In my light-filled office in Berkeley I glance at the books I’ve written and the metal filing cabinets against the wall holding printouts of my past classes and talks. When I moved into this space thirty years ago, I was in my prime. Like many other women who grew up during the middle of twentieth-century America, I had struggled to raise my children and have my own career, and after a period of trial and error, I found my way. I was proud of who I was and didn’t worry about the future.
But the years have passed, and I am now in my eighties. That middle-aged sense of assuredness is fading, and in its place is a more tentative, fluid feeling. I’m slower than I once was and can hardly relate to all the technological advances and the focus on AI. I keep up with politics, but I’m lost when it comes to the latest video or pop star.
I’m like most people I know around my age: We’re not who we once were, but we’re giving it our best. We eat a balanced diet, exercise regularly, stay socially active and in good touch with our families, and we strive to keep our mental abilities intact. Sometimes we joke about how little we once knew about aging, and we pay careful attention to the growing wisdom on the subject because we want to age responsibly and well.
Younger people in our lives see us as old and watch us for symptoms of disintegration. Recently I spent six weeks recuperating from a surgical procedure that caused more problems than it solved, and my children interrupted their lives and came at various times to stay with me. I sank gratefully into their care, aware that I was being seen by them in my most vulnerable state but unable to do anything about it. I appreciated how competent and supportive they were, but I noticed a shift. My children became advice-givers, and I was the object. This was neither bad nor good but the inevitable result of what we were all experiencing. “Mom, you have to eat lots of greens to get better,” my son said, cooking up a big pot. I nodded in agreement, remembering how impossible it had been to get him to take a bite of spinach when he was little. And at night, when I was too tired to know what to do next, my daughter gently guided me toward bed. “You need to rest to recover.” she said, as I had said to her so often.
I’m well now, and we’ve all returned to our separate lives, but traces remain of the changes that took place during my recuperation. “Did you ask the doctor about the blood tests?” one of them texts. “You’d better text her.” Although I’m still the matriarch of the family, our arrangement now includes me graciously receiving their suggestions, and I am learning to accept and appreciate this new dimension. In this way I am different from my mother.
Mom, who was a determined, independent person, lived alone in the rambling home she’d once shared with my father. Although she still cared adequately for herself, she became less agile and more forgetful as time went by. I viewed her with admiration and quite a lot of concern. “You’d better keep the hallway light on at night,” I once tried. “That way, you won’t trip and hurt yourself when you go to the bathroom.”
“I’m just fine,” she answered tersely. “I don’t need your suggestions.” My role as her daughter was to accompany her as she wished but keep my mouth shut.
I should have known she wouldn’t welcome my advice. As a child, I had seen how she felt about aging. We lived across the street from an old man who’d rush half-naked into the yard, waving his fists toward the sky. When I asked Mom what was wrong, she explained in a matter-of-fact voice that he had become senile. “Some people get that way,” she said. “That’s how life is.”
“But what will happen to him?” I asked, worried.
“He’ll probably live a little longer and die in bed.”
I hesitated before asking the all-important question: “Will you become senile too?”
Her face tightened. “Why would you think that?”
For my mother, aging and death were facts of life to be accepted and not talked about. It’s different in my generation. Back in the 1980s, when the subject of menopause was taboo in the culture around us, my friends and I insisted on giving it our full attention, and we began a women’s group specifically organized around our desire to discuss this intimidating new stage of aging. We were in our forties and early fifties and not interested in ignoring it as our mothers had.
Our honest conversations became crucial in dealing with the midlife changes that took place in our bodies, psyches, and relationships, and we decided to continue meeting into the future. Almost four decades later, our group still meets regularly, although we’re only half our original size.
At our most recent monthly Zoom meeting, we spoke about the experience of being in our eighties. “I feel diminished,” Jane said. “I’m not as able-bodied as I was even a year ago.”
“At least you’re hiking,” Marinell answered. “Not me. I don’t have the stamina.”
Sandy speaks up: “Aging is harder the older I get. When I was in my sixties and seventies, it seemed I had time left to change both myself and how I was living. But now that I’m eighty-five? I’m stuck with what I’ve become.”
“The only thing left to do is die,” I said sneakily.
We laughed, gallows humor.
“There’s more to being old than that,” Marinell ventured. “Life is rich in so many ways.” We all nodded in agreement: We who have survived this long are not content to complain about our difficulties and ignore the possibilities.
“As I age, I notice the kindness of strangers,” I said. “I was at the grocery today and some woman helped me reach the umami sauce on the top shelf.”
“I’m wiser, at least some of the time,” Sandy said. “I listen better and am less attached to my own observations.”
“Yesterday I spent an hour watching sparrows bathe in the water fountain,” Marinell told us. “Afterwards I was in such a mellow mood.”
