I must admit, for a week my mind became preoccupied with the prospect of traversing the countryside and negotiating city streets on a motorcycle. I’m not that gutsy but wish I had the bravery to defy my cowardice. I’m in my sixth decade of life and any thoughts of the cliché “wind in my face” on a motorcycle are relegated to the box where youthful images are neatly stored. Candy is part of my generation but apparently isn’t afflicted with rut stuck syndrome. Envy surfaced and I pondered the possibilities now self denied.

The Oxford English Dictionary definition numbers three and four for “savage” read “primitive; uncivilized; of a place wild; uncultivated.” The word’s origin is old French sauvage, meaning “wild” derived from the Latin silvaticus meaning “out of the woods.” It seems dreadfully silly now when I write it, actually embarrassing, but honestly, that old familiar song by Steppenwolf in 1968, and recently recorded by my absolute favorite singer, sixty plus year old Etta James, played in my head:

Get your motor runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for adventure
And whatever comes your way
Yeah Darlin' go make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace …

Like a true nature's child

We were born, born to be wild

Born to be wild.

I had listened to gutsy old Etta sing this tune a hundred times but Candy’s new “savage” gave it a new edge. Wild is good.

How did I get so old so quickly? Maybe it’s because I frequently and negatively refer to myself as a gray haired old lady. But then, what’s wrong with being a gray haired old lady? I have a yearning, fantasy vision of myself as an eccentric, weathered crone, with waist length gray hair, offering few, but profound, words of wisdom to youth. So why am I still on the unending search for the perfect wrinkle cream? There must be a point to this I’m missing.

Eight years ago my husband and I had a second honeymoon on our thirtieth anniversary (we never actually had a first one). We went to Bermuda. There are no rental cars in Bermuda so the popular method of transportation on the island is by moped or motor scooter. Not at all comfortable with riding my own bike, I cautiously propped myself behind my husband on his scooter, even though he complained about “all the weight in the back.” We rode the curvy, undulating roads, toured along the pink beaches bordered by turquoise sea, and passed hibiscus and oleander hedges everywhere. It was exhilarating. I loved it. On the flight home we talked of buying a “hog” and taking off on pioneering adventures riding back roads of New England. The next Monday we actually went to the Harley store but it was closed. We never went back.

Only five years ago I was the manager, publicist, and booking agent for a blues band playing nightclubs, festivals, and other venues. I remember one particular night at a trendy downtown nightclub when the club manager was infuriated with the band’s sound technician. While the band played full volume inside the club, I found myself standing outside on the street corner trying to soothe an angry twenty-something kid with tattoos and numerous body piercings. There I was on the city street close to midnight, dressed all in black, short bottle blond hair gel spiked, working in earnest to convince this young man I would take care of the problem. As I talked to him, the background conversation in my head went something like, “I’m a fifty-three year old woman from a quiet suburb, the mother of two grown children, both probably older than this guy, and grandmother of a five year old. What am I doing here? But I love this; I absolutely love standing on this street corner doing this job.” Eventually, the band days came to a natural end and I retreated to the suburbs with naturally gray hair.

Maybe being old is not defined by numbered years, hair color, city life or suburb life. Maybe old should not be defined in Spirit limiting ways like telling myself I should conform to the round peg in the correct hole. My Divine spirit is limitless and ageless. Who invented the phrase “age appropriate” anyway?

The latest unread book in the stack on the table beside my bed is Goddesses in Older Women: Archetypes in Women Over Fifty, by Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D. The subtitle is “Becoming a Juicy Crone.”  Juicy, now that’s another interesting word. Back to Oxford. “Juicy: full of juice.” Definition seven for “juice” is “one’s vitality or creative faculties.” Ah, I think I’m onto something, something wild and juicy.

My friend Mary gets on stage and sings the blues. I’ve seen her voice bring a crowd of thousands to their feet. A few months ago she went into the recording studio and recorded an a cappella version of Amazing Grace just for me. Her one-of-a-kind gift is my most valued CD. My friend Julia writes profoundly expressive poetry. She’s throwing a slumber party for her fifty-something women friends. That’s right; she is actually having a slumber party! I can hardly wait for the big event. We all have our spirit light to shine, but my teacher, M.T., has the full spectrum rays of the sun. She has done more to literally change the world than any woman I have ever met. Last Friday I was once again graced by a hug from her. Hugging me, she whispered in my ear, “I’m proud of you.” I knew, felt in my soul, that I was hugged by Godde. All these women have passed their fiftieth year. They are extraordinary, ordinary women who aren’t afraid to put their unique Godde given spirit selves into the world. All these women, and many others, have given me Godde hugs simply by their being. These women’s souls reveal who they are as women, and all have ageless spirits with no boundary. Spirits with “vitality.” Spirit oozes from one person and flows all over another. The spirit of these women has flowed all over me. That’s juicy.

I have learned Godde can speak to me in many ways. Godde speaks to me in the commonplace events of daily life and through the voices, audible or observed, of others. When I reflect on the women who have entered my life, I hear messages from Godde. Godde spoke to me through Candy. I know that as Candy rides along on her new “savage”, the “wind in her face” is surely the breath of Godde.

In the heat of a past summer, I was driving with all my car windows down trying to get some air in the car as I was leaving a hot parking lot. A group of teen-aged boys were on the curb impatiently stepping into the street to cross. As I drove by, one of them grabbed his friend’s arm and shouted, “Hey, watch out for that old lady!” I was both shocked and offended, and little saddened by the realization of being old. On second thought though, he had it right. Watch out for this wild, juicy old lady.

Judith

2003

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