Our cat, a spunky calico, is fading. Every morning when I venture out to the porch to deliver her food, I fear what I will find. Stillness. Coolness. Or worse, nothing. But each new day, she hears my approach and perks up from her nap in the sunshine to greet me. She moves slowly; her coat hangs limp over her ribs. I must lean close to hear her purr, but it’s there. She often doesn’t eat the food I leave, and that makes me sad. I’ve seen end of life signs before. I pet her and tell her how happy I am to see her. What a pretty, good cat she is.
I often return to the house from visiting the cat with tears in my eyes. Why do we do this to ourselves, get attached to pets we will eventually lose? As I ponder this, I sit to take off my shoes, and my two year old puppy nudges me. Licks my hand. Forces me to be grounded in the here and now of wet noses. She sniffs the tears on my cheeks and picks up her old tennis ball. It’s time for play, and of course, I indulge her. As I watch her chase her ball, I know I’m setting myself up for hurt someday. But I also believe it’s worth it.
I turned 52 last week. While I’m not showing my age as much as my cat, I understand I have more years behind me than ahead of me. That my body is starting to wear. That each day is a gift to welcome. I have officially surpassed my mother’s time on this earth; she died at 51. This milestone is not lost on me. For whatever reason, I have more time than she did, and I intend to use it well.
Thankfully, with five decades comes wisdom for living well. I can slow down a bit now, physically and mentally, to nourish a quiet appreciation that only comes after years of emotions and failures and painful growth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still active and fighting, lifting heavy weights to combat muscle loss and osteoporosis. My go to adjective is “resilient.” But I’m comfortable with my middle aged self, leaning into my 50s eager to keep growing out of the foundation I’ve built. Time is a resource I must use well. Thanks to decades of experience, I’m finally able to hold conflicting emotions in the same hand with acceptance: joy and grief, desire and contentment, worry and release, death and life. It’s the contrasts that make life full.
Instead of seeing my life as a finite timeline, I envision my 52 years as collection in a large glass jar. I marvel at the people and experiences I’ve known, many shiny and pretty, some sharp and rough, that make up this life I’m living. I mentally dig out my trinkets and cherish them, more often these days, while looking for new treasures to add.
Bolt, my fading calico, is a gem in my collection. I love her because she acts more like a dog then a cat, coming with us on our morning walks, seeking love and attention with her raspy voice. I will keep searching for her in the mornings. And when she’s gone, I will be glad I’ve had her.
Life is smooth, shiny stones mingled with sharp edged rocks, and it’s the mix that makes it beautiful. Holding my collection, I forge onward.
Thanks for getting nerdy with me!
Oh goodness, this is such a lovely post. And so true. My husband is 52 and I’m a bit younger, but I’m already feeling the effects of middle age. And the comment about your mom hits home for me. My brother-in-law died at age 34, and I haven’t really stopped thinking about my own mortality or my other family members’ mortality since then. You’re right–each day is a gift. Happy 52 to you. I’ll give my own cat-that-acts-like-a-dog a cuddle on your behalf.
Beautifully written and so true. Grateful for the wisdom that comes with years to embrace the time we have been given with each of the people we encounter. Thank you for that reminder and here’s to the middle aged flourish of growth and defying gravity.