Our litany of positive aging continued until Jane interrupted, her tone somber: “This is all encouraging, but the reality is we don’t accomplish what we used to. We don’t have the strength or the flexibility, and I miss that.”
“True. But remember how it felt to live under all that pressure?” Sandy answered. “I appreciate life now in a way I couldn’t before. I’m not so ego-driven, and I have more humility. I wish I had been this way when my daughters were little. I wouldn’t always have been rushing to succeed or trying to be of such importance. I’d have been more relaxed. A better mother.”
We were silent for a moment as we considered this. “Humility, yes. Maybe that’s our best self,” Marinell slowly said. We nodded, and the conversation was over, at least for the time being.
Gazing out my office window, I recall our talk about humility at our last group meeting. What a provocative idea, one that bears further reflection. But soon my mind wanders, and I am once again trying to recall the title of the book my friend recommended. When I can’t, my spirits deflate, and I feel frustrated in the familiar way. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I remember?
My office sits a thousand feet above Berkeley, high in the hills, and here I have access to both earth and sky. Today the white, puffy clouds drift eastward, away from the ocean, and a red-tailed hawk swoops down to catch its next meal in the canyon below. The view calms me, and I remind myself that my forgetfulness is just one small thing in this teeming, ever-changing, imperfect universe.
I can always call my friend and ask her the title of the book again. When I was younger, I never would have done that because I wanted to be perfect, or at least hide my imperfections from those around me. But I have less pride now and more humility, and I know we will laugh together, and she will understand.
As the 20th century careened towards the finish line, author Victress Hitchcock moved with her husband from their familiar urban world to a remote 160-acre ranch in the mountains of Colorado. Within months, their lives unraveled, and out of the wreckage a new path opened to a radically new way to be in the world. She was broken hearted but ready to meet whatever was to come with insight, horse sense, and humor.
A Tree with My Name on It is not a handbook on healing trauma. It is a living, breathing, messy story, filled with joy and sorrow, of one woman trying her hardest to free her wounded heart and uncover her true self.
It is a story that will resonate with anyone who has reached a moment in their lives when they are ready to tear off the bandage and take a deep look at the fears that have held them hostage for too long.
“It is rare to find a memoir that entwines elements of Buddhist wisdom with psychological insights…with the grace and metaphorical prowess of an author who wields poetic description and psychological reflection with equal strength. A Tree with My Name on It deserves a prominent place in libraries, recommendable as a book club or women’s reading group choice.”
— D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
Visit Victress’ Website for more information.
Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, and your local bookstore. 
Nan Gefen founded Persimmon Tree in 2007 and is its Publisher/Editor Emerita. She previously was the founding publisher of Tikkun magazine. She has published three nonfiction books, most recently It Never Ends: Mothering Middle-aged Daughters. Her novel, Clear Lake, won the gold medal in general fiction in the IndieFab contest. She has recently returned to Persimmon Tree, this time as a member of the Board of Directors of Persimmon Tree Inc.
Katharine Weinmann is a seeker whose reading of poets and mystics shapes the container from which her words and images emerge. An intrepid traveler and internationally published poet and photographer, her photographs have twice been chosen for the cover of Edmonton’s annual Stroll of Poets Anthology.
I wrote a reply to one comment above, not realising it would join the line of Comments, so now I’d like to leave a Comment, knowing I’m leaving one. In another Comment, one woman wrote of living the rest of her life out near the sea and in Nature, and sifting out things no longer wanted or pertinent to her life. Just beautiful. My mouth watered. It put me in mind of my uncle who emigrated to Canada and became a game warden (on horseback) and as self-sufficient as is possible for one to be. When he was older he became a fish warden, less physically demanding work. I had my own Life with The Arts in Nature sixty years ago in a place called Interlochen, and so wish I could have lived my last years In Nature as my uncle did. I left California’s northern coast and have lived, landlocked, for almost twenty years now in a place rich in writing and poetry and with some fine regional level music and visual arts. The thing I miss and need most now, though, besides being by the ocean in my final years, is the kind of powerful feminist women’s community I knew in the Greater Bay Area in the ’70’s and ’80’s. The diminishing of what we can do as we age is hard enough, but is so eased by going through this cycle of life with other feminists going through the same thing. It has helped to come across women “talking” about ageing here. The quotation marks are because we aren’t actually talking, but pushing keys on a plastic keyboard which will only be seen on a flat, glary plastic screen. A far cry from face to face, human interaction, but…. Yes, I’m griping here. Back to the subject. I used to get so much done in a day, and with ease, but these days I have such unpleasant choices to make, having less energy to cover what I WANT to do — writing prose and poetry, finishing the final changes to my memoir, novels and poetry, eating well — and food I didn’t have to plan and cook, and spending 3-4 hours at the “Y” doing (but which I am not doing) every day, doing my own style of dance/fitness exercises, swimming and taking that long, hot shower as reward. Instead I spend hours on my health, damaged seriously by exposure to the vinyl floors put down during an apt. bldg. renovation, on managing living poor, and on the other hundred and one details of daily life including the now-resident general fear in the country. It’s a lot for everyone. But I really feel the difference meeting such challenges now when I’m older (ok, old) with, as someone else said here in their comment, much less stamina. I, too, counteract the bad with the good, as we all do, don’t we? by drinking in the ease and moments of happiness that the sight of some kind of beauty gives me. The sight of love being shown, by the sight of a clear blue sky or the sound of a running stream or bird’s voice, by –as someone else said here — the small kindnesses shown to us as elders in our last years of life on this magnificent planet by both humans, pets and other creatures. This comment has gone long and is much more personal than others’, but I’ve never been a computer byte sort of person. I come from a long line of women who were storytellers in their own lives. As perhaps all of us are. With almost all women’s voices discarded in this man-mastered era, at least feminists have given a few their public voices, Persimmon Tree being one of them. Thank you to you creators of P.T.
