Forgiveness

A Contemplation of Graceful Aging

This past week, I placed a flower on the casket of a friend. We’d known each other for 37 years. The funeral was a simple affair, a small gathering held in an outdoor alcove of a mausoleum in front of the opened crypt that would hold her human remains for a very long time. The only family member, her elderly husband who appeared quite weak and frail, sat in front. I could tell from the mild quaking of his slender shoulders that he was weeping. An older Catholic priest officiated, reading in rote fashion from his well-worn book. This was followed by some collective prayer, and then a song was played — her choice — Rock Around the Clock, by Bill Haley and His Comets. We placed our flowers, stood about and chatted for a while, then went off to lunch together. 37 years.

Early now in my 70^th year, it takes progressively less to get me thinking about growing older. I’m far from preoccupied by it, but I felt an upcoming sunrise pilgrimage to Stonington Borough on the Connecticut shore might be a good setting to ponder this. It is a place that has always had a way of centering me — a home away. To return is always good.

***

The predawn light is blue and so everything is tinged blue, even the air. It reminds me of the early evening light that happens right around the summer solstice, and the thought warms me against the chilly breeze. To the southeast, I can see the bay side of Napatree Point a couple of miles distant, and the lighthouse at Watch Hill is flashing from just beyond. There is a sliver of light across the horizon, but from there to directly above me the overcast is solid. I’m sitting on a boulder just to the dry side of the intertidal, and a still-low flood tide is sending gentle rollers washing through the darker colored rocks. I have the good company of two gulls perched on nearby pilings, and some humans, still in their cars, have also joined me here on Stonington Point at the south end of town.

The sun rises in unspectacular fashion — really, just a brighter spot in the low sliver, the shape of it undiscernible. I was holding hope to no avail that there might be a surprise, last-moment burst of dawn colors that would splay across the cloud base. But the predawn blue has been so enchanting that the clouds are easily forgiven. I settle for a while, and consider this morning’s intention.

***

When I think of our shared experience here in time, I keep returning to the idea of forgiveness — forgiving, setting aside the ways of the world itself. Forgiving the sins of mistakes and misunderstandings, the everyday hurts that happen over the course of a life. Aging of the body seems a good object of forgiveness, too — the wrinkles and crepey patches of skin, the stiff and achy joints that have served so well, the latest utterance of concern from the doc, the forgetfulness. All of these things and so much more can be forgiven, though, because they arise from straight out of the past, something forever sealed off from intervention — like spirit itself, unchangeable.

“Forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past.” — Lily Tomlin

What comes up as I sit before this discreet, unremarkable, and perfect sunrise is a reminder that the living of these days is written only with present tense verbs. Memory may inform, but there is only one now and only one here. To accept this is to find freedom from dreams of regret and shame and worry.

This morning as I walk along the quiet Sunday morning streets of this charming old nautical village, I feel peace, an easy joy, and absolutely no sense of lack. I have never felt more cared for as life continues to unfold in miraculous ways. I am truer to my innermost self than I have been in some time, and have no real knowledge of the future, nor any clear understanding of what my current age is supposed to feel like in the body — it feels pretty good to me.

In other words, I am happy.

I check my watch. It is now. And I am here.

Peace,

Stephen