Brutus, Lenore and Rose. Change comes to all of us. Brutus is gone. Lenore is the subject
of children’s books. Rose doesn’t herd sheep anymore. Then there’s me.

  October 6, 2009 – I haven’t written all that much about age and change, perhaps because I’m afraid of the subject, or maybe I hadn’t really figured out how I feel about it. I got a sad – I guess disturbing – e-mail yesterday from a woman who said she despaired about her life, because at 57, she was too old to change. Then she heard or read somewhere that I was older than that, and it gave her some degree of hope (although not much, I’d say.)
   She said that just this weekend, she had succumbed to the “sin of despair,” and one reason that she could not change, she wrote was her age. It was too late.
  “But I believe you are even older, so this the huge reason your journey gives me hope,” Carol wrote.
  I had a number different reactions to this message – sympathy, concern, some anger as well.
  Age is one of the last remaining respectable forms of bigotry in our culture. At a concert the other night, a young violinist told the audience in wonder that he knew of a composer still writing good music at age 60. A friend of mine asked me if it was possible to want to have sex if you are past 60.
   Our society is viscerally ageist. Older people are expected to downsize, shrink their lives and expectations, get rid of their lawns and chores, get their entitlement money, buy theater subscriptions, and rush to the nearest condo, where people will take care of them.
  They are expected to have no ambitions, and the world around them has none for them.
  They are supposed to monitor their blood pressure, take lots of tests, watch their sugar. And then die quietly and out of sight. One of the many benefits of the so-called Great Depression is that this hoary notion of ageing and retirement is changing, and quickly.
   I was talking to a woman at the Dunkin Donuts window who sees me four or five days a week, and she let me know that there is a “senior discount” that many people use, even if they are young. Did I want one?, she asked. I said no thanks. I didn’t need a coffee discount, really.
   As for Carol, I don’t really want to be somebody’s primary source of hope.  Carol is as old as she chooses to be, and I doubt very much that my journey will change her fate, one way or the other.
  I came to Bedlam Farm when I was her age, and I had never set foot on a farm, and it never occurred to me that I was too young or too old to do it. Perhaps it should have.
  I am not a role model by any means. Coming to the farm was wonderful in some ways, profoundly destructive and damaging in others. Farms do not by themselves bring happiness, any more than dogs do. You have to like yourself.
  In recent months, I have become clearer about my place in life. I am getting older. It’s a good place for me. I am finally learning something about myself, and to know something about the world. I can use that to good effect.
   In some respects, my life is just beginning. I am much in love, and beginning whole new realms of life and work – fiction, photography, children’s books.  And did I mention that I am in love? No one involved in any of this work has asked me how old I am. Or cares. I just have to deliver, like anybody else.
  I know where I am. I do not define myself by age, and I don’t define anybody else that way either.
  Age, like fear, can be just another place to hide.
  I’m living the life I chose. Hopefully, to the end.
  “Keep telling your story,” Carol wrote. “The best to you.”
   And to you.