the joyful

After reflecting of what I thought of this year and the lessons I would take with me, I looked at the pages of what I had written and realised, that even though it might make a great end of the year post, it would be too much for anyone to read, and overall the greatest value of this reflection was for me only. The writing had many shades and emotions like the year has had, including the ugly and mean, the hurt of the world, and reminding that together with the dark there's always much beauty and goodness in the world.

From all the things I wrote I decided to include only one little slice here today.

When the year started I expressed worry about turning fifty and my youngest becoming eighteen. It was an inevitable passage of time, no way of fighting it. The "Who am I?" question accompanied the process and purposefully working with this question allowed me to dig deeper in discovering myself. During one group exercise, when I had to choose a photo of me, I chose a one with my hair in a bun. The photo that others had chosen of me made me cry, because the woman on the picture did not match my inner self. The photographer said that I like my hair in a bun or pony tail because it gives me a feeling of control. I should let my hair loose more often. It made me pause. The truth in her words poked me. I know that inside me there's fire and energy and colours that I don't necessarily show to the world.  I don't necessarily show it to myself either. 

When the Christmas arrived and we all gathered at my mom's place, my oldest daughter had made herself beautiful curls. On a whim I asked her to give me curls too. She did, and she also curled the hair of her sisters. Wearing a new asymmetrical fuchsia dress (I only own two dresses) and the fresh curls bouncing I felt playful and with the youngest we recorded a short clip. That moment of us together puts a joyful period (or perhaps an exclamation mark) to the year of turning fifty. I hope that I am ready to make the energetic, bold and playful me more visible to the world. 

Wishing you all people around you who let you be who you are are ready to bounce together with you! 

Now I am fifty. Rambling autobiography.

I woke up this morning and I was still the same person as yesterday, the same ten fingers and toes, the same body and face, the same heart beating strong, and no sudden appearance of extra wrinkles nor arrival of massive grey hair, nor disappearance of teeth or mind. Yesterday's fierce wind and unexpected snow storm attempt replaced with sunshine and birdsong this morning. My mind and heart are equally calm and accepting the crossing of the mid century. 

I was born fifty years ago in the midst of deep soviet time in a small wooden apartment house with a common toilet and a water tap in hallway to fill the bucket with cold water and carry it to the kitchen. Our small two room apartment had wooden floors, a gas stove, a wood stove and oven and black and white TV. The low windows opened to the yard and under the windows my mom kept two flowerbeds and I remember the spring tulips and summer tiger lilies and the large chestnut tree that grew next to the wood shed.  My mom and sister now keep lots of flower beds in our summer house. In front of the house we had six linden trees and a grass patch that I liked to cartwheel on. I can still do a cartwheel. When I was thirteen years old we moved to a large apartment building with a bathtub and a toilet and kitchen with electric stove and oven. My parents still live there. My childhood house is long gone and instead it towers a huge concrete building. I sometimes have dreams of going home to a warm kitchen.

The sound of the coffee grinder and smell of the freshly brewed coffee usually signalled the start of the day. My dad and mom were both avid coffee drinkers. I am a tea drinker. The kitchen was also a place where my dad developed his films and it was a magical when I was allowed to join him in the darkness to see how images appeared on a paper. My dad recorded our history and later took many photos of my children. Now my daughter is the one snapping photos with her phone. My photography skills developed late and landed on collecting nature photos mostly. 

I have a husband with whom I have been married for twenty-seven years and taken dance lessons for almost two decades. Since we go only once a week, we learn new things and forget older steps and start all over again. We have no ambition to compete nor interest in demonstrating our steps in public parties. We consider dancing as memory fading prevention, the brain has to stay incredibly active to coordinate steps, turns, rhythm, direction and collaboration. The moments when we remember everything and dance without stopping make us ageless. (And out of breath tired.) 

I adore my three daughters, each amazing in their own way. The oldest (26) has been a dancer almost all her life, winning medals and owning one Estonian championship in ten dances. The middle one (25) speaks the languages of programming and has built her career in this area. The youngest (17) seems to have the most energy and things to say and is still searching who she might become, experimenting with theatre right now. We all like board games and puzzles, have conversations about books and bake pancakes, cookies, cinnamon rolls, pies and layered cakes. 

