Reflections on “Daring Greatly” by Brene Brown.

On day two of our holiday in Positano we decide to explore the beach at Arienzo – another ydillic little pebbled cove surrounded by steep cliffs with the most exquisite houses perching bat-like against the cliffs. There are 251 steps from the road down to the beach. Living here is not for the faint hearted, overweight, unfit or anyone with possible knee, hip, feet, ankle, joint, heart, asthma problems. I cannot imagine carrying the groceries (or wine) down all these stairs, and then take up the rubbish (all the empty wine bottles), especially considering that the recycle lorry comes to take away a different type of recycling every day of the week. (Monday is plastic, Tuesday is glass, Wednesday is carboard etc.)

Halfway down we come across a well dressed English lady, discussing lunch options with what looks like a nurse in white uniform on the other side of the gate. She is reassured by the Nurse that there will be pasta for lunch. (Hell yes – there is always pasta for lunch if she would have asked me.) I am not sure whether this is good news or bad news for her…

A few steps down I turn around to see her battling up the stairs. In spite of the stylish trousers I can see how her knees have started caving to the middle, the arthritic hands pulling at the (thank God there is one) hand rail. Hat in hand (yes, being old does not mean that you do not have to protect against the sun) I wonder where she is off to, and marvel at how brave she is to tackle this beautiful sunny day in paradise. And I sense her immense vulnerability.

I have a predisposition to the vulnerability of Elders. I feel it, sense it. I cannot escape it. In her struggling up the stairs I see her daily struggle against shame and disconnectedness, against the stereotyping of an ageist society. The beauty of this coast bears testimony to youth – beautiful bronze bodies in skimpy bikinis, the folly of youth, perky breasts and voluptuous speedos, flat stomachs and smooth, youthfull skin. They will never get old… And she has to pay for someone to care?

The shame of ageing. Of not being able to produce any longer, or to contribute. The be seen as a burden. The shame of being slower. The shame of not being worthy of being listened to, of not being heard, of not being taken seriously. The realities of shame, guilt, humiliation and embarrasment are a tangled web spun on this age of youthfullness that ensnares our Elders to a life of loneliness, helplessness and boredom. And we, the younger, don’t see it, because we cannot see it. We are protected, we are immune to the syndrome of ageing. Our youtfullness cloud our ability to see that we are all on our way there. Our Elders find it difficult to distinguish between shame and guilt as pointed out by Brown, between “I am bad” (because I am old) and “I did something bad” (because I am a burden to the world). The dexterity to “lean into the discomfort” becomes a falling flat on my face, into a crowd of youthful onlookers. 

Even the Queen (now that she is old) suddenly has become aware of vulnerability (or maybe it is just my imagination?). I see her reaching out to the survivors of the apartment block that burnt down – she is different now. Slightly.. stooped over, her facial expressions are more intent, her whole bearing more connected the vulerability of others than ever before. She also for the first time ever feels it necessary to bestow honours on younger people – maybe now that she herself is old she realises that it could be too long a wait? And next to her is the ever goofy Prince Philip – when asked why he is stepping down from public life he explains “well it is hard enough for me to stand up these days..”. I never really liked him, and yet the malaise that this comment triggers in me makes me want to weep for him. Old age will get to all of us – sooner than later. Even Prince Philip and the Queen.