I've thought a lot recently about my grandmother Winnifred Wilton Wilson, who I believe I've mentioned before. She became one of Canada's first female lawyers in 1915. When she decided to marry, four years later, her fledgling career ended because in that era a married woman could not have a career. Marriage and motherhood never replaced her passion for the law, and I think once her three sons made it through World War II and into adulthood, she looked at the early 1950's landscape (no kinder to brilliant lady lawyers than the 1920's) and just literally lost heart, dying at about 61. While I'm too stubborn to die, I understand now what a huge portal this time period is. It's definitely a death and potentially a rebirth.
The phrase "statute of limitations" keeps coming up for me, as in, my own personal statute of limitations on a whole host of things is up. "Stick a fork in me, I'm done." My patience with things that don't make sense is almost nil. My patience with other people's cynicism or sarcasm or inhumanity or violence is nil. More than anything, my statute of limitations is up on not trusting my own personal instincts. For decades and decades, people have condescendingly made fun of my life, and tried to "explain" (yes, sometimes "mansplain") the importance of credit ratings and home-ownership and marriage and interest rates and health insurance and getting my act together to be like everyone else. I've often felt like the village idiot, but the statute of limitations on that is up. I am a woman with a genius IQ, so if some of these things don't make any sense to me, is it remotely possible that they simply don't make any sense, period? I was recently reminded that in major cities, there is such a thing as buying and selling the rights to the air space above a building. Buying air? Really? That makes almost as much sense as buying land or buying water. Sorry gang, none of this is ours. We can't own it. It "belongs" to something larger than ourselves. I guess everyone else is having the last laugh since they have homes and "normal" lives, but for me sixty is finally being OK with my own quirky reality, finally feeling really, really feisty.
Months ago, the metaphor I explored for this transition was being in a boat on one stretch of river, then entering a lock, rising up to a higher level, then heading into the new stretch of river. That imagery still seems apt, but I'll add a few more details. I've headed into the new stretch of river early in the morning, and there is a dense fog on the water. I literally cannot see the landscape at all clearly. I finally understand that while I have been able to capture small facets and exquisite moments of my earlier life dream, like sparkles of sunrise on the water, I won't be able to go way back down the river and literally start again. And yet although it is a rebirth, it's not necessarily about starting an entirely new career as a brain surgeon either. Lordy, I can barely put on my bra in the morning because of arthritis! Moving forward from 60 seems to be a paradox, sailing down a new stretch of river finally "owning" your own (and old) passions, perspectives and body. It seems to be about focusing on feelings of happiness and joy and love and anticipation -- before the mist rises and you can see the details of what's now ahead. And it seems to involve somehow believing a statute of unlimitation...despite physical appearances.
