Crow's Feet is a publication where writers explore what it means to age. Here you'll read stories about people finding new sources of creative energy in their 50s and later while others are confronting the heavy weight of ageism that threatens to diminish all of our later years.
Join us to discover that life as we age brings laughter, joy and memories that shape who we are today.
Join us to discover that life as we age brings laughter, joy and memories that shape who we are today.
What Happens When We Die by Nancy Peckenham
I have no idea but my mother's death gave me some clues.
What happens when we die? If I could accurately answer that question, I’d have millions of followers in a heartbeat. Isn’t that what most religions are supposed to provide, a belief in the afterlife, something that helps soften the blow of death?
I don’t know what happens when we die, but I am still processing what I witnessed when my mother passed away last year. Are they clues to what awaits us when after death?
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I don’t know what happens when we die, but I am still processing what I witnessed when my mother passed away last year. Are they clues to what awaits us when after death?
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Just Last Week by Eileen Vorbach Collins
I had a big garden.
Just last week, I was 20 years old
With long thick hair parted down the middle
This morning, in my mirror is a woman
With thinning white hair so short it needs no part
Just last week, I marched in Washington
to protest a war in a faraway land
Assuming, in my naivety
that all lives matter
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With long thick hair parted down the middle
This morning, in my mirror is a woman
With thinning white hair so short it needs no part
Just last week, I marched in Washington
to protest a war in a faraway land
Assuming, in my naivety
that all lives matter
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Coracles. A poem by Lisa Wathen
A thousand years ago
Monks set off from the rocky western shores of the old world.
Alone
They took to the fathomless depths in simple, shallow tubs
crocheted of sticks and leather,
submitting without paddle or sail
to wind and tide.
They trusted their crafts
To carry them safely:
rough little coracles —
Nothing but sticks and twine, wattle and daub, covered in hides
Little round bodies tossed and blown
Taking them across, around,
over and through this world
to a greater purpose.
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Monks set off from the rocky western shores of the old world.
Alone
They took to the fathomless depths in simple, shallow tubs
crocheted of sticks and leather,
submitting without paddle or sail
to wind and tide.
They trusted their crafts
To carry them safely:
rough little coracles —
Nothing but sticks and twine, wattle and daub, covered in hides
Little round bodies tossed and blown
Taking them across, around,
over and through this world
to a greater purpose.
READ THE FULL POEM
Who Are You Calling Elderly? By Ruby Lee
And other old people insults.
How old do you have to be before you become one of the elderly?
So you turn on the news and hear a news report on television about some poor elderly person. The report itself becomes of no consequence for you because you suddenly realize that the person they are talking about is the same age as you!
“Outrageous,” you think to yourself. “Who are ‘they’ calling elderly!”
“Not me because I feel great. Ok, so the bones are creaky, and I’ve got to take all of these meds, but I’m not elderly.”
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So you turn on the news and hear a news report on television about some poor elderly person. The report itself becomes of no consequence for you because you suddenly realize that the person they are talking about is the same age as you!
“Outrageous,” you think to yourself. “Who are ‘they’ calling elderly!”
“Not me because I feel great. Ok, so the bones are creaky, and I’ve got to take all of these meds, but I’m not elderly.”
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Our Bodies Write Us Love Letters by Julia E. Hubbel
The lifelong conversation we have with our physical forms
Three years ago I started writing on Medium and, as is my habit, I also began to explore the available authors. One, a woman close to my age (at the time I was 65) had done a photo shoot of herself in sexy lingerie.
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Three years ago I started writing on Medium and, as is my habit, I also began to explore the available authors. One, a woman close to my age (at the time I was 65) had done a photo shoot of herself in sexy lingerie.
READ THE FULL STORY.
After by Christina Sng
A poem for my father written the night before his funeral.
After he died,
My father told me,
Don’t look for me
In my bones and ashes,
I am not there.
I am now free --
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My father told me,
Don’t look for me
In my bones and ashes,
I am not there.
I am now free --
READ THE FULL POEM
Who Cares About A Little Rain? By Laura Culberg
Drama-free friends.
Today my friend Kate and I went for a walk. Our plan was to walk to the local coffee shop to get their specialty — Cardamom Rose Lattes. When we started walking it was warm and sunny, surprisingly so for winter in the Pacific Northwest. As we walked, it started to sprinkle a little bit, and then a bit more, and then it started to pour. We were several blocks from the coffee shop and were getting completely drenched.
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Shielding a Mother with Advanced Dementia during Covid by Catherine Verner MsC
An amazing story of humanity and humility.
The Scene (March 2020)
Scotland, UK. Small 2-bedroomed house. Semi-rural location. Neighbours leaving food outside the front door. Family telephoning, hopeful that we were ok.
We were not unique. We were not alone in our struggle.
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Scotland, UK. Small 2-bedroomed house. Semi-rural location. Neighbours leaving food outside the front door. Family telephoning, hopeful that we were ok.
We were not unique. We were not alone in our struggle.
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I Refuse to be Invisible by Carol Lennox
I’m an older woman. Deal with it.
Now, that subtitle may sound like a rant, but this isn’t a rant. I won’t be chastising you or the entirety of western culture for making older women feel invisible. At least not in this article.
Is it a result of patriarchy, resulting in a devaluation of women of all ages, but especially older ones? Of course.
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Is it a result of patriarchy, resulting in a devaluation of women of all ages, but especially older ones? Of course.
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A Daughter's Voice by Deborah Barchi
The pathway to memory.
Photo of my mother taken by Debbie Barchi.
My mother sometimes knows me. And sometimes she does not.
Sometimes I am her sister. Sometimes her mother. Sometimes an old friend from school.
