Instinct...

... for Knots in the String.

My friend in letter-writing, books and things published, Swedish writer Anna Belfrage, wrote an astute post on ageing this week. Not the common ‘woe is me,’ post but one with depth and indeed, inspiration.

Anna writes beautifully. Her historical fiction books have been award winners and bestsellers through the years. She’s remarkably perceptive, has wry humour and sees life with enviable clarity. As is evidenced by her post.

Several things chimed with me – not least of course, swimming. But more particularly, the revelation that her mother reached a stage in her life where she wouldn’t swim unless she could touch the bottom with her toes. This from a woman who was confident and skilled at swimming through her whole life. I thought about that reaction because I’m the same. I’ll swim out over my depth quite readily but I’m most confident these days when I can feel the ocean floor beneath me.

I never gave any thought as to why I was happier feeling the bottom beneath, but now I believe it’s natural survival. Our unconscious mind must surely be aware of diminishing skills and reactions, so we instinctively look for ways in which we are able to survive. If we swim alone, which I do frequently, knowing the bottom is there removes part of the element of risk. I swim alone in winter because as I may have said previously, my friends have had to give up on cold water for health reasons and the swimming group we belonged to have moved to a surf beach. I’m unable to swim in surf for my own health reasons, so solo-swimming it is.

Coldwater swimming has huge risk. Our current water temperature is about 11 degrees and at my age and with hands and feet that are rarely warm, in winter I choose to wear a 3ml wetsuit, neoprene booties and diving gloves. In addition, if my head gets wet in winter while swimming, the face ache across the sinuses is crushing, so I don’t fully immerse.

Is it a survival mechanism? Perhaps. The chill, the endorphin rush of cold water which hangs around all day, the utter exhilaration – it all makes me want to continue, but to do it with ease. I feel that’s exactly what Anna’s mother was doing – continuing with something she enjoyed but in her own way and within the parameters of her age. And why not, I ask?

Doings whilst getting older:

Riding bikes with my almost 7 year old grandson. Lordy! Instinct for survival required! My bike is fifty years old and has no brakes or gears…

Walked my little pup and he spied some chooks. Genetically chooks and JRT’s are not compatible. The Womble jerked my arm sideways and backward at great speed while my attention was elsewhere and it appears to have damaged something or other. Bit painful at the moment but he had fun…

Gardening one handed. It can be done.

Listening to Death of a Wild Swimmer by Peter Boland and one of the characters comments that if a swimmer wears a wetsuit ‘then they ain’t no wild swimmer, are they?’ I was driving at the time and burst out with: ‘Bollocks!’ But later I let Google AI tell me what it thought.

‘The statement "if they wear a wetsuit, then they ain't no wild swimmer" is not necessarily true. While some define wild swimming as swimming in natural bodies of water without any equipment beyond a swimsuit, others consider wetsuits acceptable, especially for warmth and safety in colder waters. The choice to wear a wetsuit is often a personal one based on comfort, experience, and the specific conditions of the swim.’

So just today I think AI has it right and I have a feeling Anna’s mum would agree emphatically.

If I sit and digest my physical ageing, I could succumb to woe. But Anna’s mother kept swimming even with a major diagnosis. It was done on her terms and when all’s said and done, as long as we’re able, we must advocate for ourselves in the best way possible. Live our lives honestly, how we want and be happy that we’re free to do that.

So I swam. It was chilly. There was a frost and the water temperature’s no warmer, but I did it anyway – the advantage of ageing is that we answer to no one but ourselves. It’s quite freeing really and ties in with a beautiful statement from Patricia Routledge, which encapsulates age-ing so well.

“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude. My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.

At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.

At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.

At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.

At 80, I took up watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.

I’m writing this to tell you something simple: Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again. Let these years ahead be your *treasure years*. You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless. You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours…”

Perhaps I should also add that Anna Belfrage was very brave this week and spoke up against the deliberate genocide in Gaza. None of us can be immune to the images of starving people, particularly children, emerging from Gaza. Nor the wholescale destruction of home and safety by the IDF and Netanyahu. Predictably, Anna was accused of anti-semitic bias. What I read in Anna’s short piece, was compassion and empathy for the weak and profound disgust for the perpetrators. There was no anti-Jewish slant in what she was saying. I support her blatant honesty - like her Mum, I think. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

Music this week? Something groovy and uplifting … I actually really like this person’s AI animation. If you want to see other reels of her work, have a look at https://www.facebook.com/kelly.boesch Her work is quite surreal. I think she and Dali would have been good friends…

PS: Being a solo-swimmer means there are usually no pics of me in the water, so thank you to my husband who has popped along the beach every now and then to give me a record of my eccentricities.