The spiritual journey is an endless process of engaging life as it is, writes Parker Palmer in his book, On The Brink Of Everything.

The idea, I think, is to learn to fit in your skin.

As we grow older, writes Palmer, we “strip away our illusions about ourselves, our world, and the relationship of the two, moving closer to reality as we do.”

“That process,” he says, “begins with losing the illusion that spirituality will float us above the daily fray. Reality may be hard, but it’s a safer place to live than in our illusions, which will always fail us, and at no point is that more true than in old age.”

Old age is an exercise in truth. And what is death but the ultimate truth, the final stripping of all our illusions and lies?

The  fact is, said Thomas Merton in a speech to some novitiates,  you’ve got to have a real life before you can have a spiritual life

If we keep our eyes and ears open, those of us getting older face new truths almost every day, and aging with grace is really about how honestly and gracefully we deal with those truths.

People like to tell me I’m not really old, or that I am the youngest old person they’ve ever seen, and those things are nice to hear. But the truth is, I am getting old, period. There is no dressing up that hog.

Today, Maria and I went into the woods behind our farm, our woods, accessible thanks to a wooden plank bridge built by our generous friend Ed Gulley, a dairy farmer who died last year from a brain tumor.

His was the life of a true artist cut short.

I knew I was in trouble as I walked and slid down a snow and ice-covered hill on the way to the woods. I realized my balance was not as sure as it has always been, my legs were weaker, and my ankle hurt as I twisted here and there, trying to keep my balance on the hill.

Maria was attentive and sensitive, appearing like an angel to take my arm or hold my hand. There is no one in the world more sensitive than she is to the pain and discomfort of others.

I wanted to cry because she saw right away how much I was struggling and sensed how much I was hurting.

We’ll come back when it’s drier, she said, we’ll build a bigger plan over the bridge. We’ll do it together. I didn’t want her to see me like this.

I made it through the woods and over rock walls to the waterfall we both love to visit in the middle of our woods. It’s a special place for us, we’ve walked there together a score of times, and Maria loves these woods and walks in them every day.

I could hardly believe my body was betraying me in this way, even though it was blameless, it was just being a body, doing what a body does. How could I be surprised?

I love walking out in our woods with Maria, it’s a special place for us. In the dead of winter, I don’t go on these walks now; I’ve faced that reality already.

I love walking; it has always been my sport and escape and thinking ground and passion.  Whenever I need to think, I walk. Maria and I always started the day walking together. We can’t do that every day now.

Aging is like chess in many ways; you make a move, the body makes a move. Eventually, you run out of moves.

By the time I got to our waterfall, my ankle was throbbing, my feet aching, my knees sore. Too much slipping and sliding, I need to walk on flat ground when it’s dry.

That is a new reality, a new truth, the end of an illusion that I could walk where I want when I want. That hasn’t been true for a while, but I never admitted it to myself.

So the idea is I give up things and gain things. A trade-off I can still make and hope to honor for a good while.

I can walk whenever I want, but not in any weather, and not in any place I want, and not as far as I want. That’s the trade-off, that’s the deal. I accept it.

It was both painful and beautiful to see my beautiful and athletic and enthusiastic wife stomping through the woods, Fate, and Zinnia tearing up and down the path ahead of them.  I loved them all so much at that moment.

I watched Zinnia run and leap for joy, so full of life and energy. Fate overjoyed running through the woods.  Good for you, girl, I thought about Zinnia, you will have a good life here. She has already joined Maria and Fate on their daily walks in the woods while I rest inside.

I am happy for that, I can’t give her that.

For a painful moment or, I felt quite alone, they seemed apart from me, different, I felt conspicuous, old, a drag. Sometimes getting older is lonely, as it must be.

I confess to feeling sad at that moment; their walk was so different from my walk. They all had to slow down and guide me and watch me and wait for me for us all to get there. How much fun could that be for Maria, who charges through the woods like a rabbit, like her dog?

As we approached the wooden planks over the swollen stream that Ed Gulley built, I held my breath, fearful of my uncertain balance, my slipper boots, the narrow planks.

I had my walking stick and plunged it into the shallow water for balance, I walked sideways step by step, almost slipping off the plank into the ice. Older people, I read recently, don’t fall because they are weak, they fall because they are afraid.

Maria reached out her hand to guide me past the halfway point, and I said I could take it from there and did, walking the last five or six feet by myself.

Boy, did I feel like an old man. I felt really old.

We came down the path and up to a stone wall that leads to our pasture and then up to the barn and farmhouse. I had Maria on one arm, my walking stick on the other, I charged up the hill like a wobbly old donkey heading for his barn.

I looked up, and Fate had run up ahead to be near the sheep, as she does, and she would be waiting by the gate to the pasture for us.

Zinnia was following her but stopped to look back and see where I was.  She loves running with Fate.

Maria was alert and ready to catch me if I slid on the slippery rocks, which I nearly did several times. She is so gracious, so loving about my age. She even told me at dinner that she thought my brain was sexy. I blushed.

Then I started to get my head straight. Okay, I said, time to strip away the illusion that I can walk in the woods in the snow like I used to. I can hurt, but I won’t suffer.

And that was the truth, the end of the illusion. I suddenly felt light, grounded, peaceful.

How lucky, I thought, to have a lover who cared so much about me and wanted so badly to walk with me in the woods. She could just as easily have left me behind.

How lucky I am to have a faithful and devoted dog who keeps an eye on me and never thinks of running off or getting too far away. How lucky I am to have this space where I can write honestly about my life and people will read it.

In his writing, Palmer – he is in his eighties – urged people like me to do what we can do to lose our illusions before death strips them away from us. That way, we are less likely to grow old disappointed or in despair.

I will never be a grumpy and sad old man. I will never speak poorly about my life.

I knew just what Palmer meant. Old talk – how’s your health? – and pharmacy chatter and bitching about the old ways are just a way of hiding from the truth, of denying reality.

I chose to be a beautiful man living a beautiful life with a beautiful partner.

Palmer is right; I felt this peace and acceptance in facing reality, I don’t need to be not really old or the youngest old person.

I’d love to be able to storm across that bridge like Maria and the dogs and keep up with them,  but I could not possibly be more in love or more fulfilled or more grateful for the things that I have.

I asked Maria to read this and make sure she was okay with it. She was, and she said it was helpful to her as well.”We love each other, and we know where we are, and we’re good with it.”

Can I really do better than that?

And that is my choice, I think. I can mourn what I’ve lost or what the future holds or celebrate what I have, I can’t fend off aging or stop death,  but I can be grateful for my life every single day.

Palmer is right, truth, not illusion is the way out of despair or disappointment. I see how difficult it is for people to age with grace.

Out of the woods, I face what I need to face, and then I am free to see the light and joy and love around me.

And here’s another truth.

What I have right in front of me and all around is so much bigger than what I have lost.

For now, that’s a great deal.