At Sixty

When these words appear on the pages of the Ashland Times-Gazette, I will have less than forty-eight hours before I cross a major life threshold – turning sixty. There, I’ve said it in print so it has to be true – I’ve read it in the T-G.

How could I possibly be sixty? I don’t feel like I’ve lived that long, nor do I feel sixty, at least most days. Yet as a woman who will have lived in seven decades, two centuries, and even two millennia, I’m finally at that great divide. Yikes!

While I don’t qualify yet for Social Security, I will soon get my own Golden Buckeye Card that is issued automatically by the Ohio Department on Aging, qualifying me for discounts at 20,000 businesses state-wide. Their website assures me that as a Golden Buckeye I am not “defined by my age, but inspired by it, a respected and vital member of my community who continues to grow, thrive and contribute.” So glad for their affirmation and support!

The subject of my doctoral dissertation was vocational identity and direction for women clergy at midlife, and this milestone birthday bumps me out of that age category. My midlife days are coming to an end, if not already in my rear-view mirror. I’m even at the endpoint of what Sarah Pearlman calls late midlife astonishment. By fifty-five, I was pushing that limit, and now at sixty, I will clearly be in the period of life author Gail Sheehy describes as the passage where “time starts to pinch.”

Some of the metaphors for midlife I found helpful were an autumn gospel (Kathleen Fischer), discarding shells (Anne Morrow Lindbergh), and casting off old maps or shedding skin (Joyce Rupp). In comparison, am I facing a life marked by eternal winter as in “Frozen” or the “Chronicles of Narnia”? Will I still be able to bend down to pick up new shells on the beach? Do I have to spend my older years depending on a GPS instead of an actual map? Hopefully I can discover guiding metaphors for my sixties and beyond that won’t include wrinkled prunes or sagging body parts.

What I also discovered in my doctoral research was that women in different age groupings can be defined or described by terms that may feel more or less flattering. While I’m comfortable with words such as elder, grandmother, and wise woman, I’m not too sure about crone. Crone? Isn’t that an ugly, withered old woman? Yet Ann Kreilkamps redefines the word. “In ancient days,” she writes, “Crone meant Crown. Crone is the messenger, translator of life’s passages, midwife to Death, Birth and Rebirth. Crone is the stage at which what was formerly passionately and often painfully or violently expressed is now recollected in tranquility.”Maybe that description needs to wait until seventy.

In the literature on life passages is the category Erik Erikson outlined in his work on the stages of psychosocial development. He describes the task of generativity versus stagnation as the ability to create or nurture things that will outlast the individuals as they guide the next generation. In choosing generativity, we claim an optimism about humanity and find ways to contribute to the world around us. As Samuel Ullman suggests, “Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” Fortunately, I’ve got until at least age sixty-five (or later) before I need to move fully into Erikson’s last developmental stage of ego integrity versus despair that hopefully results in wisdom rather than regret.

Let me put aside the psychological mumbo-jumbo and return to the landmark birthday. Will this be a traumatic crossing into a new decade of life? I don’t think so. There won’t be black balloons or “over the hill” hats or canes to mark the date, just precious time with family. Elder, wise woman, crone? I’ll face those titles in the days ahead, but for now, I’m satisfied with “Nana” as only the lovely Madelyn Simone can say it. Now just give me that Golden Buckeye discount card and I’ll be good to go.