When I was ten, I wouldn't even in my wildest dreams could have imagined myself to the current times, living in a free country, having a five room apartment with all the comforts, work in an international school, have had opportunities to learn in different countries, present at conferences, stand on the Great wall of China or visit bookstores in London, live through a pandemic, watch a war start not far from home, connect with people all over the world through blog, twitter and instagram, start a coaching course, use a phone as a computer. My dad was born before the WW2. The borders didn't open until I finished school. My family didn't get a table phone until I moved out. Now everyone has a mobile phone. I talk with my sister and mom on a phone almost daily. 

I am sitting on my living room sofa, my most favourite place in the whole wide world, wearing a super large soft red fleece with white kittens, a gift from my children. My two daughters are putting together a puzzle, one is sorting through her old photo albums, on a coffee table are two empty tea cups, on the floor are Dixit and Gourme Alias from yesterday's evening, a large flower vase with gerberas is on a windowsill, my hubby is checking whether chicken roast is ready for lunch, a carrot cake is waiting in the fridge. Yesterday we had a family dinner in a lovely small restaurant, my five year old nephew as the youngest guest and my eighty-eight year old dad as the oldest guest, eleven people all together. They sang to me. I love them. 

I am thankful that my birthday is on Sunday, a day off, so I have time to read the birthday wish messages and phone calls, to be with my family and ease into the new decade. 

I want to say to anyone else who is struggling with getting older that it's ok to feel sadness, and not to believe what others say, because you'll find your own way to come through this and when the day arrives accept it in your own terms. Having a cake and a cup of tea might help. 

All post about turning 50

the day before turning fifty

Today is the last day when I am 49. I have done ten minutes of stretching and five minutes of mindfulness, washed my hair and scrubbed the bathroom, read the news and tidied the coffee table, watched the clouds race in the sky and trees fight with the wind, now I am on the always welcoming sofa, typing on my faithful laptop.

At the start of this year, when I struggled with the change of turning fifty, I played with an idea to do something special every month and write some thought through posts about the change of age, celebrating things I have done, and share lessons learned. I did some of it - bought myself a beautiful book about women over fifty, went for a photo shoot without make-up, joined a writing course and the March SOLSC challenge. I have written posts and poetry, I wrote "50 things I am proud of" and "50 good things in life" lists, I have made plans for the future and have imagined myself as an old woman, I have been to theatre and art exhibitions, spent time in the company of magnificent people, listened to the ones wiser than me and played with the ones younger than me. 

I had also planned that closer to my birthday I would buy a new blouse, get a full make-up and a new photoshoot, and take a staycation in a hotel, and then throw a party with fancy food and a band to my friends and family like my mom did when she turned fifty. These plans deflated and I am relieved. I read from "These Precious Days" an essay how Anne Patchett went a whole year without shopping and since I dislike shopping anyway, it was easy to discard the new blouse plan. The photo shoot idea went on a shelf because it takes too much organising and I didn't have the time nor energy for it. I wasn't too keen on the big fancy party idea either, it felt wrong considering the world situation and not my style at all. I opted for a lunch in a small restaurant only with my family, parents and sis with her family. My hair is washed already, I'll put on eyeshadow and mascara, and nobody is required to wear a tie. And better than fancy food and band is the fact that both my parents are still alive and healthy and can join my celebration. My grandparents were long gone when my parents reached fifty. 

The closer the birthday gets, the more relaxed I have become. I have sat with the sadness of the passing time and things that would never be again, and I have turned this into appreciation of the past. I have reminded myself of the uselessness spending my energy on things I can't change, turning this into acceptance of what is. I am looking into the future. Next week already I will attend a poetry reading, a dinner with friends after school and a dinner with my writing course group on Friday evening. I have two coaching course modules this spring. Two friends have sent me invitations to events this summer. My proposal has been accepted for the European Literacy conference in Dublin, so I need to book things for July. 

