Getting older is a little like a fun house. There’s something waiting for you around every corner, and frankly, it’s not always all that much fun. Colonoscopies, endoscopies, vericose veins, arch supports, and sensible shoes, lumps and bumps and dowager humps. It’s like Dr. Seuss! And who the hell do these feet belong to? Creaks and leaks, grunts and groans. Thinning hair and thickening waistlines, peeing more, seeing less….Seeing more, looking harder, wasting less, creating more. Working harder, needing less. Strength and wisdom and courage and gratitude. Not always fun, but often funny. Boo.

Trick or Treat carynjune

It’s very easy to fall into the “it’s too late” trap. Whether we feel we’re too old to change jobs or husbands or we’ve invested too much time and money on that house or that school to start over. Well, let me tell you, I pride myself in my “now you see it, now you don’t” approach to just about everything. Sometimes you just have to start over. About a hundred years ago, my very dear friend, Annette commissioned a piece depicting the masks of Comedy and Tragedy. This was the first incarnation:

Ooh. Aah. How interesting! Now what? It was huge. It was flimsy, and I couldn’t figure out where to go from here. So you know what I did? Nothing. I put it away for a year or so and got a stomach ache every time I realized my first customer was patiently waiting for her work of art. About 6 months ago, I was playing with this piece if silver, (see “Hiding in Plain Sight” from Feb 25) and I came up with the idea to do the masks in a smaller scale and mount them on the silver. I put a bail on it and this was the result:

Beautiful! I loved it! Annette loved it! I thought it might still be a little big, so I sent her a pic of me wearing it:

I look like Snoop Dog.
Annette’s reaction? “Maybe it’s a little big…”
Back to the drawing board. So, I cut my beautiful piece of silver in half, took the masks down in size, again and attached a pin back to it. And we finally have this:

I think I like it. Annette seems to like it. One thing I know for sure, it is the last incarnation of this piece. While I firmly believe it’s never to late to start over, Sometimes you just have to let it be.

I have a friend, 10 years or so older than I, who seems to have come to terms with this phase of her life. She has achieved a kind of peace that I just do not get. I am not getting old. Just not going to do it. I have been blessed with good genes so people tell me I don’t look my age, and I’m sticking to that story for as long as I can. I dress in a loose, funky way that covers up the lumps and bumps but still makes me look cool. Or crazy. Perhaps in reality, my uber cool nieces are secretly rolling their eyes and wondering why I don’t just act (and dress) my age. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Woman with Beehive Sings in the Rain carynjune

How do we know when something isn’t working for us? I mean truly, down in your gut, know. I did a craft fair yesterday, which I had done before with less than successful results. Now, I knew this particular venue was not the right place for me, but it’s sort of local and I decided what the hell, I’ll do it. Maybe this time…needless to say, the results were less than successful. But this time was different. This time it wasn’t fun. I was overtired and cranky, I had given up a paying gig to prepare for it, we forgot one of our display items, setup was harder, just the kind of stuff that sometimes happens. And all around me I hear brisk sales of Mexican Pottery that some guy bought in bulk and resold, and soy candles, and hair accessories, and sand art. And I’m getting advice from family that I need to be on my feet the whole time, bringing people in, hawking my wares like a fishmonger. Good advice, certainly. But quite possibly advice I’m not willing to take. And there’s the problem. I love what I do. I create pieces that tell stories, reflect experience, look into my sometimes quirky head, show my heart. My work has been called beautiful, unique, really amazing, interesting, clever, wow!, “HOW much is it?!?” There is no place in my particular world for as my brother put it, “talking people into doing something they don’t want to do.” So how do we know when something stops being a potential viable business, and becomes just a hobby? When what we love to do becomes what we have to endure. Or is it possible to do what we love on our own terms and believe that “if we build it, they will come. ”

