The irony of the freedom of old age is that we squander so much of it caring about others. It is as if this great love that has us in our grip could save anyone from anything. But alas, no. We who have endured the most decades have had the opportunity to witness patterns of loving and wounding, ambition and disappointment, advance and setback cycling through time on well-worn tracks. We see it all but are helpless to do anything about it.
This is especially true when it comes to our young. We’ve lived through all of their life stages: a front row seat to their moods, challenges and joys. Then suddenly, anticipated but nevertheless invariably unexpected, we are asked to leave the auditorium in order for them to become independent adults.
Truthfully, we do not leave all at once, lingering in the shadows off-stage, watching them make decisions that wouldn’t have been our first choice for them. Often, they make great decisions—things work out for them in unexpected ways– but even so we can grieve all the more that they are getting along without us.
Here’s the truth of the matter. We know how to detach but not how to feel less pain. Our love—our deepest self—can easily become a burden. It is as though each of our hearts was beating in multiple bodies, and this, of course, is more bodies than can be of any practical use.
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