Not defined by age or gender,
an elder is -- one who carries the knowledge of the tradition and wisdom of the heart,
one who walks in truth and dignity to matter how poor, in humility no matter how revered.
 
An elder serves the people even when his or how own larder is down to the last sack of coffee, even when the body aches with fatigue.  Even where there is nothing left to give, there is always an open door, an open heart. 
 
Some elders heal with knowledge of natural medicine not yet known or recognized by the dominant culture. 
Some heal with spirituality – worlds beyond many of those who don black robes and preach on Sundays. 
Some heal with a song.”
from The Book of Elders; Life Stories of Great American Indians, as told to Sandy Johnson

Ever since I celebrated my 67th birthday in mid-March I am, according to my own reckoning, no longer approaching elderhood but becoming an elder.

Of course, the years are arbitrary and the words might be just semantics - but if I take the time to listen, I can feel the inner awakening that the journey has changed a bit.  
 
The old question of “Who am I?” has resurfaced, now reframed as “What kind of elder will I be?” 
I like this question, and I welcome its timeliness as I wrestle with this question. 

​ Its still early morning, and the air is cool, as we make the left turn into the squatter settlement, across from the bus station in Cuernavaca.  We carefully bump along the dirt road, avoiding some of the bigger rocks and ruts.  We are on our way to the community center, a simple two story building, where 150 kids come each morning for a hot breakfast prepared by a rotating group of mothers who volunteer to shop and prepare the food.  The kids have already run off to school but the women remain, wiping down the plastic tables and chairs, and quickly offering us cups of orange juice.

Erik, our host, begins a conversation with Isabel, who runs the kitchen.  He is inquiring how things are going with the breakfast program.  Part of his job is to discover what the community needs, as he, along with his parents, Betsy and Howard, run Karitas, the foundation which built this kitchen when mothers expressed concern about kids not getting a proper breakfast.
 
After our visit Erik leads us on a walk to the community’s restored well –
​but first he waves and smiles at Rosa, across the way, standing in her doorway. 

We pass small abarottes (grocery stores) and tables with fruit and vegetables for sale.  Most houses are quite simple – some, just concrete blocks, others are painted or adobe.  Although this is a squatter’s settlement it is well established after almost 30 years with approximately 10,000 people living here.  The government regularly offers to move the inhabitants to other, perhaps better homes, on the outskirts of the city – but these folks don’t want to leave.