I spent many years not living as well as I wish I had, so when I got older, I decided to do better. So far, so good. Sufi wrote, “For the raindrop, joy is entering the river.”

As long as I’m quoting people, I went to a Grandma Moses art exhibit at the Bennington, Vt. Museum, and I was reminded of her famous quote about old age: “Life is what you make of it. That isn’t to say that getting older is simple or easy.

For me, it was liberating. I was finally free to live my Life; it was really beginning, not ending. I can’t do anything about the latter part.

No one I’ve ever heard of describes getting old as happening in one straight line. There are a lot of twists and turns.

One of them is my body. A shrink told me that once I got past 50, something would be hurting every day. This was true.

Until I was in my late 50’s, I didn’t go to the doctors regularly. In fact, I didn’t go to a doctor at all. Then I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, and a few years later, I had open heart surgery, a life changer if ever there is one.

I also met the most wonderful woman who is fiercely independent but never fails to help me when I need it. That has been a miracle for me.

Aging has its own kind of physics: the older I get, the fewer things I can do. I’m going to be 79 in August, and I can still walk with a cane and am getting used to my new hearing aids. I can now clearly hear it when Maria yells at me.

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Aging was a shock to me because I don’t think I’d heard a word about it from anyone in my family, in magazines, or in the news. Movies portray old people as being useless, sometimes adorable, but mostly grumpy, foolish, and expensive. We are no longer allowed to work anyplace interesting; kids recoil as if we were carrying a disease. At best, we are patronized.

My grandmother was the first person I loved who made it into her 70s. The minute she did, she moved into a home for the aged, and even though I visited her regularly, she pretty much disappeared from my Life. My parents were immensely relieved that she was no longer their problem.

When I think that I am a decade older than she was when she died, I realize I am living in another time.

I always feel the need to shock people when they approach me with those sorrowful eyes and expressions as if they expect me to drop dead any moment, or at least be close. “Jon!,” they say as if surprised I am walking at all, How ARE you!?” Nobody ever asked me that before in that way?

“FINE,” I tend to say,” I AM HAPPY, BUSY, AND VERY MUCH ALIVE.”  Usually, they hurry off, shaking their heads in sympathy. Happiness is not their story of being old. And why would it be? No one has ever told them it was possible.

I learned the importance of finding a doctor who will take a few minutes to speak with me and be available to answer my questions. As one gets older, there are all kinds of questions, and very few doctors have much time to talk these days. Many are even paid for the medicines they order.

Doctors are into AI and make online decisions, no matter what people say to them. They have to live for insurance companies and lawyers worried about lawsuits.

I have a great doctor, I can see the days when they were inhumanized and put into a dada freezer.

I’ve noticed that laughter and fun are no longer a goal for so many people. I insist on it to Maria and the dogs or donkeys, if necessary. Older people need to watch Jerry Lewis or the Marx Brothers movies.

One thing I am sad about is that it is harder than ever – it was never easy for me – to make new friends or people I want to talk with. They are depressed, sick, or obsessed with medicine prices and the ever-rising cost of things. I can’t be with people who do old talk, who have given up on purpose, or who talk about nothing but the price of medicine.

It’s sad but true that most young people want and need friends their own age.

That does narrow the prospects, plus the hard part – so many of my friends are dead. I learned with my dogs to accept the inevitability of death. When I lose a friend, I give thanks for the friendship—no days of mourning. I told Maria I’d never forget her if I died, and she couldn’t stop weeping. No sweat, she promised.

But the truth is, I really am happy. It is possible. It is not painless or magical.

But it is happiness, something I did not expect to find at my age.

Attitude is as important as good health for older people; in fact, it is good health. So is acceptance.

I see aging as a great liberation. I can sleep when I want, write what I want, eat what I want (well, almost), and do the good it seems my calling to look for.

Being happy is not something that just happened to me. It happened to me when I discovered who I was and what was at the core of me. That was not always pleasant. But it was necessary.

I really didn’t have any idea who or what I was. I looked for a way to understand what was unique to me, what I was drawn to, what I lived, and did. But self-pity, whining, and complaining are not a purpose; they’re a disease.

Pretty soon, I will have a blog with lots of people on it. I will write what I want every day, work on behalf of our town’s Food Pantry, and make a difference. I am becoming the photographer I always wanted to be.

I call this my umbilical cord to the rest of the world. Doing what I want and living for the good of me and the rest of the world, digging out what I do best and doing it. Not living for my IRA or money.

This brought great clarity to a twisted and anxious soul. But I have to be honest. To really understand aging, you have to live it.

It was difficult and intense and, at long last, simple.

My problem was not that I am going to die sooner every day.

My problem was that I was not living every day.

I found my own challenge. I found my own purpose.

I opened my heart to love and kindness.

So I’m days away from being 79 and, somewhat shockingly, content, and anxious

to wake up every morning and wonder what I am going to do with my day.

That’s what makes me happy.

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“Life is a foreign language; everyone mispronounces it.” – Christopher Morley.