Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Arriving
By Julie Wilder-Sherman
She embraced becoming the crone. With age came a dawning while in the sunset, that she didn’t know everything when she was in her 30s. The next 40 years would shape who she would become in her later years—the matriarch, the elder, the wise one in the family. The realization that there was less time ahead than behind tickled her mind every day, and she set out to make the most of her last years. The seventies would be her decade. She would be her own boss.
She made the conscious decision to let some friendships go. People she had put up with were no longer going to drain her energy and time. She would give her remaining energy and time to the ones she loved and cared about—like giving a present carefully selected and lovingly bestowed. Here I am. I give you my full attention and presence. It is my gift to you.
The outside world would be let in judiciously and with great care. She no longer allowed television to spew into her living room what she called “shit talk.” No longer the constant infiltration of the relentless news cycles poisoning her world. Done with that.
She consciously stood before trees in autumn and marveled at their life cycles—some leaves hanging on by a spider’s thread before the wind tossed it into the air and gently swirled to the ground. She noticed that leaves did not crash, but gave one last ballerina twirl and waved goodbye to the height where it once lived before gracefully landing amid rocks or grass or cement. The crone realized that she did not notice these things in her 30s when she knew everything.
She was aware that reaching her 70s had been denied to many. Her father. Her brothers. Her sister. Gratitude filled her. She embraced naps. For 50 years, she worked and had never napped in the middle of the day. Too many people telling her what to do, when to do it, how to do it, to hurry, hurry, hurry to meet deadlines and goals. In fuzzy slippers and a plush blanket she now curled up on her cushy couch on any afternoon reading a book until her eyelids felt heavy. Then she napped. She would never have done that in her 30s when she knew everything.
With age came a new kind of patience. A shrug when milk was spilled. Nothing seemed very terrible or scary anymore. She lived 70 years and had seen so much, loved so deeply, cried until her ribs hurt. She’d lived a full, fat life with few regrets. And still had so much more ahead, all on her own terms. She’d earned it.
Julie Wilder-Sherman began reading books at an early age, encouraged by her mother to take books to bed when she was a toddler. To this day Julie reads every night before falling asleep. She likes to write, bake, read, eat, attend live concerts and plays, and travel to all corners of the world with her husband, Jeff Sherman.
