The Inspiring Ninety-Three Year Old

I left home this morning with my ‘favourite ‘stuff-crap-in-and-go’ bag with laptop and lunch contained, two chatty children glued to my hands, and after days of rain and grey, the sun’s warmth on my cheek. I had a feeling today was going to be a good day. Yesterday I decided to set myself little goals for a week and I plan to do so every week. So I was in an optimistic mood. Kids dropped to school, train caught to Finsbury Park and with a spare hour before my meeting I found a coffee shop. Laptop opened, soya latte steaming, a silent prayer for a productive hour, I entered my writers zone – focused, dedicated, facial expression in a frown.

After about twenty minutes of non stop typing, a zimmer frame slowly pulled up to the table touching mine, followed by an white haired elderly lady in a flowery coat and a waitress carrying her tray. There was plenty of empty tables, why choose mine. She poured out her tea from the small white teapot, took a sip and placed a black notebook onto the table. Now I was curious. She uncapped a fountain pen and opened the book to reveal pages and pages of drawings. She was an artist. I watched her sketch, stealing glances at the black ink on white and her subject – three friends deep in conversation on a nearby table. I was in awe.

Being someone who naturally starts conversations and enjoys having a banter with random people, I had to say something. Besides I was now completely out of the writers zone and a distraction was welcoming. I asked her if I could see her drawing, she smiled at my question. Happy to share, she showed me the other pages inside her book. They were good; scribbled black ink illustrations with smudges to add shading and depth. She told she was an artist and specialised in portraits and she has been doing it for most of her life. Everyday she draws, she’s not as good as she once was, but she preserves remembering how good she use to be and determined to hold onto her craft. She asked me if I could draw, I laughed at that question and said I like to write.

We spoke for a while, exchanging stories and scraps of our life, our families, our passions and motherhood, scattered discussions like pebbles on a beach. She told me she was a great grandmother and mother of four. That she had travelled down from Hertfordshire, boarding the train to Finsbury Park, stopping off for a cup of tea, to then take three buses to the Royal Academy to see some person who’s name she cannot or forgotten to pronounce. She smiled when she said that and I was struck by the youthfulness in her pale blue eyes. I told her how I wanted to be like her when I turn at ninety-three. Her secret, she’s has not stopped living, every morning she puts on her DVD and dances and stretches around the room. She told me you have to keep on moving, both physically and mentally.

I told her my dreams, my poetry, my writing and the book I would love to publish one day. That I struggle with life’s busyness and distractions that sometimes knocks me out of my journey for weeks, months on end, where I do not achieve anything I had wanted too. I think I sighed at this point. Not out of sadness or frustration or guilt, but because I was at that place once again, where I am starting over, again. Despite being slightly tired of it, I was content with being there. She listened, sometimes leaning forward as she was finding it difficult to hear all I was saying. She understood the art of communication, listening without interrupting, she didn’t keep on saying ‘pardon’ but positioned herself to hear better. I liked that.

When I finished she simply told me I have to FIGHT FOR MY TIME. I smiled when she said that. It felt like someone had suddenly switched on a light bulb and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I am a fighter so I know I could do it. It was then I realised she was like an angel, my angel, sent to me to offer encouragement and a kick up the backside to continue my journey. She was the confirmation I needed, too keep on walking the path I was on. I was inspired. She had inspired me. I didn’t ask her name and I didn’t share mine, I think we were just enjoying the conversation and forgot. I quite like the idea of remembering her as the ninety-three year old angel with the zimmer frame. It truly felt like a divine intervention.

We said our goodbyes, I thanked her for the advice and conversation, I held the door open for her to shuffle through and before she walked off she said to me once again ‘you have to FIGHT FOR YOUR TIME’.