70th Birthday on Easter: Reminiscences and Anticipation

Eleven years ago, I wrote about my birthday falling on Easter for the first time ever. This past weekend, it happened again—only the second time in my life that the two have coincided. And this time, it marked a milestone—I turned seventy.

The week of my sixtieth birthday, I wrote this about being in my fifties:

I think I’ve learned in the past ten years that every decade has its ups and downs. My fifties may have been wonderful, but they held tragedy as well as dreams fulfilled. As does any period in a human’s life.

So as I face my sixties, I am both optimistic and realistic. There will be great joys and achievements in the years ahead, I hope, and great losses and sorrows, I know.

Oh, those sixties! . . . What will they bring?

And now, I’ve lived through my sixties. What did they bring?

Over the past ten years, my life unfolded much as I suspected it would—marked by fulfillment and loss, joy and sorrow, tedium and change.

I kept writing—on my blog and in my novels—and have accomplished more than I anticipated ten years ago. I’ve now been blogging regularly for 16 years. This is post #1174. At an average length of 500 words, that’s about 587,000 words, or the equivalent of five of my lengthy novels.

Speaking of novels, I have published now nine, seven of them in the last ten years. A few years ago, I set myself a goal of publishing ten novels by the time I hit 70. I didn’t make that goal, but the tenth novel is about 80% drafted, and I know it will get done—hopefully while I am still 70.

And yet, life is much more than writing. I’ve had great joys during my sixties. Both of my children are married to people I like, and they have interesting careers. We have two beautiful and engaging granddaughters. My husband and I have had many good times with children, grandchildren, and with our siblings and their families. His mother is still alive at 98.

I’ve also had sorrows in this decade. My husband’s Parkinson’s has progressed, and I have had to take on all the logistics of our lives. Two of my siblings have also had health issues, and the third is still out of contact with the family. There was the pandemic that kept us all apart, and the national and international political climate is contentious and concerning.

We’ve moved twice in the past ten years. First, to a house we built from the ground up that we thought would last us a long time. And five years later, we moved to a retirement community close to daughter and granddaughters and other relatives. Both moves were right for their time, but stressful changes.

There is also the realization that both my parents died at age 81. My mother had several years of declining physical and mental capabilities before she died, though my father was going strong until the day he died. So I have to face my own possible aging in the next ten years.

As I look ahead to the next decade, I do so with the same mix of optimism and realism I felt at sixty—but perhaps with a little more clarity. I look forward to the joys of publishing more books and watching my granddaughters and others in the next generation grow.

But I also know there will be losses. Further losses of health. Deaths of those I love. Maybe further moves to even smaller abodes. A diminishing of the breadth and depth of my life as I age.

I find myself less focused on what the decade will bring and more on how I will meet it. If the past ten years are any indication, I will meet the next ten years as I always have—one step at a time, and by reflecting on the days and years in writing.

Oh, those seventies. What will they bring?