Hansel, Gretel, and I enter the forest

 I was seven years old when I discovered I was a poet. My dad was a writer, so I knew words were good. One evening I was playing around with a tablet and a pencil, trying to do what my dad did. Writing. I began a poem with the words, “This is a story by Nancy Forsythe.” Then, knowing that poems had to rhyme, I tried to think of a word that rhymed with Forsythe. Very few words do. I finally came up with “knife,” and the second line seemed to flow from the first: “about a boy and his dangerous knife.” The rest of the words came quickly as I focused on bouncing and rhyming, with little thought about content. The end result was a poem about a serial killer. That bounced and rhymed.

I showed the poem to my dad and he seemed thrilled with it. (I would have sent my kid to a counselor.) I saw that I was on to something good and decided then and there that I was a poet.

That was 70 years ago. Poetry remains my vocation. Not that I was actively writing all those years. I spent a lot of time learning how to grow up, how to be married, how to get along in the world, and other stuff like that. I wrote off and on, and as time passed, I was more on than off. Even published a few books of poetry. Now that I’m older, writing—poetry in particular—has become more important as a way of being in this world. It’s helping me find my path through this old growth forest we call aging.

Around 15 years ago at a writers workshop, the leader gave a prompt to choose a contemporary figure of speech and write a poem, taking the metaphor literally. I chose the metaphor, “coming unglued,” imagining a person with body parts literally sliding off. It was gruesome, but I do have that side to my personality.

I began the poem in a spirit of play, finding the idea funny. But once into it, the poem turned serious. Sort of dark and scary. I recognized that it had morphed into the old fairy story of Hansel and Gretel, and they were about to enter the dark forest. Then I realized that this story was really about Hal and me. And it was, indeed, scary.

At the time I was in my early sixties, starting to notice the ebbing of energy, the loss of flexibility, and the slow malfunction of body parts. Old age had always described other people—grandparents and elders and wrinkled relatives. It was never something that applied to me, although of course I realized that I would, someday, get old and die.

But someday was coming closer. What the poem was really about was the fear of growing old, with all the possible physical and mental deterioration implied. Fear for myself and fear of what might happen to Hal.

Here’s the poem: 

Coming of Age

"It's all right," he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

The poem was actually helpful in that it made me recognize my fear and try to face it. And now that I’m in the middle of this old growth forest, I don’t find it all that spooky. Light streams through the trees, brooks make their musical sounds, and unexpected meadows surprise. There are shadows, too, and beasts that don’t seem friendly. That’s only to be expected.

All this to say that I’ve come to peace with being older (on most days). Living in this retirement center helps, not only because of the activities and entertainments it offers, but more because of my neighbors, courageous women and men who still find life an adventure, no matter the challenges. And I maintain close contact with my younger family and friends. This is not a monastery or convent, but a place to live out the reminder of our time as best we can. Before the next great adventure begins.

PS: I still have all my limbs.