Another thing that has helped me is the way others see me. During a leadership course the workshop leader asked to choose cards that would best represent our current state. I shared how I struggle with the approaching birthday, and that with age I have become calmer when storms are around and find my calm quicker when the storms are inside me, and that even though I am starting to look like an old wise woman, inside I also have a young fairy who is playful, and I continue nurturing that side of me. We later did an exercise and had to share what thoughts crossed our mind when we watched our partner in silence. The man who did the exercise with me said that based on what I had said about the cards, he suddenly remembered a song from an Estonian Comedy show, an entrance tune for a humorous middle-aged woman with wild hats and clothes and wild stories about her experiences in life. Even thought I am far from the character in the show, I found his randomly arrived association to be somehow liberating, and I laughed out loud. 

So here I go, celebrating my birthday with my family today. 

Tomorrow I will be fifty. Tomorrow I'll write another post. 

All posts on turning fifty.

When I am an old woman...

10 days until my 50th birthday. I have already written 10 posts about turning 50 and how I manage the challenge of getting older. One thing that helps is to dream and picture myself much older than fifty. Last year about the same time I wrote thoughts about being old inspired by a photo exhibition. In my writing course I wrote what kind of stories my descendants would tell after five generations. This allowed to play with ideas of what else might be possible in the years to come, what else I might learn and accomplish. Then my teacher posted a writing invitation on her FB page and this was especially playful. 

Here's the original poem: "Warning" by Jenny Joseph. 

Here's my version inspired by it:

When I am an old woman, I shall eat a cake for breakfast 

Whether I wake at four in the morning or at noon,

And feed the crumbs to the sparrows.

I shall paint my toenails glitter blue and fingernails pink,

And fetch a newspaper in a frilly nightgown

And wear a tiara when buying striped socks.

I shall volunteer to be an usherette in an opera theatre,

And buy a ticket on the first train leaving the station,

And send me postcards signed “Yours truly”. 

I shall sit on a park bench for hours on Wednesdays

And people watch with binoculars 

And wave to grumpy strangers.

I shall build a nest of books in my living room

And fly paper airplanes from the balcony

And win a cherry pit spitting contest.

I shall press my nose print on cafe windows

And leave poetry in the candy shops

And stick owl pictures on mailboxes.

 

But now I wake regularly at dawn to the sound of my alarm

And twist my hair into a bun, iron shirts and polish shoes

And go to work on time to complete my to-do lists.

I follow the expectations and rules and try to fit in

To avoid judgement and get along with people. 

 

But sometimes I practice what to do when I am free

From duties and plans and pressure of time.

I sleep long in the mornings 

And eat breakfast in PJs

And then stroll on the city streets, go to art galleries

And smile to the waitress who serves me puff pastry pies in a café. 

50 good things in life

Sitting on my living room sofa, writing comments to other people's slices, I lifted my eyes and watched the sun stream in and land on the petals of a yellow tulip. 

"I should write about it," a thought popped into my head like it happens with all sorts of things I observe and notice during the March writing challenge. 

This thought was followed with, "I should take a photo." 

Sometimes the softness and comfort of the sofa makes me dismiss my writerly thoughts. 

Yesterday I put aside the laptop and took my phone. First I simply walked over to the vase and snapped a photo. One photo felt not enough, and soon I found myself moving the vase to a windowsill, moving the tulips, leaning in and out and taking photos from different angles.

"These tulips make me happy," I thought, "and I should add them to my 50 good things in life list." (It's a list I made as part of managing my negative feelings about turning 50.)  

When I started writing it, I obviously thought of the big things first, like family, friends, health and job. Then I focused on the other things and wrote them just as they came into my mind. Then I typed up the list and put it into an alphabetical order.