Thank you Nan for this wonderful article. I was reflecting on my mother as I read it and I remember her telling me each day who among her friends were in the hospital or who died. I would ask her at the end of her news brief if she had any good news and she would always laugh and say the good news is I am still alive and here to tell you the news. Now I find myself doing what she did of passing on news of who was sick or passed on. Interesting how age gave me a better understanding of my mother. Aging made me slow down and think instead of rushing through life. I feel I get things done although not all that I want to accomplish. I wake each morning with an appreciation of what is present in my life instead of running out the door to try to secure more things that I don’t need. Humility I do believe comes with age. I am no longer the take charge and be in control one. Now I listen and learn. I read and learn. I give love and learn. Wish that was something I had in my earlier life. Thanks again for bringing a better understanding of living into my day.
Thank you Nan for this wonderful article. I was reflecting on my mother as I read it and I remember her telling me each day who among her friends were in the hospital or who died. I would ask her at the end of her news brief if she had any good news and she would always laugh and say the good new is I am still alive and here to tell you the news. Now I find myself doing what she did of passing on news of who was sick or passed on. Interesting how age gave me a better understanding of my mother. Aging made me slow down and think instead of rushing through life. I feel I get things done although not all that I want to accomplish. I wake each morning with an appreciation of what is present in my life instead of running out the door to try to secure more things that I don’t need. Humility I do believe comes with age. I am no longer the take charge and be in control one. Now I listen and learn. I read and learn. I give love and learn. Wish that was something I had in my earlier life. Thanks again for bringing a better understanding of living into my day.
I felt seen reading this essay and isn’t that what a reader sometimes wants? A companion to this unknown universe called aging.
What a delightful speaking to the subject. I hit 84 the other day, and though I have close ties with several in my age group, we are all skipping along the same road she did..and in the end, or at least today, I find a little bit of the humility and peace she mentions, stirred in with the agitation and impatience, (whoever thought computers and cell phones were going to be trouble-free and easy to use?) Most of the time, I’m grateful and filled with the feeling of “rightness” with the world, but there are times I miss the energetic hours, the unfailing freshness,
and the unruffled confidence that there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do. However
Nan’s writing is Spot on. It embodies the universal and human experience of our journey on earth. The precious but strengthening web of family and friends have been significant props in my life. Together with health and planned or accidental happenings, they formed experiences that today, give me a road map of sorts. Life suspends me; yet by its very nature, it will watch me weaken. Then it will disconnect from me as destined. For years as a newbie, I moved like an astronaut with good intentions. I flailed recklessly at times. All along, experience shadowed me. Now glued to me, it makes me regretful sometimes, but oh, so smart. It helps me discover some secrets of life. With a fair grip, I’m walking the line at 77. Well, racewalking, hanging out with others and watching the health thing too. Always, I’ll stay on track with humility thankfulness and joy. I’ve convinced myself that the only threat now is heaven.
So appreciated Nan’s essay, her creating Persimmon Tree and returning…should say revived by her essay and enjoyed comments. yes, humility, humanity and empathy after we’ve seen how humans can suffer. I’m 85, writing less since my last novel “Masha and Alejandro crossing Borders” came out last year. Not sure what to do or not do next but essays as Nan gave us help keep going. Thanks
I noticed your age in your Comment on Nan Gefen’s short piece in Pers. Tr. I’m a few years older, and also noted that you said you were writing less this year. I, as well, have done little this year, not because of age but because of the computer invasion. With a Selectric I could fly and do it myself, but now I must find typists. I have never been able to stomach computers. So my “output” has been nearly levelled. My situation is off your point — different but similar. In re: one thing from Nan Gefen’s essay, I don’t use the word “humility”. Not a healthy concept, I think. A foundation stone of sexism. I do find myself experiencing an acceptance — in the sense of resignation — of being able to do less, energy-wise, thus having to let some things drop, having to select which things I will/can do. I really regret this, but the new attitude of doing only what I can do rules, like it or not. And I don’t, actually. But….there it is. Congratulations on getting your book published. Was it easy to find a publisher or a struggle? It sounds like this was your first book. I’ll check with the library and see if I can get it. Best wishes. “Pat”
Thank you for that beautiful article. I feel less frightened of aging now.