I am never sure which it will be.
“Mummy,” I say, taking her hand. “It’s Debbie Doll.”
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Sometimes I am her sister. Sometimes her mother. Sometimes an old friend from school.
I am never sure which it will be.
“Mummy,” I say, taking her hand. “It’s Debbie Doll.”
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Zooming by Dennett
A grandmother does it.
I made it nearly a year into a global pandemic without Zooming. One client asked me to join him in a Zoom meeting, and I replied, “Sorry, I don’t Zoom.” He looked perplexed as though I said I don’t breathe. But, he never asked again.
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Clothes: Fashion or Function? By The Write Yard
How the importance of clothes has changed as I grow older.
I used to dress to impress. Spent time doing my hair and put on a little make-up, not much, but a little definition around the eyes and maybe a touch of lip gloss.
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Aging Hands by Mark Tulin
I took a road trip
along the lines
of my palms,
gray and worn,
hands of experience,
wonderful rivers,
dark valleys,
and mountains
still to climb
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along the lines
of my palms,
gray and worn,
hands of experience,
wonderful rivers,
dark valleys,
and mountains
still to climb
READ THE FULL POEM
A Message from the Other Side by Anna I. Smith
Or is it just an annoying bird and menopause?
It’s 5 a.m. A screeching, sharp twitter like no other wakes me up.
I try to but can’t go back to sleep. Thirty years ago I’d wake up and fall asleep without a problem. Now things are different. Now my on-off switch gets stuck in the on position. It’s ironic. When I finally have the opportunity to set my own schedule, when it’s just the two of us with no next day obligations I wake up before the wildlife outside my window does. Menopause is cruel.
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I try to but can’t go back to sleep. Thirty years ago I’d wake up and fall asleep without a problem. Now things are different. Now my on-off switch gets stuck in the on position. It’s ironic. When I finally have the opportunity to set my own schedule, when it’s just the two of us with no next day obligations I wake up before the wildlife outside my window does. Menopause is cruel.
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Yoga and Breathing Provide Natural Relief for Stubborn Menopause Symptoms by Rose Bak
Twenty minutes a day can make a huge difference in how you feel.
Deposit photo.
If you join a conversation with women in their 50s invariably the conversation will turn to menopause.
“These hot flashes are killing me!” someone will exclaim, fanning themselves.
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“These hot flashes are killing me!” someone will exclaim, fanning themselves.
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Bleeding Out and Beginning Again by Ren Powell
Puzzle Tree by Ren Powell.
Heading toward a quarter moon. The light is slipping away. I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed the moon as often as I have these past weeks. I suppose in part because we run under the cover of trees so often on the dark mornings. And I suppose because conversation is distracting.
Leaving my phone in the house while I walk Leonard now first thing each day, the quiet can be intense. Especially these days with the clear skies.
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Leaving my phone in the house while I walk Leonard now first thing each day, the quiet can be intense. Especially these days with the clear skies.
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Juggling All. The. Things by Ann Litts
Photo by Joshua Woroniecki.
I’ve been retired now a little over two months. And frankly, I just don’t know how I ever made time to hold down a 40-hour+/week job! Because truly — I just don’t have the time (or inclination) to make that work anymore.
In my pre-retirement days, I heard horror stories of Humans who simply went adrift once they clocked out for the last time. Humans who were bored with retirement and went back to work at a new place just for something to do. Humans who languished on their couch watching Netflix and NCIS reruns. Humans who died shortly into retirement — because the adrenaline of their jobs was the only thing keeping them alive.
I was warned that I “better” find some hobbies if I wanted any quality of life in retirement. I was also told that I’d be so bored — I’d WANT to come back into the workforce by the end of the first six months.
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In my pre-retirement days, I heard horror stories of Humans who simply went adrift once they clocked out for the last time. Humans who were bored with retirement and went back to work at a new place just for something to do. Humans who languished on their couch watching Netflix and NCIS reruns. Humans who died shortly into retirement — because the adrenaline of their jobs was the only thing keeping them alive.
I was warned that I “better” find some hobbies if I wanted any quality of life in retirement. I was also told that I’d be so bored — I’d WANT to come back into the workforce by the end of the first six months.
READ THE FULL STORY
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How to Grow Old With Youthful Spirit by Zoe Berry |
Photo by Cengizhan Konuş on Unsplash
Recently I have taken up a new mantra and it’s this:
“Live as though you will last forever but stay mindful that it could all be over tomorrow.”
It’s a blend of the stoic reminder Memento Mori, literally ‘Remember that you must die’ with a prompt based on my belief that in order to age well we should be willing to keep moving forward, be curious to learn new things and think new thoughts. It seems like a contradiction in terms.
Indeed Marcus Aurelius, known as the stoic Roman Emperor, wrote to himself:
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“Live as though you will last forever but stay mindful that it could all be over tomorrow.”
It’s a blend of the stoic reminder Memento Mori, literally ‘Remember that you must die’ with a prompt based on my belief that in order to age well we should be willing to keep moving forward, be curious to learn new things and think new thoughts. It seems like a contradiction in terms.
Indeed Marcus Aurelius, known as the stoic Roman Emperor, wrote to himself:
READ THE FULL STORY
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Talk to Me When I'm Old by Nancy Peckenham |
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Talk to me like I’m not there, And I will disappear. Talk about me, in front of me, a piece of furniture, And I will withdraw, resentful. The glazed look in my eyes will be a shield Against your stupidity. I’m not deaf and I sure am not dumb. I just can’t remember what I ate for breakfast. Tell me a story and I will feel The same passions you do. My feelings have not evaporated with my short-term memory. I am living. I am alive. Talk to me. |