“To know how to grow old,” wrote Swiss Philosopher Henri Frederick Amiel, “is the masterwork of wisdom and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living.”
Amen to that. It’s also one of my life’s most exciting and valuable chapters. I’ve got a different kind of life to build and to change.
Life changes in the later years of life; the changes come rapidly, without warning or permission, whether we want them to or not.
How I respond to these changes will be my legacy and define the remainder of my life and perhaps Maria’s as well.
The insurance actuaries say I can no longer qualify for life insurance; I’m too old; the odds are that I have between five and ten years to live (a bit less than that, given that I have heart disease and diabetes).
This is a time of loss and gains for me.
I found that many relationships have disappeared – some due to death, relocation, illness or decline, retirement, or fatigue.
The loss of people and many activities that informed my life is important but not the real issue. This is a challenging time; it is not an easy time. And there is no one to tell me what to do or what I can do.
It’s on me.
I choose to see this time as my last significant period of human growth. Loss is only one part of it.
This is the final mountain of adjustment: new ideas, continuous change, my last chance for the spiritual development I’ve sought all my life – the last opportunity to be the person I always wanted to be.
The mystics and spiritual philosophers say it will take every bit of my mind, energy, and strength to believe in the holiness of the universe or my life and longings.
Some can stay and die at home – my intention – some no longer have that luxury.
Older people often get sick, and people who get sick are just a click away from losing control of their lives.
So far, aging has been the continuation of my life, the one I chose, the one I want, the one I love.
I see people all the time my age, younger and older, who don’t have that choice or who give it up, who waited too long, were too frightened, too poor, or who chose to be a slave to money instead.
Life is a roll of the dice. But we are the ones tossing them on the table.
The first thing to go was my life in New Jersey, and the second was a 26-book career as an author, a lifelong dream.
Next, my friends, and finally, my family, all of my money, which I gave away. Everything familiar was gone.
Other things began to go – my robust health, my friends, my mind, the stores and shops I knew, the context of life around me that I knew, then a dog, then another, then my best friend, then a cat, newspapers, my favorite mechanisms of many years, my social life, my history.
The odd revelation was that as I got older, fewer and fewer people thought of me, saw me, or kept me in their lives.
If you’re not careful, you can become invisible when you age. Our culture is just like that; it’s the way it is. We don’t exist anymore for millions and millions of people.
And then pieces of the self, small ones, primarily physical ones. My interior self, brain, heart, soul, and nature, feel the same. My short-term memory got fuzzier. I sometimes can’t remember people’s names. I’m hanging on to them until the end.
My Dyslexia is no longer such a significant factor in how I see the world. My age is more important.
My writing and my photography have kept me focused and thinking and are challenging me. So has my life with Maria, the love of my life.
The person I always knew myself to be is also changing; it sometimes feels in danger of going away also, as I see the world differently and view time in a new way.
I am running out of time; every day on my farm is precious. I am less patient than I want to be.
Seeing people waste their lives is painful; I know what it will cost them.
I have an edge and temper that is harder to control; I work to keep my frown from being permanent, and my smile from turning tense. For the first time in my life, the end is close. I can reach out and touch it.
That’s a game-changer.
I have many new things in my life, which replace most of the old ones and fill up my heart.
My best friend is also my wife; that is something new, as is her love for me. I feel as if I’m enriching my life, not losing it.
My photography is something new. My life on a farm with donkeys, barn cats, sheep, and dogs is new. My blog is something new. My work with the Mansion residents and the refugee children is new. My love of nature deepens every day.
My love of flowers and my raised garden beds are new. I’m getting a werewolf cane. Life is what you make of it.
I don’t have a lot of friends and don’t want a lot of friends. I want to be a friend unto myself.
I’m at peace with where I am and who I am with. I have zero tolerance for people telling me what to do and how to live or write.
I don’t miss the things I’ve lost, and I don’t dwell in the past or engage in “old talk,” the self-deprecating language of the elderly.
Life is a choice. I can mourn what I’ve lost or celebrate what I’ve gained.
There is no such thing as failing to recognize, cope with, or accept this chapter of life.
At this stage of life, I am finally free to experiment, to be authentic, and to write and think what I please, not what other people want.
As always, I have to fight for that. As always, I will.
Pouting, blaming others, and complaining about my life can solve nothing and only add to my pain and struggle. The same goes for arguing with strangers or hating people different from me.
Here’s the truth about aging for me: there is nothing more important than dealing honestly and well with the changes that come with age. These new skills will be the ones that take me to the end.
My blog has given me a voice to explore this all out loud. I will take advantage of that opportunity. I can be honest there. I am learning to be authentic and have fewer people to please than ever before.
That will keep love in my life. That will inspire me to die well and have a say in my death.
The happiness of these years depends on this, and so far, so good. I am happier than I ever imagined, wiser than ever, and my life is full of meaning and goodness.
I am responsible for my life, not the doctors, politicians, or the young. If I want to be ready to live my life fully and in the spirit of love, then I will have to do it myself.
I reject the blame game; I refuse to speak poorly of my life.
I see that I will be the one who writes the history of my life. It’s a good task for a writer. It’s never too early to start.
That is a beautiful thing when I think about it.
I embrace Joan Chittister’s call for aging well:
A burden of these years is that we must consciously decide how we will live, what kind of person we will become now, what type of personality and spirituality we will bring into every group, and how alive we intend to be.
A blessing of these years is being able to live so open-heartedly and to adjust so well that others can look to us and see what being old can bring about life, holiness, and goodness to make the world new again.
I’m in. Please join me. Welcome to my new life.
