Creative Aging: An End and a Beginning

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” —Seneca

Photo by Ben Wicks on Unsplash

Why does today’s photo feature the backside of a goose?

Because today the Creative Aging series says goodbye. But Notes from the Prairie will continue into the future on other topics: moments in the garden, lively little stories about household stuff, the inner life of people in the last third of their lives, and more. The posts may be a little less frequent. Frequency will depend on how the writing goes! —CVK

Like a school commencement, today’s column is both an ending and a beginning. Fifty-two columns ago I launched Notes from the Prairie. I didn’t know the next fifty-two posts would be about creative aging. But they were.

I don’t think the term “creative aging” ever appeared in the text of any of the posts. But for the past year we have looked at that topic in fifty-one different ways—some based on research and others rooted in my personal experience.

We have perhaps smiled at my resentment when I received my first issue of AARP The Magazine. We examined preparing for retirement and adjusting to it. We read about ways to keep our brains sharp, and we may have smiled at the quip that a short pencil is better than a long memory. We learned about the youth bias of our culture and about age discrimination—in others and in ourselves. We learned about weathering loss, and chuckled about jokes, such as “You know you're getting older when you're told to slow down by your doctor, instead of by the police.”

Together we learned that reminiscing can have a positive effect and a negative one. “Those were the glory days” can lead to dissatisfaction. “I conquered hardship; I can do it again” can inspire us to action. We learned about adjusting to retirement as a new stage of life, about the reasons time seems to go faster as the years go by, and about things that grow better with age.

We chuckled over outdated slang words from past decades and over boondoggles with technology. We rejoiced in small masteries of it.

I offered some tips on writing your memories and leaving a legacy for future generations.

You have seen me take a tumble, phone my junior high English teacher, play cards to win, and play crokinole for fun. You have witnessed my inability to nap, my difficulty parting with mementoes, and my brief burst of organized living. You have watched my husband and me nearly taken in by a telephone scam.

You have responded with emails, and I am grateful. Some of you have told me you disagree with my lack of interest in antiques. Others have emailed me responses telling me of your own tumbles, and advising me how to avoid falling in the future. One of you emailed me memories of my mother as a rural schoolteacher before I was born. Some of you asked for the complete list of 50 ways to nourish your soul. One of you wrote about your volunteering, saying, “You will never find me on a front porch watching the world go by.” You have told me about sharing the columns with others, or others sharing the posts with you.

It has been a rewarding year. But now, the creative aging well has run dry. I have run out of ideas on that topic. If you’d like to reread old posts, you have a couple of options. You can get the whole collection as a book at amazon.com. If you live near Pella, Iowa, you can find copies at the Curiosity Shop or at Pella Books. And you can get access to this newsletter’s online archives by becoming a paid subscriber.

Meanwhile, Notes from the Prairie will continue—with pieces about different topics, as I noted above. How often? Well, that will depend on how often I can produce them. Time will tell. I will also welcome guest posts. If you’d like to write something, feel free to get in touch and submit something!

Carol is the author of thirteen books and writes a column for several Iowa newspapers. She has an MA in theater arts and is available for reading performances of her writing on aging, moments in her gardens, memories, reflections both serious and humorous and other topics.