1. Art galleries
2. Blue anemone
3. Blueberries
4. Board games
5. Books
6. Bubble bath
7. Cafes
8. Cha-Cha
9. Cheesecake
10. Cherry blossoms
11. Cinnamon rolls
12. Cookbooks
13. Cookie cutters
14. Croissant
15. Cup of tea
16. Dance shoes
17. Gingerbread cookies
18. Gratitude 
19. Holding hands
20. Horse chestnut conkers
21. Hugs
22. Ice-skates
23. Independent bookstores
24. Journals
25. Libraries
26. Lilac blossoms
27. Mindfulness
28. Mittens
29. City streets
30. Pancakes
31. Photos
32. Piece of chocolate
33. Postcards
34. Raspberries
35. Seaside
36. Siblings talking
37. Silence
38. Sleeping children
39. Slow mornings
40. Smiles
41. Snowflakes
42. Sofa
43. Strawberries
44. Sunshine
45. Swings
46. Ta-da lists
47. Tango
48. To-do-list-free days
49. Walking
50. Warm socks

 

…add bubbles and butterflies, blue sky and spring green of birch tree leaves, picnics and mom's cooking, colourful maple leaves and apples in the fall, bookmarks and post-it notes, daffodils and tulips. 

I am filled with gratitude. 

Finding light and colour

15 days until my 50th birthday. It is getting a bit easier with accepting it. Seeing my friends taking the change of decade with ease has softened my attitude. Several exercises at my writing course have shifted the focus from an ending to a new beginning. Reading and listening to words of people decades older than I has shone light to positivities of getting older. Having people say kind words to me has highlighted how I have so much in me that sure wasn't there when I was young and inexperienced. Most of all it has been the ability to focus on the now that has been helpful. It's March and the days are getting lighter and warmer, snowdrops are out, I have tulips on my windowsill. Finding the light and colour in my days - nature, people, experiences, keeping a gratitude journal, reminds me that the joy I experience comes from within and is not connected to my age. 

My husband chose this as a favourite photo of me by Birgit Varblane from the natural woman photo shoot. 

All posts on turning 50

My sadness is a baby hedgehog

Seeing no cucumbers in the fridge, and the cucumber being a key ingredient for the salad I have planned for my lunch, I quickly get dressed and head to the store. The local store in a five minute walking distance, needing only one ingredient and using the self-check option I am in and out of the store in no time. Two cucumbers and a wallet in my totem, the sidewalk almost clear of snow, I walk back in a fast pace. 

I can hear steps behind me and soon a woman about my height and build passes me. I could have understood if this had been a long-legged lad, but not a woman not so different from me. I know we are not fighting for an olympic gold, and from her smooth face I can see she is much younger than me, but this passing of me irritates. How dare she be faster than me.  I have always been a fast walker and it's only lately when people walking past me has started to signal me that I am getting slower and older. I don't like it. I don't like my approaching 50th birthday. 

My brain says my birthday number is trivial when I think of the war in Ukraine. I agree with my brain. My brain says it's ridiculous to complain about being old when I think of my aging parents. I agree with my brain. My brain says to look back at what I have achieved, accomplished, learned, done, and enjoyed and be grateful. I agree with my brain. 

Something inside me sees 50 approaching like a massive loud parade with people expecting me to join and celebrate, affirming me that 50 is the new 30, that age is just a number, you are as old as you feel, and my brain says I should agree and celebrate. Turning 50 is no big deal. It's not like I will wake up on my birthday morning and suddenly shrivel and shrink. I know this. 

The knowledge does not erase the feeling I have inside me.

I get home, chop spinach, mango, cucumber and avocado for my salad and make some mango-chilly dressing. I sit down to eat and turn on the news, and turn them off again. I focus on the salad. Doing dishes later, the water running down my hands and a red bowl, I know that no matter what others or my own brain says, I have to listen to this feeling and give it some attention. 

I wipe the bowl and hands with a white and blue striped kitchen towel. I know the feeling I have is sadness. I might not fully understand why I feel sadness. Perhaps because so much amazing and beautiful is in the past and have difficulty imagining what other amazing and beautiful things await me ahead. I try to imagine what my sadness looks like - the shape, the color, the size. My sadness is a baby hedgehog. I hold it gently in my palm. Soon I'll let it scurry away. 

All posts on turning 50.

What's in the heart?

Sharing our Stories writing invitation.

When was the last time you drew what's in your heart? When was the last time you asked the question?

