There is a symphony in
their faces—something delicate I suppose. But I prefer to say seasoned, or even
weather-beaten. Not weak for the sake of it, weak for the many past years of
strength. They have faced it, nearly the entirety of it, and we are pawns next
to their knowledge. Life. They know the ins and outs, the troubles we believe
shall never come to us and the victories we cannot yet recognize. We label
them, “old people” and they call us “young hooligans.” But when the generations
collide peacefully there is a depth of wisdom to be had.
There is something careless in their mannerisms. A way of living quite alien to myself. They do not bother about others’ estimations, they bother about the day. It is not, “what shall the world think of me this year?” it is, “what shall I be able to do today?” Certainly not all with age have such an ease, but certainly few without the age do.
I suspect it is odd of me, to want to share in their sentiments. I do. I want to feel less about how others see me, and I want to feel more in the victory of this day. Sip my coffee, elated at my taste buds, and walk under trees, awed. Proud to have the dishes washed. I can only wish to have a small piece of the wisdom that graces them; I wish.
I cannot yet speak as they do, saying whatever sentences I please, unabated. When such a young one does this, the mouths drop about the room and there is that awful sense that all was much better prior to one’s talking. When a seasoned one does this, everyone smiles politely and laughs about it later. “Oh to be old,” they say, “how it dulls the social queues and sensitivities.” Well, I like to think it is not a dullness to the unspoken rules, but a somewhat noble disregard for them, that prompts their unrestraint. “We have lived,” they cry through dentures, “and shall not pretend to be perfect as we once did.”
Hear, hear.
We young are a foolish lot, but it is the weather-beaten that best see our folly. They do sometimes judge us for it and we do always judge them for judging us. Silly.
If I could give a gift to us foolish, it would be this: That we might live joyfully accepting, “someday that worn one will be me,” and so we change.
There is something careless in their mannerisms. A way of living quite alien to myself. They do not bother about others’ estimations, they bother about the day. It is not, “what shall the world think of me this year?” it is, “what shall I be able to do today?” Certainly not all with age have such an ease, but certainly few without the age do.
I suspect it is odd of me, to want to share in their sentiments. I do. I want to feel less about how others see me, and I want to feel more in the victory of this day. Sip my coffee, elated at my taste buds, and walk under trees, awed. Proud to have the dishes washed. I can only wish to have a small piece of the wisdom that graces them; I wish.
I cannot yet speak as they do, saying whatever sentences I please, unabated. When such a young one does this, the mouths drop about the room and there is that awful sense that all was much better prior to one’s talking. When a seasoned one does this, everyone smiles politely and laughs about it later. “Oh to be old,” they say, “how it dulls the social queues and sensitivities.” Well, I like to think it is not a dullness to the unspoken rules, but a somewhat noble disregard for them, that prompts their unrestraint. “We have lived,” they cry through dentures, “and shall not pretend to be perfect as we once did.”
Hear, hear.
We young are a foolish lot, but it is the weather-beaten that best see our folly. They do sometimes judge us for it and we do always judge them for judging us. Silly.
If I could give a gift to us foolish, it would be this: That we might live joyfully accepting, “someday that worn one will be me,” and so we change.
LOVE it!
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