Last Dance

Take politicians, for example. Some know when to bow out gracefully; others hang on doggedly, even after their health, energy, and mental acuity have begun to compromise their effectiveness. (Sorry, Joe, that includes you.) The time of reckoning seems to hover around the age of 80. Some still claim good health and all their marbles and see no reason not to keep going. Bernie at 83 and Nancy at 85—still fighting the good fight. Others may yearn for the calm and quiet of private life, be ready to retire from the rat race.

I ran my last half marathon at 80, my last 10K a year later. My race times were still good, my legs still strong, but I didn’t want to wait for something to go wrong. It was time, and I’ve had no doubts, no regrets. A friend is going strong at 84, and runners in their 80s are still clocking the miles and crossing the finish line at the Boston Marathon every year. I cheer their successes but don’t yearn to be among them.

There’s no retirement age for writers, no urgency that might compel them to stop. Alice Munro and Philip Roth called it quits at around 80, though I’ll bet both could have kept producing quality work if they’d chosen to. Like Margaret Atwood, her creativity and energy seemingly boundless at 85. My friend Priscilla Long published a book about creativity in old age at 79, her fifth book since turning seventy, and said that she had plans for ten more.

Age isn’t the determining factor, but here I am at 81 wondering if it’s time to throw in the towel. I’m in excellent health, can still wield a pencil, type fast, read fine print on paper and screen. Yet writing has become a struggle. I moan to friends: the well is dry. Dredging and pumping yield nothing. Is it temporary or permanent? Have I said all I want to say?

A wise friend advises, “Don’t stay too long at the dance when you feel there is no dance left in you.” But how do you recognize that feeling? I’ve kicked off my dancing shoes, and I enjoy sitting it out, watching and listening from my seat on the sidelines. Maybe this is it; maybe I’m done. But then I pick up a beat … I start tapping my toes … my body sways with the rhythm. Maybe once more around the floor?

Alice Lowe

Alice Lowe’s flash nonfiction has been published this past year in Broken Teacup, Bluebird Word, Masque & Spectacle, Painted Pebble Lit Mag, Skipjack Review, In Short, Drifting Sands, and Burningword. She has been twice cited in Best American Essays. Alice writes about life, literature, food, and family in San Diego, California. Read and reach her at www.aliceloweblogs.wordpress.com