A lesson from each decade of my life
Embrace your mid-life crisis. Don’t give up on love. Never go to bed without moisturising. As our columnist turns 70...
MY JoURnEY began on the bus to Broadgreen Hospital, in Liverpool, which my 22-year- old, heavily pregnant mother boarded on october 7, 1946. The following day, I entered chilly, postwar Britain — a lucky beneficiary of clement Attlee’s new Family Allowance of five shillings a week. I was blessed to be a baby boomer.
People say ‘ age is just a number’ — but that’s not right. Ageing is all too real — the sum total of our experiences.
If those include remembering grease-stained ration books in the kitchen drawer, cushions made from black-out curtains, watching the Queen’s coronation on a tiny blackand-white screen, a sixpence for pocket money, chanting times tables in classes of 50 and first hearing Elvis . . . then, folks, you’re definitely cracking on in years!
To deny it would be to reject the richness of a period that began in the postwar gloom, embraced The Beatles and Ban The Bomb, and witnessed greater change than any other period in history.
I rejoice to have lived through exciting times — and relish the new ones. Age is a state of mind — that’s for sure. If we can’t be ‘Forever Young’ (as dylan sang) we can be forever sparky. one of my peers from university dreads her imminent 70th, because ‘the thought is utterly depressing’.
But a friend six years older finds the zippy 70s no problem. no guessing which attitude I admire.
Surely the worst aspect of ageing is not the years on the body clock, but the cumulative toll on the mind and heart. If you allow it. Is there a choice? That’s what I plan to spend the coming year, as I enter my seventh decade, examining.
My new project is to consider how to transform the ‘third age’ — in body, mind and spirit.
Yes, it’s daunting, but change must be embraced. otherwise you just congeal.
I won’t pretend I like wrinkles, or the thicker waist, or the fact that my (salon-coloured) hair is thinner than 20 years ago. I don’t judge women who succumb to the ulti-
mate vanity of a facelift, but since your reflection tells your story, why betray that unique history? Still, I firmly believe in constant maintenance. Being determined to make the most of yourself is the outward sign of actively engaging with life. Why give up because of wrinkles — become one of those women who’s ‘let herself go’?
Why not take pride? Like my mother, I shall be slapping on face cream until the end.
It’s a real positive to think you owe it to the world, as well as to yourself, to turn a brave face to the future, even if the sands are running out. So I don’t think it trivial to offer my own beauty tips:
Never go to bed without cleaning and moisturising, no matter how late or how much wine you’ve drunk!
Don’t think you must use expensive products. Boots is good enough for me and I spend less money on clothes and cosmetics than ever before. ( Have to save up for the grandchildren . . .)
Moisturise top to toe after every single bath or shower. It takes two minutes.
Exercise at least twice a week and eat well. My greatest regret is that I didn’t realise the importance of this until I was in my 40s.
For a morale boost, choose one quick, easy beauty product to use each day, even if you’re not going out. Mine is eye-liner, but lip gloss will do.
treat yourself. I have regular facials and reflexology for relaxation. this isn’t ‘pampering’ — a silly term I dislike. No, it’s sensible, wise and celebratory to proclaim: ‘this one body I have is a gift.’
WHILE it’s important to look after your body, more than ever I realise the importance of nurturing the mind. endlessly slumping in front of the tv is an offence, just as scoffing junk food is a crime against the body.
I’m lucky still to be working, but my dear mum keeps her mind active by doing puzzles, as well as using her tablet computer.
exercising precious brain cells is another free choice, open to all. Me, I devour newspapers and books, and still try to learn poems by heart. Feeling engaged with the world is essential, although it can make you furious.
For example, you contemplate humanity’s outrages, then watch Labour zealots sing the red Flag, complete with those stupid clenched fists, as if the vile Soviet gulags had never happened. oh please.
Back then I believed the best of human kind. Now I don’t — because proofs to the contrary come in every day. How can you believe in essential goodness when confronted by the tide of online stupidity, vicious cruelty and loathsome porn? the world is more polluted by this dross than greenhouse gases.
as for world peace . . . if you believe that’s a possibility you’ll go slowly mad. these days I know too much about human nature to place any faith in perfectibility. Instead I acknowledge sin and chaos — and the eternal struggle between good and evil.
as for change, if you’d told me in 1968 that in 2016 I would join the conservative Party I’d have laughed in your face.