It's important to draw without planning and thought, just letting things come as they appear, and later you can look at it with curiosity and make sense of it. What's in a heart depends on the day and situation you are in when you draw it. My heart on a summer day on a seaside would be completely different from the one I drew on a February day, with Russia attacking Ukraine, me being exhausted from the semester ending with a week of distance learning, covid having touched my parents, hubby and daughter (all well now), and about a month away from turning fifty.  

I drew my heart with colour pencils, filled it with black zigzags, yellow circles, red swirls, patches of grey, islands of white and waves of blue. How can a heart hold so much? 

My heart holds people - family, friends, students, teachers. So many I care about and who care about me. Day in, day out with people, I need alone time. My wish to hide from the world during holidays grows stronger as I get older. These two things coexist in my heart. 

My heart holds confusion about people. I hoped that getting older would help to understand people better, and it's not so. I am confused why people are stuck in their own view, why some have the need to fuel conflicts and snowball problems rather than solve them, why harbour so much anger, why feed power by hurting others. Why is it so hard to listen? What has happened to common sense? Is hope still here?

My heart holds worry for the future. When a power drunk mega-maniac, a madman starts a war, the destruction seems unstoppable, the future feels unpredictable, the peace so fragile. I worry about Covid still rampaging through the world and who knows what other viruses we can't even predict might be ready to follow. And even when we get wars and viruses under control, we are likely to drown ourselves in packaging and trash. I am not sure the small things I do make any difference at all. Signing petitions, donating money, wearing a mask, recycling - do these matter in the big picture?

My heart holds a tangle of confusion related to my changing decade. My friends who have turned fifty already seem to have taken it lightly, no crisis, rather joy and celebration. I feel strange that it's weighing on me.  Over the past year I have heard news of young people, good people, dying suddenly, and I feel guilty for even even rising the question of age when I should feel happy to be alive at all. I have reached the age where I could easily feel content with what I have done, learned, achieved in my life,  and could lazily bask in the sunshine, and yet part of me wonders whether I should (whose should is this?) dream more, believe in horizon wide opportunities, leap forward, climb higher, contribute and create because I have collected the wisdom and still have the energy. I hold the hope that once the birthday happens I gain clarity or the questions simply fade away.  

My heart holds some beautiful things like slow Saturday mornings, board game evenings with the family, cinnamon rolls, restaurant dates with hubby, phone calls with mom, artist dates, nature walks - things I need to stay sane, healthy, happy. The wave of blue flowing through my drawing shows the mindfulness that allows to accept the good and the bad, the ugly and the pretty of the life as it is. 

What didn't I draw? What does my heart need?

Untangling the knots, less pressure and control, more playfulness, a gold crown or tiara, more space for freedom and peace. 

I look at my heart drawing and smile. Sometimes the heart may be an uncharted territory, carefully camouflaged, hiding its content for the fear of getting hurt if exposing what's there. This is why turning fifty is not so bad. I accept what's there - the colours, the darkness and the unknown white of the future. I know some of it will change. 

Some of it stays the same.

My heart is warm. My heart is a cup of tea. 

My daughter chose this as a favourite photo of me by Birgit Varblane from the natural woman photo shoot. 

All post on turning 50

A listening fox

Ruth's writing invitation

I am the kind of writer who believes that writing in a group nudges to grow because you hear all the different approaches people take to the same task and the different insights the same text brings about. I am the kind of writer who believes that through writing we create ourselves. I am the kind of writer who appreciates the trust in a small writing group to be who I am. 

Because of this, and because of managing my state of mind as I turn fifty, and because bold is my one little word for the year, I joined a writing course, the same one I have joined three times before. I don't mind that it looks as if I am repeating a course, that I have already read some of the texts, and that some of the exercises are the same. The teacher welcomed me back. 

Last week I couldn't go to the place where we gather and had to join through Zoom. When the teacher sent the Zoom link, she also attached a poem for reading in class. It came with a request not to peek before the lesson. I was tempted, and still closed the email quickly to resist the temptation to read. The only thing I saw was that the document was titled "fox.pdf". A poem about a fox? A fox in the poem? A fox as a metaphor? I sure was curious.

