Elderwomen Musings

Several pieces of old farm equipment rusting in a field. I’m drawn to the circles and my mind wanders to the repetitions in my life. The times I seem to repeat the same situation over and over until I learn to do something differently – laugh instead of cry, reach out instead of turn away, say nothing instead of offer advice. It takes me so long time to learn certain things that life gives me chances over and over.

I walk through the grass, over to the rusty equipment, wanting to get a closer look at those circles. Texture. Pattern. Composition. Simple beauty. And not circles at all. A spiral.

Ah, a much better way to think about my repetitions.

A 70-year-old friend is looking for her first motorcycle. She wants a 3-wheeler and thinks she’s found one on Craig’s List. She’ll be driving all the way to Texas to check it out. The men in her life, her husband and friends, all ask, “What are you thinking?” The women all say, “Wow! You GO, Girl!”

That difference struck me more than wanting the bike. I’m in the “you-go-girl” category.

For many reasons, excuses, demands, expectations – whatever – I think women put off the wanderer-longing until everything else is taken care of.  So maybe it’s not until 70 that we can hear that motorcycle calling our name. For me, it’s RV’s. I see a field of RV’s and make up all kinds of stories and adventures. An RV passes me on the highway and I want to magically change places with the driver. I talk to people of all ages who have taken a year or two “off” to explore the country in an RV and I wonder why didn’t I do that? Why don’t I do that? Will I ever do that? And why do we call it “off” anyway?

I don’t have any answers. I’m just wondering more and more about wandering.

What is it about a song that gets tangled up in your head and repeats itself time after time? Just when you think it’s gone, it pops around the corner and tags you again. An earworm. Repeating. Over and over.

Peter Yarrow recently came to town. He sang all the old favorites and, of course, ended with “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” We all sang along, all of us gray and silver or dyed. He assured us it was never about drugs – had we heard that rumor? It was always about the fantasy of childhood and then growing up and leaving our imaginations behind. He’s changed the words of the last chorus. Remember how it used to say “lived,” past-tense, as in “Puff lived by the sea.” He now sings it “lives” in all the choruses because dragons continue to live and they find new little children to frolic with.

I found Puff. I saw him with my own eyes. He wasn’t by the sea but in the magnificent red cliffs of southern Utah.

And I sang the song all day long. Over and over.

We had a great day, Puff and me.