older | Honey Clarke Art

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you was?” Satchel Paige (1906-1982)*

When I was young I could hardly wait to be a year older. I was desperate to do what my older sisters did. I remember, for example, struggling to get my leg up onto the smooth, splintery plank of a swing in the park – to be up there with my sisters. One giggled, “Look, she’s trying to get up.” In an old photo I’m amazed to find I was about 18 months old. Even then I wanted to be older.

Older meant being trusted enough to do the stuff that others did: having the agility to be part of the mob yet enough independence to make some choices of my own. I felt proud if ever I was mistaken for being older. There was a badge of maturity attached.

Later in life, there was a polar reversal. By the time I passed 40 I clung on to some number below that.

Maybe that’s the gift of ageing. Time passes and so do such concerns. I’m now 57 and happy to be whatever number I get up to. I’ve got that independence I wished for as a kid – the agility to be part of a mob when it suits and that fabulous feeling of independence that comes knowing that I can make any darn choice I want. For me the epiphany to be my own person came at 50. Some others are blessed with that knowledge from the start. Whatever your age, feel free to celebrate it daily.