What Age Would You Be?

 

Liz mentioned a conversation she’d been in recently involving an interesting question that goes something like, “How old would you be if you could pick an age to be forever?” 

At first, I immediately thought I’d like to be forty again, before arthritis and saggy underarms and menopause belly. Then I thought, no, no, I’d return to my mid-fifties because that was when I went to Paris and discovered that I had the courage to send my writing out into the world. But then this morning as I was thinking about the question again, I realized that going back meant redoing the journey. 

I loved the journey, mostly, but even with my loose underarms and my round post-menopause belly and the arthritis that often makes me want to sit on the sofa and never move my knees again, I don’t think I’d be any age but the one I am now. 

Here’s the thing, forty was great, I was strong, thinner, only mildly arthritic, and very active. But I was still seeking… I had something inside me that needed release, but I had no idea what it was, so I volunteered everywhere for everything, hoping that magic moment would happen and suddenly Nancy would figure it out. Please don’t think I was miserable—I wasn’t at all. Life moved along, my son grew into a man we are so proud of and we discovered that traveling to California was fun because we got to spend time in a lovely place with him and our new daughter-in-law. I didn’t stop seeking and wondering, though, not until I went to Paris sixteen years later. 

Cliché as it sounds, that something released in Paris. I found me in Paris. I sat in a little café near the apartment where we stayed and I wrote in my journal and I watched people and I realized I was a writer and that maybe the rest of the world would like to know that, too. I’d always written, my whole life, but I never knew I was writer until that trip. When we got home, I worked on the novel I liked best of the ones I’d written over the years and sent it out into the world. It would be three years before it was published, but at last I knew I was Nan—the writer. 

Ten novels later, I’m as happy as I ever been in my life—I’m old, I’m arthritic, but I’m moving every day, I’m enjoying my marriage, my kid, my grandson, my dear friends, and I’m still writing. I'm writing better than I ever have and I love my stories and my publisher. I love talking about writing, going on writing retreats with Liz, and being with other writers. I like this age, this time right now. I wouldn’t go back, but memories of the journey of my life are sweet and often turn up in one of my books. I think I’ll just hang here and watch what happens next. 

How about you?