The Ancient Need to Belong

Recently a series of events have shown me how much even adults late in life need to feel we belong, we’re ok as we are, and that our company is wanted.

My sister and I hosted a 50^th wedding anniversary party last week and sat at the nametag table. Beautifully printed by Lori, the cards were alphabetized by first name, which threw some folks off.  As over 140 people entered we welcomed them and helped them find their tag. Again and again a guest would glance at the table, not immediately see their name, or see “Mary” but with a different last name, and then pull back, stop looking and make a comment about not having one.When we helped them find the tag, this was often followed by a perceptible sigh of relief. It seems the default assumption for many is "I’ve been left out, forgotten, or not included." 

How old is that response? Does assuming we've been left out protect us?  If so, from what? Of course humans have needed to be part of a tribe to survive; being excluded or exiled has literally meant death. Yet at something as unthreatening as a Sunday afternoon celebration, it was rare for someone to keep looking optimistically, assuming her name was there.

This week I also observed something else six times, which makes me curious.  I was on retreat with twenty people, and a number of us made a comment and also mentioned our age.  In each case the sharing was some new awareness or insight, and the age was mentioned in a tone that suggested they should have already known this. This group was older, so this  may not be common practice for people in earlier life stages.  Still, it was poignant to hear someone say“I’m 74 and I’m just finding my voice” or“I’m 52-- you think I’d be able to do this by now.” 

My own comment was about this ongoing struggle with sugar--how can I be 58 and still at Step 1? Where else do I compare myself to some ideal and judge that I’m behind or deficient, despite knowing that self-condemnation only slows momentum? What would shift if I accepted where I was today? What's the alternative--a fight with reality? I want my aging to carry the grace of self-forgiveness and some margin of compassion.