The Art of Growing Older

with sound mind and open heart

I celebrated my birthday a few weeks ago. Subconsciously, I’ve always been afraid of turning 23. It seemed like the year that I lost any excuses. Where I grew up, most people graduated university at 22, and I always looked at 23-year-olds as those who had broken the seal. They escaped the cushioned, limited life of undergraduate academia and entered a paradise of predictability — at least to me, the youngest of all my cousins, who ached to be included but was sheltered from any moments of crisis. It wasn’t until I entered this period myself that I realised how difficult it might have been for them. Or perhaps, I’d just chosen an uncharted path.

Like many eldest children of immigrants, I grew up independent. My parents were around and always supportive, but there was a generational and cultural barrier that I saw more clearly when I was angsty and upset. My big sisters were Seventeen magazines, Tumblr, and novels for readers far older than me. I navigated the internet with little to no supervision and learned to identify with a crowd I didn’t belong to. Everyone admired my maturity, and I often got mistaken for ages much older. I took this as a compliment. There’s a photo of me at 14 in Los Angeles, where I visited with my Dad. We ate at Urth cafe and went to LACMA. I took a lot of photos for my Instagram. I wore a big sunhat, lace TOMS, and an outfit from Forever 21’s Contemporary line. I had mastered my eyeliner, and years of precise eyebrow threading made me look far more put together than someone should be when they’d just finished eighth grade. Recently, I came across it again and sent it to my friends: why do i look like a 45-year-old divorcee who’s heading to her condo in miami. I like to laugh about it, but part of me also feels a little sad. My early adolescence was full of bright colors, and I turned down the saturation. I chose to see darkness. I feel like I’m just making up for it now. But the darkness is no longer just a filter, and it takes effort to build a life that exists despite it. There’s a lot to worry about: career, relationships, rent, groceries. (In between: climate change, inflation, gun violence, the right daily vitamins). Despite spending so much of my life chasing an early adulthood, I feel like I’m now hunting the remnants of childhood. I collect them like pieces of glass in the sand, to build a mosaic that sunlight can shine through, spilling color across my life.

This is one of my favorite poems as of late, “Sanity” by Caroline Bird:

I do kind gestures. Remove my appendix. 
I put my ear to a flat shell and -- nothing. 
I play the lottery ironically. Get married. 
Have a smear test. I put my ear to the beak 
of a dead bird — nothing. I grow wisdom 
teeth. Jog. I pick up a toddler's telephone, 
Hello? — No answer. I change a light bulb 
on my own. Organise a large party. Hire 
a clown. Attend a four day stone-walling 
course. Have a baby. Stop eating Coco-Pops. 
I put my ear right up to the slack and gaping
bonet of a daffodil — . Get divorced. Floss. 
Describe a younger person's music taste as 
'just noise'. Enjoy perusing a garden centre. 
Sit in a pub without drinking. I stand at the 
lip of a pouting valley — SPEAK TO ME! 
My echo plagiarises. I land a real love plus
two real cats. I never meet the talking bird 
again. Or the yawning hole. The panther 
of purple wisps who prowls inside the air. 
I change nappies. Donate my eggs. Learn 
a profound lesson about sacrifice. Brunch. 
No singing floorboards. No vents leaking 
scentless instructions. My mission is over. 
The world has zipped up her second mouth. 

This poem notes a feeling I’ve been thinking about for a while: sometimes growing older feels like holding life at arm’s length. I told my parents I wanted to try being a writer while I’m young because I’m afraid I’d lose grip on my creativity — as if it has the potential to rust, like jewellery that hasn’t been worn (or worn too often, everywhere). Recently, among the quotidian clockwork of adult life, I’ve started to wane from my sense of wonder. These days my focus on life is primarily practical, and it leaves little room for discovery. It often feels like the world isn’t offering me anything in return. But, still, there are occasional, special moments when the clarity of my mind offers a breakthrough. For example, on Friday, I went for a picnic in the park and stuck a daisy in the book I was reading. That flower held meaning and hope, and even though it said nothing to me, I still trusted it. For all that was left unsaid.

