On Turning Fifty-Six

An Unfolding

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Listen Here- Podcast Style

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Photo © by J.Millard

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Disclaimer- there may be some words of profanity included in this piece which may be confused with Canadian vernacular. I’ll let you decide which words.

At Fifty-Six I believe that I am calmer than I was in my twenties and thirties. My teens were lived in a time long before the computer had arrived in palm and pocket. A dime and much later a quarter would always get us connected home. It’s not about getting to do it over again or telling my sixteen year old self not to be so stupid. Youth is wonderful. It goes by fast and the waves cannot be bypassed. Some of us learn to swim early. Some much later.

Secrets? Only between me, God and the devil. Anything that I called hell was never for others. The fire of hell may just be the fire of love.

Wounds? Scarred over. To rub them still an addiction. They show me I was here.

Regrets? As my fellow Canadian Paul Anka wrote, “I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.”

Resent? Some things never forgotten yet all is forgiven now. This took me a little longer to set free. The swimming became easier with that weight gone. Instead of just treading water I was moving forward in the waves. Diving deeper. Even learning how to breathe underwater.

As Henry Miller so beautifully lamented in his chapbook On Turning Eighty, “It was only in my forties that I really began to feel young. By then I was ready for it.” Pablo Picasso shared, “One starts to get young at the age of sixty, and then it’s too late.” I definitely resonate and I am leaning into getting ahead of that curve. Or is it a spiral? I choose to spiral upwards. Living is a joy. I am cuoreous. Yes cuoreous! Heart open. Eyes wide. Wrinkles unfolding into a slow unknowing as I step into that space of being. There is no happiness to chase. I say my blessings everyday for what I have versus what I do not have.

19th century Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib captured it so well as he wrote,

As awareness tries to ensnare you in the net of understanding,
Meaning remains the bird that eludes the realm of speech.

It seems that we have all been taught to reinvent the meaning that has been with us and embedded inside of us all along. At Fifty-Six I lean into the mystery. I invite that authentic meaning to speak through me. I celebrate the dawn. I live into the questions that each day brings as cuoreosity. What arrives is often beyond language. Beyond the realm of speech. With a pen and paper I smile and listen as my soul does its best to share with my mind what I could only ever feel.

I write this in response to my old friend time whispering in my ear, challenging “my beliefs” and calling out the non value of “my poetry”. It and they was and were never for him. Always mine. To Mr. Time with a smile on my face I shall echo along with Mr. Miller’s essay yet once more, “Fuck you Jack! You don’t own me!”. Scars accepted. Sins healed. No resent. No regrets. A brand new day. A brand new story. A brand new poem.

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Fifty-Six

There is a forest of hair
growing in my creases,
yet my scalp is becoming anemic.
Skin thicker.
Scarred.
Wrinkles revealing wisdom
from widening eyes.
My spine is thanking me
for its years of service,
letting me know that I’m still alive.
I think that’s what the ache is saying.
Everything and everybody is telling me
to slow down and do things differently.
In the spirit of Henry Miller I’ll just say,
“Fuck you Jack! -
You don’t own me!”
I’m not after comfort, washing cars or golf.
I think I’ll climb a fucking mountain today.
It might just take me a little longer
to rise up to the crest.
I’m not in as much of a hurry anymore.
I enjoy the scenery on the way now.
I know how to pray on my knees
in the church of wonder.
I have forgotten more than I’ve ever known.
Mystery never bows to mastery.
I get back up after I fall down.
Life is creating from experience
and letting intuition open up the doors.
Our heart knows the way.
Dawn is sacred.
Gratitude is medicine.
Breathing is believing.
I am curiously unfolding
and every day is a brand new story.

© Jamie Millard

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If there is to be any peace
it will come through being,
not having.

Henry Miller

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Thank you for being here. To have a witness in all of these spaces between the words is a blessing. Poetry is meant to be read out loud and I have shared my own reading, Canadian vernacular and all with a podcast style audio found under the main headings at the top of this article.

May you enjoy your own journey up that spiralling, unfolding mountain of aching joy.

Lots of Love,

Jamie

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Quoted Sources:

1. Paul Anka- My Way- a song Anka had written specifically for Frank Sinatra on the 1969 album of the same name. The song became Sinatra’s theme song at the latter stages of his career.

2. Henry Miller- On Turning Eighty. A 1972 chapbook which contains 3 essays, one of which is on aging and living a fulfilling life.