Blog #66. Holding Vigil, Holding Hope

Last week asked more of my heart than usual. Two lives left this world recently. One left a trail of wisdom; the other left a question mark.

Inky knew love.

Last week, I found myself holding vigil twice. One passing came gently, with the hush of age. A beloved friend, fierce, funny, and ninety-six years bold, slipped out of this world. She had lived expansively, curiously, and with her fists up for justice and her arms open to art, culture, and humanity. I met her in Baku on THE 9-11 in 2001. She taught me how to age in full color.

The second passing came with claws. A tiny street cat with a twice-broken tail who badly wanted to be welcomed into a home. I didn’t get to him until it was too late. He was poisoned, scared, and still purring. I tried to save him. I couldn’t. A part of my trust in the world died with him.

As an eldering woman, I find myself not just mourning, but marshaling. Two lives. One expected, one unfathomable. One book closing after chapters of wonder, one story ripped from the binding before the first page was read.

As we age, we can find that grief is no longer a rare visitor; it’s a companion. It can show up with casseroles and questions, or it can arrive suddenly with anger and outrage. I find I’m holding grief, anger, reverence, regret, and the dissonance between "natural" and "unjust" endings. How do I hold space for both the long-lived and the barely-started?

My elder friend left me with a legacy, her voice in my ear saying, “Walk erect and raise your voice.” The kitten left me with an ache and a reminder: some battles will break your heart because they should.

The lesson in both these passings for me is in presence, in bearing witness, in railing against injustice even when it's something as small and monumental as a poisoned kitten. I acknowledge the sacred duty of loving fiercely and mourning fully. Of not letting the world grow so hard that it forgets softness.

This is the work now, isn’t it? To feel deeply. To speak clearly. To care without conditions. To bury who and what we love, and still choose to love again.

We elder women can whisper to the younger women watching us: this is what it looks like to live wide open—even when the world cracks you. We honor deeply life’s cycles. To grieve both the grand and the small, and to remember that in elderhood, nothing is beneath our care. Not even a kitten with a broken tail.

Come join me at WonderCrone.com. We share our witnessing, our presence, and our grieving. We do none of this alone.