not the same and she knows it. And she had the added complication of a UTI that landed her back in the hospital. She almost died the night they put her back in the hospital. She is now back home where she lives with the Little Sisters of the Poor. She is happier there but very frustrated that she is having a hard time remembering certain things and not being able to move around freely. She can't get through the night without waking up and crying out for help.
Even though this has been hard on both Mom and me, especially since I live far from her, there have been some heart felt and humorous conversations and words spoken that will always stay with me. But it's late now, and I must go to bed. I need to get a good night's sleep in order to continue my journey.
More on Mom later ...
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