Even in the simple title, Abigail invites careful reflection with a dash of wry humor. A still life at eighty is one of quiet, unhurried calm. Few are clamoring for your time and attention. Indeed, in some cases, you may be all but invisible. In this slower space, you have the time to notice things and marvel at them, as you did when you were a child without responsibilities or pressures.
What unfolds in Abigail’s prose is a meditation on living fully, even while waiting, as the author puts it, “for her last marble to roll under the radiator.” What she notices in her stillness—the paper wasps that build rainbow nests when given construction paper, the lightning bugs, a solitary ant crossing the floor—becomes a reminder that a life slowed is not a life less lived. In fact, she insists, you must never stop living. There is still life at eighty, despite our culture’s distinct preference for youth and exuberance.
Her reflections are candid and humorous, rather than nostalgic or sentimental. My favorite suggestion was to, “Always take a cookie when the plate is being passed.” And I could share her awe and unease when she admitted, “Time not only passes, it passes me by. I want to be conscious. I don’t want to miss anything.” Her directness makes the book feel less like reading advice on aging well and more like having a meaningful chat with a friend. She shows aging as beautiful and terrifying…and inevitable, if we are fortunate enough to greet so many dawns. So why not embrace the joy of each moment…of this moment?
The author carries what she calls “love and gratitude riding alongside the fever of worry.” In noticing the little things, like dogs’ endless and inexplicable joy, she’s able to wrestle with the big things, like the truth that we don’t really own any thing in this life; we can only appreciate and care for it while we are here.
What I found most striking was her insistence that life is not a puzzle we’re meant to piece together into some neat picture with smooth edges. Memories, she says, aren’t chronology. They’re punctuation. They give shape and rhythm, but not a tidy outline. And, like Abigail, “I have learned we do better when we’re not trying so hard.”
I picked up Still Life at Eighty while feeling a bit anxious, and I put it down with a sense of calm. It’s a book that nudges you to look up, to notice, and to savor your share of each day. I will be seeking out more of Abigail’s work, and in the meantime, I’ll take her advice and always, always, take a cookie.
