The older I get the smarter I wish I was. It has taken some time to figure out how to create this page. I definitely am getting more challenges as I age. This picture isn’t even the most recent, but it’s newer than the other one from 10 years ago. I have wrinkles galore now. Yet, as I said to a few friends younger than myself “After you retire from full-time work, the body deteriorates, but the mind, heart and soul keep growing.” They are aware of aging, yet few of us talk about it. Too bad. We have much wisdom to share.
The following article is one that I wrote for publication in Forum, a Calgary magazine written mostly by women, Issue 14, Fall 2002.
RIPE WHEN WRINKLED.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a pre-sleep image. It wasn’t a dream because I had already been awake for an hour, writing after a disturbing nightmare. As I relaxed my head against my down-filled pillow, I saw a dark hand descend toward me. In the hand (which looked male) was a large wooden bowl. In the bowl were five brown fruits that looked like over-ripe pears, except they were round, not pear-shaped. I didn’t recognize them and pushed my eyes forward to focus on them. Then a voice said, “Here. Make molasses.”
What? What is this?
“Here. Right here. It’ ready and the fruit is ripe. Make molasses.”
But what is this about?
“You know what it’s about. You have to make molasses. But you can’t wait. The fruit is ripe now. It’s work, but you have to do it. You have to do the work now.”
I struggled through the veil of sleep-tuggers to write the message in my journal. That would be a good one for my analyst later today. I would be 60 in three months and I”m trying to define myself aging. During this indulgent year of study and growth at UofC, I tried to make molasses, tried to sweeten my life and experiences. But what about my unexplored future, after I retire from teaching in five more years? Will my early desire to become a writer be met?
After breakfast and required text reading I went grocery shopping. In the produce section I was startled to discover the same fruit that appeared to me at six a.m. It was round, dark brown, and wrinkled. The label said it was Passion Fruit, which fascinated me because I had never seen passion fruit before (at least not consciously).
I picked one up, discovered it was $2.00. No wonder I had never bought one before. I marvelled at its density and texture as I turned it over in my hand. Across its bottom was a narrow strip that read Ripe When Wrinkled. I bought it. It tasted delicious.
