Stumbling Toward Seventy —by Jinny Batterson
I was young once, I remember.
I thought I could bend the world
To my whims, which were intense
And as variable as the winds.
I journaled, wrote poems, love songs–
All long since discarded and forgotten.
Half a lifetime ago, I resumed
Journaling. Instead of teen
Crushes and worries about clothes
And driving privileges, I wanted at first
To be a good mom, a good provider.
Over time, my journals privately chronicled
Changes in landscapes external and internal–
Travels, pet peeves, inspirations, grudges
Reluctantly let go. Nest emptying, career changes,
Graduations, retirement, births, and, distressingly, funerals.
Now I blog, a bit more publicly. Few listen.
If the world does not seem to honor
My wisdom and maturity, perhaps I realize
That others have wisdom of their own,
And that age and sage may rhyme,
But don’t necessarily coexist.
Stumbling toward seventy, I recall
Long-ago advice from parents, teachers,
Mentors. Back then it seemed silly.
At this stage of life it makes more sense:
Steady, now, steady.