I can so identify with Nan’s beautiful essay and thoroughly enjoyed reading it. As I am an active 79 senior, I meet each day with what faces me: the health and well-being of my family and grandchildren, as well as my own. However, when I do have spare time, I try to get out to paint, sketch, or do something for myself, like a relaxing pedicure. Sometimes we spend so much time giving to others, that we forget to take care of ourselves. It’s never too late to start even at our age.
Today, I went to our local coffee shop to determine the subject for my next painting, while listening to very relaxing music as it gives me a recharge. As I led a very active public life when I was younger and married to a very busy attorney and later Judge, I dramatically had to change my lifestyle and perspectives of what is important in life now that I am single, older, and wiser. I now have time too, to look at the beauty of nature around me that gives me great joy each day and inspiration to paint.
What a beautiful essay, so well said. How I loved that smart 40s/50s woman I used to be. I had planned to be that perfectly aging woman (a little gray hair, maybe, but otherwise the same) but at 72, a barrage of health issues surprised and dismayed. I either have to “get better” or live life differently from how I had imagined. Still retain my faculties for writing, less so for moving easily through an airport or from my office chair to the living room couch.
What a beautiful, honest, and relatable essay. Thank you for your words. And your humility.
I loved your essay and think humility is key not just when we are older but at every stage of life. We need to to realize our limits and what a small piece we are of a much vaster universe, death being the ultimate in humble behavior as we give the molecules left of ourselves back to nature.
I just read Nan’s essay and can relate to every word. I will celebrate my 77th birthday this month. I love and can identify with this rich piece on aging and humility. I’m still healthy and active. My children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren still look to me for occasional financial assistance and/or advice. I took care of my mother the final 2 years of her ninety-two years on earth. She took care of herself the first ninety. That doesn’t mean I didn’t bombard her with unsolicited and possibly annoying advice along the way. I want to embrace my future with humility.
Oh how Nan’s article resonated. I think we need to grow into humility as we find the reversal of roles sometimes irksome, sometimes helpful. It was ageing so well observed and beautifully described, A wonderful article.
It’s also the age of honesty. I’m 81, in good health, and recently moved to a small island where I hope to live out my years near the sea, amid abundant wildlife. I write, I walk, I swim, I’m making new friends, finding new resources, and letting go of physical, mental, and emotional baggage I no longer have use for, that is not serving me. My children, grandkids, and great-grands are spread out all over the world.
I know things in my world can change in a heartbeat, and I’ve acquired an appreciation for the here and now.
Reading your essay was a comfort to me, now peering past the milestone sign that marks 70. I was never sensitive about my age, although at this time, with so many options narrowing before me, it is sobering to face that time is finite. I have a 98-year-old mother-in-law whose world has shrunk, having lost her husband recently; it is no surprise. I am grateful to my peers and those older than me to blaze the trail through the murkiness ahead. Nothing was clear to me about raising children and then I leaned heavily on the examples of those betters close by. I intend to do the same now.
At 76, I can relate to the words of this lovely reflection. I am healthy (with three artificial joints for which I am grateful) and often send encouraging notes to my body! There are days when I can do what my busy mind wants, and days when the body says “are you dreaming?” There is peace here, and still the desire to make the world a better place, but I have much more appreciation for community than when I felt the tasks as a single mother. The happiness of the world does not rest on my shoulders alone, and I do my part to be love in the spaces I touch now. Thank you for Persimmon and this essay.
Thank you for this beautiful writing, and the inspiration toward humility.
I just read this lovely, thoughtful essay and wanted to thank Nan Gefen for it. It says it all. I’m 82 and pretty well, but annoyed that when writing I have to stop and search for a word that for my whole life has just been there, available. But, as my husband of 81 says, the alternative is not so interesting (although he believes in an after-life) and I agree. I’m enjoying my 80’s, even though my loving family are all on the other side of an ocean, and are very unlikely to be there to look after me as Nan’s did. I’m depending on the kindness of – not strangers – but American friends
I’m not in my eighties yet (I’m 70), but I loved your reflections on aging. Thank you!
My husband and I, both in our 80s, have exchanged places with our adult kids. They give us advice! So I identify. And yes, it is indeed humbling. Thanks for your wise words.
Thanks for your wonderful words! They ring so true for me, a woman now in my early 80s.