On the Fence carynjune

This morning on the way to work I caught a glimpse of the giant metal globe left over from the World’s Fair in 1964. I have some very clear memories of the World’s Fair. I remember “it’s a Small World”, I remember screaming my head off in terror during the General Motors ride which consisted of GM cars moving around the building without a driver, and I remember screaming my head off in frustration because I left my plastic Sinclair Oil dinosaur in the aforementioned car. And if I remember correctly, at some point we misplaced my brother. But I might have made that last one up. I see that globe everyday but lately it’s hit me like a sucker punch, that this was 50 years ago. What the…how can that be? Holy Crap, I’m having a little trouble catching my breath! #%^*~! I am pissed off! And terrified. Not fair! Not fair! I’m just starting to figure out stuff! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Ok, I’m good. Just doing a little deep breathing. Gathering my wits…and enough steam to scream my head off.

Red-headed Woman Howls at the Moon carynjune

Yesterday, I participated in a small craft fair at a Jewish Center near my mom’s house. I was invited by someone who had seen my work at a big fair in November. My mom and I grumbled about it…disorganized, no advertising, no one is going to be there, and when they did come we judged them, overweight, frumpy, what’s with all the yarmulkes? Well, guess what? I had the best single day in sales I’ve had yet. Not one of the people who showed up looked like my work would appeal to them. But it did. Is there a lesson here? Of course. We look at ourselves and others so critically, not thin enough, not pretty enough, not rich enough, no taste, too old, too old. Too old. My mom loves her watercolor class at the Y and wants to take more classes. I suggested she check out the Art League. Her response? “But it’s in Smithtown!” Like I had suggested she sign up for the shuttle to Mars. My mom is talented and youthful and vibrant and more than capable of driving to Smithtown. But she probably won’t, because it’s just a little outside her comfort zone. But the next time you see someone older, maybe a little frail and out of date, and they don’t seem to do much, and you think their life is pretty much over, think again. They may look like they’re napping but in reality, they’re dreaming of Smithtown.

My mom, the beautiful Sybil Ronis at the Manetto Hill Jewish Center.

Getting older is all about Goodbyes. To parents who pass on, to children who move on, to spouses that carry on. To jobs, and homes, and friends, and lovers. To hairstyles, and clothing and TV shows and waistlines. To youth. To dreams. To OLD dreams. See that’s the cool thing about dreams. There are so many things we can’t ever get back. But while dreams may evolve or change or disappear all together, there’s always another one to take it’s place. And somehow, that makes the ache of all those goodbyes not quite so sharp. Hello.

Wishing on a Star carynjune

I never really wanted kids. I always knew I didn’t want to have children with my first husband, which should have been a clue that something wasn’t right, and the timing was never right with my second. Or so I told myself. When I was living in California, I had a Labrador puppy for two days and returned him, realizing “I couldn’t take care of a dog.” In NY, I had a sweet little kitten that I gave back because “he was always looking at me.” The truth is, being responsible for another living thing terrifies me. I remember watching my nieces years ago and Addie was sick. I followed her around with a bucket praying that if she was gonna throw up, she’d be considerate enough to do so in the bucket. The thing is, you can’t return children. I’ve spent so much of my life avoiding things that scare me silly, I’ve missed out on a lot. No one’s ever called me “Mom”, and as I’ve never brought a person into the world, it’s entirely possible that there won’t be anyone to see me out. So this morning , as I contemplate the fact that my period is 8 days late, I think, well it’s either menopause or I’m pregnant at 56. And after I stop Iaughing, I wonder, which is more terrifying.

Hindu Mama carynjune

I love this piece of metal. I love the way feeding it through the rolling mill to make it thinner made it all wavy. I love that when I held the fire a little too long in certain places it wrinkled like fabric. It makes me happy to look at. The interesting thing about it is that it’s the background piece for a pendent I’m working on. It’s not the center of attention, the main event. Most of it won’t even show. It has not gone unnoticed that what makes this piece of metal extraordinary are the uneven tones and cracks and patinas that stress and heat and age bring, the crooked spine, the wrinkled surface. When this piece of silver was new and straight and smooth and perfect, I didn’t like it as much. And after all, underneath, hiding in plain sight, it’s exactly the same piece of metal it was before.