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More Than a Song

I went to a concert in which my granddaughter sang–of course, I went, even though it meant a trip from Connecticut to Texas. I am happy to say there was only one flight delay and then only for 45 minutes. As the flight attendant said, explaining what was happening, “Just one of them days.”

At the end of the concert, there was an audience chorus, one half the auditorium singing a song I did not know, with words written in the program, and the rest of us singing a song that is emblematic of the hopes and dreams of another time: “We Shall Overcome.”

It brought, unexpectedly, tears to my eyes. I don’t have a good explanation for why. Is it my own sadness for those times in my 20s that are long gone? Am I tearing up in tribute to my own long-ago youth or for the dreams of the possible that were part of that time?

I never thought I was Peter Pan, but still, I never gave growing older significant thought until I realized it was not something that happened to other people; it was happening to me.

I knew on some intellectual plane that I would not be young forever, but I also never really finished the thought. If I was no longer young, what was I? Older was one thing, but old was something entirely different. You are only as old as you feel, friends would reassure me. But in the end, you are old as the date on your birth certificate, regardless of your physical or mental condition.

I am lucky; I am healthy; I am able to do work I love, writing and hoping people read what I have written.

But I still have to ask: how well have I done with the golden promises of youth, with the world that was so hopefully and melodically encapsulated in “We Shall Overcome?”

There are things, of course, that I most clearly have not achieved. I have not lost the 15 pounds I have struggled with all these years–or, to be more accurate, the 15 pounds that I have lost and gained so often that in toto the loss, never sustained, must amount to some 150 pounds or so.

I remember a colleague at a magazine where I once worked at years ago; she was tall, she was blonde, she was thin, she was from California. I am none of those things, either geographically or physically. I so envied her, but she had comforting words for me that I have never forgotten. “You will never look your age,” she reassured, “because you have a layer of fat under your face!”

It didn’t seem diplomatic to tell her I had spent, even then, what seemed to me a lifetime trying to eliminate that layer of pudge, not simply from my face but from my entire body. It is still here, and now when people tell me graciously, if not accurately, that I do not look my age, I say a silent thank you to the 15, though I have to admit if I could figure out how to lose them for good, I would still do it.

Beyond that personal obsession, what have I done with my allotted time? Have I tried hard enough to do the things that I set out for myself and the ones that life has set out for me? Have I done the best for my family, my children, and grandchildren? Have I made contributions to create the world I sang about in “We Shall Overcome?”

It is hard to judge. One tends to be either too hard or too easy in the world of self-assessment. But there is a saving grace. There is still time to try, and that opportunity is all we can ask for. Perhaps now, with age, comes the realization that it is the effort, in fact, that makes life worthwhile.

And, if a personal struggle finally brings results and you see me looking remarkably thinner, please congratulate me on losing those 15 pounds once again.