After some warm up writing and sharing, it was time to read the poem. There was no fox in the poem. John Fox was the author. The poem was "When Someone Deeply Listens to You". It's a beautiful poem and I found places to write notes about, and yet, somehow I couldn't get fully into it. I missed the fox. I didn't hesitate to share my distraction with the class. Spinning thoughts and words, the teacher concluded that if there are reading dogs, we might as well have a listening fox. 

Parking this ideas allowed me to continue listening to others and participate in the writing task. 

The task was to quick write our own version of the poem. 

I wrote in Estonian. Here's a rough translation, void of the phonetic wordplay. 

When somebody deeply listens to me,

        I am not categorised by age, gender, roles, 

                             hair color, car model, shoe size,

                                   expectations, goodness.

 

When somebody deeply listens to me

        I won’t get labelled with

                   price, fears, judgement,

                             desires, glory, madness. 

 

When somebody deeply listens to me

        Out of the shadows emerges 

                the real me, gentle and vulnerable, 

                         at the same time strong and mighty,

                                    funny and quirky in my own way.

 

I am Somebody.

I am somebody who deeply listens to me.                      

Looking back, the last line is the part where I am creating myself. Growing up with listening to all the outside expectations, and doing my best to meet those, I didn't learn to listen to the whispers within, and this is an area I am still working on. What am I feeling? What do I need? What do I want? So I practice how to deeply listen to myself.  I become a listening fox.

All posts #turning50

A photo by Birgit Varblane from a natural woman photo shoot

quiet

Surrounded by silence

emotions evaporate

thoughts settle

years evanesce

peace arrives

here and now

feeling ageless

I am who I am

beautiful in my imperfection

The only colour photo by Birgit Varblane from the natural woman photo shoot. 

Turning 50

outside, inside

On this Saturday morning, my favourite time of the week, outside the snow keeps falling, gently and slowly, adding another soft layer to the ever growing thick layer covering the land. The amount of snow and cold we have had this year allows people to call the winter a "real winter", the kind of winter that people who are several decades old remember from their childhood. The breath-taking beauty of the slow snow fall makes one dream and wonder, hold the whole world in a view and think of the tiny snowflakes each unique and special. And for a while the sense of peace envelopes everything. 

On this Saturday morning, my favourite time of the week, inside I keep sitting on my sofa, calm and relaxed, adding another layer of words to my ever growing blog. Almost five decades old, I am still not always sure what the "real me" is like. Sometimes, I think I have found myself, a curious child grown into a wise woman, who still dreams and wonders, feels the interconnectedness of everything and understands that my knowledge and experience make me one of a kind. And for a while a sense of peace envelopes me. I am thankful that as I get older these moments last longer. Maybe this is why turning fifty is good. 

My favourite photo by Birgit Varblane from the natural woman photo shoot.  

All post about turning 50.

age is a relative thing

 

"You look like a ballet dancer in this pose. Stay like this," the photographer said and snapped another photo of me.

I am a mom, daughter, sister, wife, teacher, leader, colleague, workshop leader, reader, writer, cook, photographer, walker, dreamer, aunt, thinker, learner, friend, coach, ballroom dancer, tea drinker, chocolate eater, seaside sitter, mindfulness breather, yoga practitioner, floor sweeper, secret foodie, instagrammer, tweeter, driver, journal keeper, blogger, commenter, ice-skater, morning sleeper, sofa sitter, niece, citizen, neighbour, book hoarder, exhibition visitor, laundry lady, investor, ballet admirer, theatre goer, cartwheeler, public speaker, woman, TV watcher, listener.*

I am not a ballet dancer. Considering that I am turning fifty** this year, I can realistically say that even with the mightiest dreaming and manifestation, I will never become a ballet dancer. The phrase "never too old" does not apply here.  

I liked the comment from the photographer though. 

We had talked about my three decades as a teacher, that I had decided already in third grade that I wanted to become one. What I hadn't told her was that before this decision I had wanted to be a ballet dancer. My mom and dad had taken me to ballet performances many times and I had done gymnastics for four years by then. I never pushed this wish strongly though, so I am not sure my mom even considered taking me to the entrance exams in the ballet school. Since third grade was the start of the ballet school and I obviously wasn't there, I chose the next best option.  I have not regretted my choice. 

