I watch over my mother these days. She’s in a nursing home so I don’t to the heavy lifting, but I visit daily and push her to a small pond where we can watch fish and birds. I see now how the elderly are largely invisible. We avert our eyes from their difficulties, from the spills on their jackets, and the shaking of their hands. And when we do notice them, we are impatient. How slow they are. How unintelligible their speech.

Here is a poem called The Moon, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Somewhere in his youth he knew an elderly grandmother, or maybe a dotty great aunt.

The Moon

And, like a dying lady lean and pale,

Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber, led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,

The moon arose up in the murky east

A white and shapeless mass.

Moon 3

white line woodcut, for The Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a  different birth,

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?

I like the imagery, of course, but what moves me is the weariness, the companionless-ness, and the joyless eye. Aging is not for the weak.

Welcome to my blog where I write about the art and craft of my business.My goal is to make beautiful things, to make art part of everyday life, and to make my friends and family smile. Not necessarily in that order.

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Posted in Life and love, Process

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