"At Peace with My 85 Years" by Romeo Bouchard

"AT PEACE WITH MY 85 YEARS."

Above is Romeo Bouchard, the author of this piece.
I've never met him except thru this poem, which, upon reading, I felt demanded to be shared because of the wisdom and beauty it embodies.

****************

At peace with my 85 years.

I'm not one to see old age as a wreck. Certainly, I'm fairly spoiled by life, I have no crippling disease or suffering. For the rest of us, I think we have a pretty good life we made.

I'm getting old, it's undeniable. My BODY is wearing out. My heart is bursting. It's squeaking everywhere. Starting off slower. It's not easy to recover. The memory forgets. Words fall short. Ears are going hard. The walk is unlearned. the body is softening and drying off Sex no longer responds to persistent libido. The world is shrinking and moving further. Life slows down and time speeds up. The balance is getting fragile. Everything is fragile. Getting closer to departure time. We make the way back to the time we were not and will not be again.

But CONSCIOUSNESS, it is more vivid, deeper, more comprehensive with age. The gaze is getting finer. The heart is holding on. The soul is awakening. Silence speaks. Serge Bouchard confesses: "Rather than seeking the truth of the world, I pursued its beauty. ». In the end, it's indeed the beauty that wins. This is life. This is the universe. It's the Sun, trees, river. It is the calmness and intimacy of home, the sweetness of sleep, the joy of living of a grandchild, the security of old age, my "Little Country" in the "Sweet Country" of Kamouraska.

I thought a long time I wouldn't make it past 65. Then I extended the bet to 75 years. I have made it to 85 years old. And I'm surprised to envy Guy Rocher who just made 97 with the sure voice and clear ideas. It’s a privilege to be able to grow old.

Old age is the season of balances, the inevitable "diving into oneself and relapse of survival" (Serge Bouchard): age forces us to reinterpret our lives, to look for the lead, to weigh successes, failures, injuries, hinge moments; to clean up, to take lessons. distances, to convey to those who stay and come what deserves to be, That's why I write, at home, from the source, while waiting, and you who read me help me feel alive.

Like a boat leaving harbor, the old ones detach, drift away. Memories become their most precious treasures: they replace what can no longer be. Their descendants left behind their imprint in the chain of DNA and time.

Getting older is nothing scary when we realize what we are made of. We are made of the matter of the Universe, we are sons of the Earth and the Sky, we are stardust, we are from this fury of life that drives the cosmic energy to organize, to live and to think (Hubert Reeves).

We are not born: we have always been: we appear, like the grass in springtime,

We do not die: we will always be: we disappear, like the grass in autumn.

We are made of the substance, energy, and movement of the Universe. Between the infinite winter where we were not and the endless winter where we will no longer be, we live the time of an ephemeral spring, summer and autumn, we are shooting stars, three little turns and we go, we leave an imprint: our children, our loves, our works.

We are, the moment of a life, the Consciousness of the Universe. The gods, narratives and philosophies invented to say it are not worth a sunset, a living tree, the birth of an animal or a child, the kissing of two bodies, the permanence of an attachment, the dedication of a worker, the courage of the people... and the cruelty of their masters. The beauty of the world has the answer to everything.

Growing old and dying, like the evening of a beautiful day: tomorrow is another day.