When the photo files finally arrived, I liked this photo. I saw and felt the childhood ballet dancer dream in me. It became one of my favourite photos from the natural woman photo shoot.***

"This looks like you are practicing for a parade portrait as a president," commented my husband. Ha. Now here the idea that age is a relative thing became obvious. Even if I don't have the competencies, political capital nor wish to become a president, the age requirement at least would not be an obstacle. 

a photo by Birgit Varblane

*I did this playful exercise, trying to think of 50 things I am

**Turning fifty is something I have to manage my state of mind and emotions this year. 

*** Natural woman photo shoot 

bold step 1

Sometimes being bold means going to a photo shoot without any make up. Grappling with an idea of turning fifty and choosing "Bold" as my one little word for a year, this is exactly what I did. I signed up for a black and white natural woman photo shoot session. People who are friends with a camera might just shrug their shoulders, but for me this was a serious step out of my comfort zone. Most of the time, with the few exceptions, I don't like seeing myself on the photos, I am not too happy to see myself in the mirror either. Trusting in the photographer I believed that perhaps she would be able to capture at least one frame that I would look with acceptance. 

The photo shoot was in a small studio. I knew the photographer from a photo journalism course some years ago. She made me stand and sit and lean and look in different directions. We talked about age and beauty, children and our own childhood, work and learning and life in general, all the while she snapped photos. I started stiff and uncomfortable, approached her instructions with a playful attitude ,and eventually relaxed and even enjoyed the experience. 

And then I waited for the link to the photos to arrive in my mailbox, so I could choose my favourites. Before this happened, she posted one photo on her facebook and instagram page. This was part of the agreement, so I knew she would do it. 

Seeing the photo she chose, I had a moment of total dread. I thought that if she saw this as the most beautiful picture of me, I must be the first client she hadn't been able to take any beautiful photos. I sat with my thought and my feeling, and decided to let them go, and accept that there must have been something she saw in it, if she dared to put this up as a photo to advertise her job as a photographer.  

When the photos arrived I was amazed at what I saw. Many pictures I liked and made me feel beautiful. I actually had hard time choosing just five. I asked my husband's and my daughter's opinion and they both chose one photo, either one that I wouldn't have chosen. I was reminded that the way others see me is probably different from my own image of me.  

Today I'll be bold and share the photo that the photographer chose. Here I am, natural without make up, on the cusp of turning fifty:

photo by Birgit Varblane

on turning 50

my OLW - Bold

beginning

This year I will turn 50 and my youngest daughter will become an adult. My first reaction after realising this was to ask my family to be extra gentle with me for these two events in one year might be too much to handle.

"Aren't we always?" was their response. 

True it is. I don't have to ask them to be gentle, I need to be kind and understanding myself. I have to reframe my mindset from this change being something dark and depressing, to seeing it as a step up, changing levels, beginning a new era of my life. 

I am looking for ways to nurture myself, to move forward, to grow and thrive, to celebrate. I wish to make sure that this year I will tell a story of a strong beautiful woman who embraces this change, lives a fulfilling and joyful life, expresses herself boldly and creatively, is willing to share wise words and inspiration, and finds multiple reasons to smile, laugh and show gratitude. 

One of the first steps I took was to gift myself with a gorgeous photo-interview book about women between 50-80. It includes 24 Estonian women from various areas of life: actresses, entrepreneurs, leaders, educators, artist, doctors, journalists. 

They answer questions like: What have you learned about life? What have you learned about yourself? How do you deal with the changes that come with age? How do you take care of yourself? How do you manage challenges? How do you get along with yourself? What does beauty mean to you? What have men and children taught you? What do you dream about? What do you regret? What would you do differently if you could go back? What helps to keep joy and move forward? What has been the most interesting time of your life? What would you tell younger women? And many more. Good questions to ponder as I approach the special milestone in my life. 

If any of my readers have some advice to me on how to manage this change, your advice is most welcome.