I can vividly recall the moment I realized I was growing older. It was a Sunday morning in June at approximately 9:30 a.m.
Why I chose to remember that date is unclear to me, but I suspect it’s because it was the day that I came to terms with the inevitable truth; that I am not invincible. I am not immune to Father Time, and I am on a boat making its way, quickly it seems, through the Strait of Tomorrow.
That Sunday morning was a warm one. My bathroom window was open, the smell of fresh morning dew wafted throughout the room. New white lace curtains blew ever so gracefully in a light breeze, as birds sang a sweet serenade from a nearby tree.
My appreciation of that most enduring moment vanished as I glanced into the mirror. There, staring impishly back at me – was a wrinkle. It was not a long, deep wrinkle, but rather a subtle, unobtrusive wrinkle. But it was a wrinkle none the less.
I recall that the outside world, at that moment, the morning air, the curtains and the serenading birds, retracted into oblivion, leaving just my face and myself. We were all that existed in the world, we were face to face and we were at war.
What baffled me the most on that portentous day in June was that I could have sworn that the wrinkle was not there the day before. I’m sure that it was not.
That Sunday in early June was spent checking on my new found enemy every hour. I caressed, massaged and spoke kind words to my obtrusive wrinkle in the firm belief that it would take pity on me and just go away. Apparently, it was there to stay, and had no intention of leaving – ever.
Once the shock wore off, it was clear – I had two options. I could either fight tooth and nail, bringing in all the heavy artillery, or I could totally disregard its existence, act like it had no stronghold on my psyche, and carry on with my life.
I knew that I would ultimately be fighting a losing battle. Sure, the lotions and potions might keep the breeding ground at bay for a while. Ultimately, that wrinkle would win; it had a huge army to back it up. There were more reserves ready to attack at any given moment. I would only be one against the multitude.
It was some time later when I noticed a couple more small lines slowly making their way across my face, as if on a mission to get somewhere, that I picked up a National Geographic magazine. As I read an article about the Tibetan people, I saw a number of exquisite images, some of which displayed wide grinned, toothless faces of men and women who were obviously living for the moment, unburdened it seemed, by modern day concerns; enjoying life.
Their dark, tanned faces were lined with crevice-like wrinkles, to the extent that they almost appeared shriveled.
It was then, after staring at those images for a while, that I saw wisdom. I say a playful spirit. I saw the face of a mother or father who probably had many children and reveled in the grace and glory of each one. They had obviously found something substantial that I was missing.
That day, after work, I went to visit my mother. She laughed as I disclosed to her my concern over my impending wrinkle invasion. It is odd, but as she laughed, I realized I had never really noticed her fine wrinkles before then. Perhaps it was because I was always captivated by her heart warming smile, her vivacious humour, and her sparkling blue eyes.
She was not troubled by the ageing process or the lines on her face. For her, each one of those lines had a name, usually my father’s. She adored my father, so each line was worth it. Those wrinkles could find a homestead on her face, but they could not change who she was; they could never inhabit her spirit. I came away that day having learned an invaluable lesson. It changed my perspective about ageing. Come what may. Like the Tibetan people in the magazine, I don’t fret about what I cannot change. Father Time has found me. I don’t have to battle him any longer.
My only hope is that one day, as my children and grandchildren gaze into my aged face; they see past the lines and behold a loving mother and grandmother.