Stretching

The Grace in Getting Older

“I thought, ‘Age should speak; advanced years should teach wisdom.’”

~ Job 32:7 ~

I like getting older. Although it took me a minute.

Initially, I raged. Often poetically. Spiting the cage of time imprisoning each day with shackles ever heavier and cutting ever deeper. But now, at least today, I’m grateful for getting older.

Aging is an unfolding. A realization of what always was or what should’ve been that was simply overlooked. That we weren’t forced to perceive in youth.

Now, I wake up more aware. Aware of the quality of my sleep, or lack thereof. Aware that my body doesn’t lurch out of bed any longer; it lumbers. Not gracefully, but full of grace all the same. Aware of new pains unearthed simply by sleeping. Pains emerging like the deep blue of an iceberg’s submerged torso until the subtle creaks mature into a glacial break. Pains that, more than likely, existed before this morning yet silenced by screams of others more urgent. Just now allowed to sing their story.

Each morning I’m reminded that aging is about listening. Listening and stretching.

My morning breath reminds me that each dawn is a complete reset. Yes, certain matters carry over, but overnight, much work was done. Maintenance needed and necessary to heal and prepare from and for the day’s activities. Maybe there’s something about the darkness that, like a tomb, prepares us for the new day dawning. Impurities purged; muscles mended; memories sorted; attitudes adjusted. That is, if we allow sleep to work its many miracles.

I brush my teeth as an offering to new birth. And immediately pour my coffee, a libation to the rising sun. I sit. I linger. Unhurried. Unable to fully unfold until I finish stretching.

The soul goes first. My journal opens unmolested. A blank page graciously awaiting. Tenderly willing to record the deep crying out to deep. I hold back nothing. Anger; worry; excitement; requests; repentance; dreams; blessings. Each muscle of the soul examined, massaged, stretched. Yet not quickly. Pauses lift my pen from the paper. Meanderings blur my cloudy thoughts with blank stares. Peering out the parted blinds watching colors crest the horizon, I startle awake from my stupor, glancing back to my journal’s half-finished sentence. I re-read what I wrote. And begin anew until my spirit sighs with satisfaction, ready for the new day before me.

Each morning; sun salutations; soul stretches.

I close my journal and reach for a book. Sometimes the Bible, but not always. Something to court my mind, to woo my thinking. Mental stretches.

This morning, I read a book on writing. Musings on composing simple sentences and ignoring rudimentary lessons. I enjoyed much of what it argued, until I started writing. Then I had to tell myself, “You’re overthinking. Just write.” This happened multiple times, actually. But I don’t regret it. I don’t lament my morning read. Even when I don’t remember much of what I read. It’s stretching. Mental yoga inviting my synapses to greet the day with vigor and vitality. Each sentence, whether understood or unintentionally ignored, entices my aging brain—both left and right hemispheres—to awake, to arise, to bear witness to a new day brought about by the impossible act of aging.

Each morning; mountain pose; mental stretches.

Replacing the bookmark, I move to an open space to allow my body to mirror “sister soul” and “mother mind” by stretching. Elongating each muscle with gradual tension. I bend at the waist, immediately reminded that sleep erases my elasticity. Not from malice, but to reset and to remind me of the gift of aging.

Gradually. Slowly. My mobility resurrects.

Often with an audible yet involuntary exhale mixed with an unintelligible utterance void of words yet filled with meaning. I smile as my legs yawn. Each joint arising, excited to carry me into the grace of the day. I’m grateful as my arms, neck, and chest sigh with each twist and pull, trusting my tender tugs. The body sings.

Each pain; every pulse; each creak. The body stretches with a symphony of grace only heard by those who age.

I realize, only now, only in these moments when age baptizes my morning: youth is a canopy draped over reality. An illusion emerging from the womb. A mirage distorting what is with what we’ve never known.

In youth, we don’t have to listen to the whispers of what’s real. Or maybe we just don’t know we need to. We haven’t been initiated into the great awakening of body, mind, and soul that each morning requires as we age. In youth, zealous pliability replaces the patience of stretching. Unfolding. Greeting whatever comes one step at a time. One muscle at a time. One day at a time.

As we age, for some, that is, scales fall from blinded eyes, offering a revelation of sorts: stretching elongates our ability to endure. Confronts the innate compulsion to force. To coerce. To skip steps, believing speed is more precious than deliberate attention. Reckless enthusiasm more valuable than meticulous rituals carefully constructed to prepare who you are for all that the day holds.

Stretching honors the pain. Respects the struggle. Disciples us to listen. Intently. Intentionally. Creating space for all to speak and for all who desire to be heard. The soul expands, the mind ignites, and the body bears witness to the grace of aging.

This morning, I’m grateful. Sore, yet devoted. Prepared, yet unsure. Committed, and fully stretched.

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