Bird uses the title “Sanity” to exaggerate the stagnancy of adulthood, but doesn’t come to either a hopeful or a tragic conclusion. It’s an observation of the way we live. More often than not, we are floating atop of life because it’s too tiring to swim. I put my ear to a flat shell and — nothing. I like to believe that my mission isn’t over. I know it isn’t, but I still think I spend too much time searching for the answers, as I always have. I look around and see people my age who are, seemingly, more successful or steady. The plethora of writing rejections in my inbox feels like a locked door with an illuminated keyhole. I write a lot about what I should do, but most of the time I sit and stare through that keyhole and wallow at what I haven’t been offered. If only I could let the raw sunshine guide me, back through the front door and down to the park. I’d write about the sun and the bright grass and the child hobbling after the rogue fox. I’d watch as a woman and her elderly mother stroll on the sidewalk, arm in arm, and suddenly my life will stretch out before me like fog dissolving over the mountains. It happens sometimes. I know the feeling. I wish I could pocket it.

The Ten Largest No. 3, “Childhood” by Hilma af Klint

Mary Oliver’s “Mysteries, Yes”:

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
 to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
 mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
 while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
 never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
 scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
 who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
 “Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
 and bow their heads.

Turning 23 has been a stark reminder that my growth has evened out. I can’t act any older than I am. I look my age now, and I know the same amount — if not less — than my peers. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve been forced to sit still, refrain from chasing, to be intentional in my decisions and observations. When it’s hard, I try going backwards. I spend too much money on books that I don’t read. I buy Sonny Angels and put them on a shelf in my room. I sign my name with a smiley face. I lean into my daydreams. My life is just starting.

My birthday party was the first weekend of April. I invited friends from every corner of my life, and we hosted 8 people. It was lovely. We had snacks and played We Are Not Really Strangers. One of my questions was “If you could have it your way: who would you be with? Where would you be? What would you be doing?”. If I thought about it more, I might have had a different answer, but at that moment I didn’t want to change anything. I was with my friends, in a city I love, I write [when I can] and enjoy it, most of the time. A friend laughed and made me choose. Still, it felt dishonest. It is in my best moments, which are often the simplest, that I realise how little else I need.

“April” by Sara Nicholson:

It can be nice, some days 
To sit down and think.
Fresh air is good. 
Matter in variety is good
For the body. 
A little pepper on the biscuit, not 
Too much onion, just a slice. 
The sea is calm tonight. 
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain. 
I'm tired. The wind is blowing
Only just. 
The wind is good
And so am I 
Bored with desiring, exchanging ticket
for ticket, sail for sail. 
The snow is good 
And the rain. 

There’s been a trending filter on TikTok recently that shows you what you might look like when you’re older. It’s startlingly realistic, and I avoided trying it out for a while. When I finally did, I was surprised by how tender I felt. I am excited to age. Despite what society tells us, it’s a blessing not everyone has. I am learning to have faith in my body as it builds a home for my soul. The floorboards will creak and the wallpaper will change but the windows and doors will always be open. I want to grow into an experienced person, kinder and more compassionate with each birthday. I can’t wait to have silver hair, and for my smiles and laughter to sink into my face. I am a fresh flower in the garden of life. Bring on the sunlight, and the rain.

One last poem, “Zona” by Jim Harrison:

My work piles up, 
I falter with disease. 
Time rushes toward me - 
it has no breaks. Still, 
the radishes are good this year. 
Run them through butter, 
add a little salt. 

---

Whew. It’s been hard to write lately, but this is a topic I’ve been having conversations about with a lot of my friends. Everyone feels like they’re missing something. And yes, the negative space is always brighter. But if you pick up a shell and can’t hear the ocean, hold it in your hand for a moment and examine its beauty. As we grow older, things will morph and change in front of us, but the shells will stay beautiful. Isn’t that lovely?

<3

Tara