Growing older

I went to Mass this morning, to pray for my family, our country, the world.  People sometimes ask older folks like myself why we seem to be the ones who go more often to church, or seem to be praying more.  The humorous response is that we are cramming for our final exam.

Lately I've been reading poetry a lot (just because I have the time and I love poetry, all kinds). I'm sharing a couple here, and being nervy enough to put a couple of my own lesser efforts, but from my heart, as welll.

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LET ME GROW LOVELY                                                                           
                                                                                 
Let me grow lovely, growing old -                                           
   So many fine things do;                                      
Laces, and ivory, and gold,                                                                        
   And silks need not be new;

And there is healing in old trees,
   Old streets a glamour hold;
Why may not I, as well as these,
   Grow lovely, growing old?
         - Karle Wilson Baker

                                                           THE HANDS OF OLD AGE
                                                       this is not a poem, but an observation

     Too prominent to ignore, plump, purple veins snake along the back of my wrinkled hand below a bony wrist. Brown spots splash here and there in no particular pattern. Another unannounced bruise appears. Treasured rings reluctantly bump into place over the sagging skin of once slender, firm fingers. I only see my aging face when its reflection stares back at me from a truthful mirror. My hands are always before me. A constant reminder, they demonstrate that time advances, uncompromising, relentless, unchecked. Reality spurs contemplation of eternal truths and the promise of immortality, enjoyed in a glorious, perfect, resurrected body.     G. Thiele

and I really like this poem

GROWING OLDER

A little more tired at the close of day,
A little more anxious to have our way,
A little less ready to scold and blame,
A little more care for a brother's name;
And so we are nearing the journey's end,
Where time and eternity meet and blend.

A little less care for bonds or gold,
A little more zeal for the days of old;
A broader view and a saner mind,
And a little more love for all mankind;
And so we are faring down the way
That leads to the gates of a better day.

A little more love for the friends of youth,
A little more zeal for established truth,
A little more charity in our views,
A little less thirst for the daily news;
And so we are folding our tents away
And passing in silence at close of day.

A little more leisure to sit and dream,
A little more real the things unseen,
A little nearer to those ahead,
With visions of those long loved and dead;
And so we are going where all must go -
To the place the living may never know.

A little more laughter, a few more tears,
And we shall have told our incresing years.
The book is closed and the prayers are said,
And we are part of the countless dead;
Thrice happy, then, if some soul can say,
"I live because of their help on the way."

           -R.G. Wells

                          VISION

                 Eyes are masters
                    of instruction

              Those who would learn
                      look deep
                        reflect
                       take notes

               Study philosophy
         in the wonder of a child's eyes

            Marvel at their innocence
                  opened wide
               to absorb the world

             Study psychology
           veiled in adolescent eyes

           that seek to comprehend
                 with perceptions
              not always welcome

                   Study life itself
                      chronicled

                      in the faded
                 film-shrouded eyes
                       of old age

                   It takes a lifetime
                        to read
                     all that eyes
                      can teach

                            - G. Thiele

I never saw my grandmother's hands idle.  She cooked, cleaned, built, gardened, canned, always "doing."
Another of her Old Saws was that "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop."  Even at rest in the evening, sitting in her chair, perhaps listening to the radio, she darned socks, knit sweaters, crocheted, sewed, always busy.
As she lay dying in the hospital, I had to notice her hands, even though she was in a coma.

GRANDMOTHER'S HANDS

        Granmother's hands
        Though never still,
        Now worked the air
        Of their own will.

       Plus eighty years
       They tilled the earth,
       And cooked and sewed
       To show their worth.

       Her eyes were closed.
       No conscious thought
       Remained to tell
       What life had wrought.

      When breathing ceased
      Her hands lay down.
      If God is Love
      She wears a crown.

            - G. Thiele