The art of aging - Editorial

Vegetarian Times, Feb, 1997 by Andrea Mather

After viewing a recent art exhibit, I went to pick out a postcard for my Grandma Mather. When I got to the rack, I suddenly realized what I was doing. Grandma had, in fact, died a few weeks before.

My grandmother was the first artist I ever knew. As a child, I would stare up at her art table looking at all the pencils, brushes, sheaves of paper and stray globs of dried paint. As I grew older, I followed her example and began taking art classes. Once I even wrote and illustrated a book of poetry for my grandma. She loved and saved it, sending it back to me when I was 25 so I would have it.

When I was nine, she took me to her art classes where we watched a slide show and heard a lecture on Monet. Sitting beside my grandmother, I gazed at Water Lilies and listened to the air conditioner hum. Later, we drew with pastels, the powder marking the creases of my hands -- hands of an artist, my grandmother said. From that time on, I thought of my hands with their long, bony fingers as beautiful and capable. Looking at my grandmother's picture, I just now realize my hands resemble hers.

Grandma Millie was quiet, thoughtful and independent. It was an independence that showed through more dearly once my grandfather died. The period after his death wasn't easy for her. It was the first time she had ever been alone. After eight children and a husband who gave orders from his easy chair, the silence was probably welcoming and, at other times, deafening.

Eventually, she came to embrace her independence. She made changes to the house that she'd always wanted to make. After years of hauling drinking water, she finally installed a water pump. Grandma continued with her art classes, visited with friends, went to church and traveled. On her last trip, she took her four daughters and went to Alsace, France, the home of her ancestors.

My aunt, who was sorting through grandma's house, kept finding more watercolors, pastels and sketches. My grandmother had them stashed ready, nearly everywhere, even in the trunk of her car. She was sketching even in the last month. One of her last sketches was of her wheelchair.

I kept thinking about grandma while reading this month's feature, "Aging with Soul" (p. 68) that explores a fledgling movement called spiritual eldering. In this story, Senior Editor Karin Horgan Sullivan attends an intense five-day workshop and walks away with a sense of promise that old age offers.

There is the possibility of something other than aches, pains and the obituaries. My grandmother's life -- one filled with creativity and spirituality and others show it. My daydreams also show it. Old age is the opportunity to do what you love, share your passion and serve others. My grandmother did all those things.

This all makes me think more seriously about my elder years. My daydream of old age is spending my time teaching yoga and raising hell as a city council member. As I write this, I now see a granddaughter in the picture. I can see her stretching by me in yoga class and later, barely peering over the council table. Maybe tomorrow, we will go to the art museum. It's an image I like. It's an image my grandmother, Mildred Irene Moots Mather, would like too.