A poem, parts of which are quoted here, spoke movingly to a group of older people recently gathered together to think about spirituality. Written by Sis-ter Margaret Ringe, this poem seemed to touch the hearts of those who listened to it. Perhaps it will have something of the same effect on you as you apply its verses to yourself or to an older person important to you.

“I’m old now and much is new / I can’t do what I used to do.

I can’t do what I used to do / I’m doing what, for me, is new.”

The poet has discovered that later life brings her many new experiences. Though part of this newness is inability to perform certain physical tasks, she makes a more important discovery. She has learned more about her own emotional life, drawing nearer to her own heart.

This woman has also discovered new kinds of thinking, a luxury that her previous lifestyle did not allow enough of. As a religious person, she has also found a new contemplative life. Her prayer now has more of a mystical quality to it than before: instead of doing all the talking, she allows space for God to speak.

She spends time assembling the wide variety of emotional, mental, and in-stinctual inner events that now pass through her mind and heart. With her the prophecy of the Hebrew Bible has come true: she dreams dreams. Perhaps she dreamed earlier in her life, but now she takes note of this mysterious activity.

The poet goes on the lookout for people to listen to her story. Everyone has that need but she acknowledges it openly, her desire to find those able to pro-vide sympathetic listening. Similarly, she searches for some sort of repository where her new-found wisdom can be placed. Yes, she has some wisdom, though one can imagine her wary of counting on it.

Growing in confidence, the poet dares recognize that now she can actually do a whole lot of things. This recognition takes her by surprise perhaps because of her awareness of what she cannot any longer do.

She takes on some difficult tasks: listening, learning, and, especially, changing long embedded opinions. Perhaps it’s because she makes a point of talk-ing to other people, maybe new friends. Who would have thought it possible to make such radical changes so late in life?

New capacities for giving continue to surprise her. That she can comfort others instead of focusing on her own problems counts as one such surprise. Another is the strength – spiritual, moral, emotional perhaps – that she finds to share with other people. Even what she calls loveliness flows out of her, much to her astonishment.

She may have underestimated her juniors. Some young people now seem to look upon her with high regard. Yes, many Americans may still discount the aged, but at least these know better.

Unknown to themselves, these young people may even be looking for models of later life. They may want to study their own future selves in order to draw hope for the distant future.

In concluding this part of the poem, the author repeats the refrain but this time with the subtle change “I’m doing what, for me, is new.” For her, the possi-bilities of later life have been revealed and she feels much the better for being older.

The beauty of the poem, for me, is its revelation of how mind and heart can flourish in advanced maturity. At least, it serves as a corrective to the pessim-ism that can oppress us all when we think about the approach of old age. But the sentiments expressed here do not amount to mere optimism. Rather, they are grounded in a hopefulness about life.

Time after time life surprises us. We think we have it all plotted out, our futures easy to chart. But being human can never be entirely predictable. Vitality, spirit, and heart have a way of breaking in upon our complacency. The last stages of our lives can, after all, turn out to be the ones richest in reality.

Richard Griffin