Our tiny cottage has been caught in the frigid grasp of Old Man Winter for months now. His icy breath penetrates every nook and cranny, seeping into our very bones. The spring equinox arrived without much fanfare, just an incipient thaw that seems to have frozen mid-trickle. But change is coming. The light is different, quicker and clearer, and the cold air is scented with a damp optimism. Anticipication mounts, becoming almost unbearable. Before we surrender entirely to the frenzied bacchanal of spring, let's take a moment to give the Old Man his due.

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The guy who plows our driveway is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Every time it snows, he comes by and makes a huge mountain at the end of our front walk. I guess it hasn't occurred to him that we actually leave the house. At any rate, after the recent snowfall, there was a wall nearly four feet high and almost as wide. It was so wet and heavy that heaving every shovelful was a considered effort. Such a sisyphean task is what passes for a good workout here in the boondocks. And someone in my yoga class told me to spray the shovel with Pam to prevent the snow from sticking. Who am I and how did I get here?

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A lot of things converged recently to inspire this post. My friend and colleague Justine Clay, a coach for creative professionals, was kind enough to feature me in her new blog series about people over fifty. I also read this article in the Times. Then I discovered this amazing project. And I had lunch with Kristin Perers, creator of this wonderful blog. I think no matter what your age, you spend some time and energy dealing with the cultural, physical and emotional repercussions of what that number signifies. Little kids are anxious for the freedom and autonomy that comes with age. Teens grapple with raging hormones and those "awkward" years. The twenties are about experimentation. In our thirties we feel pressure to settle and achieve. (Of course this is all gross generalization, but work with me.) Then things get a bit nebulous. If you have a partner, kids and a career, your forties and fifties must be about that, right? But what if you don't? And what about your sixties, seventies and eighties? Your nineties? (Too optimistic?) Who even talks about those decades? In the culture at large, there is so little conversation about what it means to be vital and creative and truly alive all the way to the end. So much of the focus, especially for women, is on how good we can look for our age. What about our accomplishments, our creativity, our grace, our strength, our sensuality, our talent, our humor?
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Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned. It's been longer than I care to think about since my last confession. You probably imagine me leading a carefree life of bucolic bliss: wandering through the woods foraging for pristine delicacies; plucking tender vegetables from my garden; traveling to exotic places; whipping up epic feasts...and there are certainly times when all this is true. But, oh, there are other times. And those I tend to keep to myself, tamped down in a dark and moldy spot.

Why would you want to know about my fears and foibles and failings? That all smacks of dirty laundry and this is meant to be a place of inspiration. But deep down I know that what we often find most uplifting has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with the full spectrum of our shared humanity.


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Today I am 50. It seems somehow inconceivable and yet it is merely the inevitable outcome of staying alive. (Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.) I’ve done more than that though—I’ve lived. And, as the inimitable Édith Piaf sang, Je ne regrette rien. I learned to play the oboe. I lived in Spain. I graduated from Harvard. I made my way in New York City. I moved to Los Angeles and back. I married 3 times, divorced twice and was widowed. I traveled the world. I found true love and married again. I bought a house in the woods and 5 acres on a lake. I started this blog. There have been some admirable achievements. There have been some spectacular flameouts. Much has been lost, but even more gained.

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