But now I passionately believe that levelheaded, strong- minded, compassionate conservatism is the best (only?) system for Britain. and because our democracy needs an effective, strong opposition I’m miserable about what’s happened to my old party — which achieved so much good when I was born.
the thinking never stops. We Librans wield even-handed scales, murmuring: ‘ on the one hand, on the other hand,’ still trying to see both sides of the argument.
But I unequivocally detest all fanatics who would destroy the way of life I hold so dear. I’ve swapped sides on imaginary barricades.
that may sound negative: certainly, thinking about political and moral issues can make you feel helpless — yet the process keeps you alive.
I’m thrilled still to believe the voice of the individual can be a powerful instrument of change (consider the Brexit referendum) and have no time for those who look back with regret, always moaning that the past was better.
Some of it was, but some wasn’t — so don’t be sentimental. the important thing is to set your mind on constant renewal: to try new music, new programmes, new interests, new ideas. then if you go scuttling back to old favourites, it’s fine — because you have at least opened your mind.
an exercised mind will never truly grow old.
then, of course, there is the Spirit. the other day I found marvellous lines in the Bible. St Paul wrote: ‘No wonder we do not lose heart. though our outward humanity is in decay, yet day by day we are inwardly renewed.’ that sums up my attitude to ageing — the keystone of which is the accumulation of wisdom. Wrinkles may line your face, and the sorrows and stupidity of the world afflict your mind — yet the Spirit can float free, high above earthly concerns.
unless you consciously cultivate that thought, growing old will probably be miserable.
this is the time to start focusing on the inner life. It’s important to be able to accept the loss of dreams — or become weighed down with bitterness and regret. I assumed my first marriage would last into old age. It didn’t. I thought I’d ease off work, become a peaceful grandmother and take up painting again. and none of that has happened.
Yet a degree of sadness and disillusion arrive hand-in-hand with the glorious, fulfilling realisation that family love, friendship, personal integrity and infinite compassion all matter more than anything else.
that knowledge feeds the heart — and the warmth of the heart enables the Spirit to grow. Here’s an important paradox: you must be ready to accept change right until the end (and what else is ageing but changing?) but simultaneously accept some things cannot be changed.
So live the life you have, not the life you have imagined.
My first love was journalism but I dreamed of achieving fame with fiction that might change hearts and minds.
Believing this to be a superior call- ing, I wrote stories for adults and children — and had disappointments as well as some success. But then came the earthquake: my marriage ended after 35 years, I lost work (partly as a result), remarried — and then began a totally unexpected new career as advice columnist.
Now, through that journalism, I have access to countless heartwarming and heart-breaking real human stories, which reach out to me — and through me to thousands of others. What’s more, this writing
can (I know for a fact) change lives. How miraculous! I believe in miracles and mystery.
Asked about my religious/spiritual beliefs (which I am quite a lot these days, since my new book considers the afterlife of animals) I answer simply: Yes, I’m a Christian — because I can’t think of a better, richer blueprint for living. ‘Love thy neighbour’ . . . what other philosophy could save the world?
Naturally I have doubts, but each night I say my prayers — never a series of requests, but a ritual of essential thanks.
Gratitude gives me hope and strength. In this golden autumn of life, I balance losses against gains.
This is the time to meditate on blessings: family, friends, dogs, career, good food, books, music, art, home — and all the glories of the natural world, which bring me more joy, than I’d have imagined as a callow 30-year- old. That city girl wanted to sit up late boozing and smoking. This countrywoman wants to be among trees.
Then I wanted to be sexy. Now I care only about tenderness.
Then I was restless. Now I want to stay home with husband and dogs. Then I believed activism would change the world. Now I acknowledge human frailty.
Then I played rock music in the car. Now I love silence . . . and my thoughts.
Death comes into those thoughts a lot, which isn’t surprising.
Already some of my peers have died, and that lends urgency to each minute.
Yet the sight of grandchildren growing is an antidote to mortality.
This is how it — the blossoming and the withering — and there’s something glorious in accepting that we’re all a part of endless cycles of growth and death, like the leaves on trees.
So the old greed for life (wanting to do and have everything) is tempered by a new sense of calm. So be it.
Maybe I’ll have to slow down as the years take their toll, but I shall use time gained to celebrate the incessant, proud and defiant beating of a battered heart.