NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #32

ANOTHER VICTIM OF AGE or The Secret life of Walter Mitty

 

I have always enjoyed a rich fantasy life. As an only child growing up on a farm I was accustomed to being alone, either playing or doing daily chores.

Daydreaming, an older child’s version of “make believe”, was a way to combat boredom and become more than I was. Picking up stones from the driveway and batting them over imaginary fences with a piece of plaster lathing I became Mickey Mantle. Singing my way through five chicken coops while I gathered eggs transformed me into another Frank Sinatra. (I have no idea what my singing may have done to the egg production.). My heroic accomplishments in the first 18 years of life were nothing short of amazing. That small farm boy from South Jersey became the hero to fans all over America. And as I made my way through the years ahead my daydreams followed, adapting themselves to the changing circumstances. I became a star football player in college in spite of my size, a surviving doctor in a plane crash who saved the lives of other survivors, a famous artist living in NYC, or a victim of amnesia wandering around the country trying to survive, to name just a few of my fantasies. My retreat into these make believe worlds usually occurred when I was driving alone in the car for hours at a time, lying in bed unable to sleep, or waking up in the middle of the night worrying about ridiculous non-existent problems that only arise in the dark hours of the night and early morning.

I choose to believe that occasional daydreaming is a normal and common mental exercise that everyone engages in at one time or another.  I have no interest in learning otherwise. In fact I believe my occasional forays into the world of make believe have served me well, improving my psyche and mental health, in addition to fending off those useless night time worries. But to my great dismay, for the past few years it has become increasingly difficult to retreat into these fantasy worlds, and I’m convinced it has to do with my age.

Regardless of the absurd plots, all of my daydreams have had an element of possibility to them, albeit quite miniscule, and they were all age appropriate. Now, approaching my 79^th birthday, it is more challenging to come up with a heroic plot for someone this age. Oh I still do it, but far less often, and with more modest accomplishments. This is one affect of ageing that I never anticipated. I feel blind-sided by it.

I shared this with my wife, telling her I was thinking of writing about the diminishing fantasy life in the 8^th decade. She quickly suggested that I avoid using the word fantasy, since it has acquired some carnal implications. I told her I was aware of that and planned to refer to “Walter Mitty” moments. She gave me a blank look, clearly having no idea who Walter Mitty was. When I explained he was a character who was always daydreaming in a short story by James Thurber and made famous portrayed by the late Danny Kaye in the movie, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, she offered that most people would not know that, and said I was really showing my age. Wow, that really helped.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #25

A FUTURE BEYOND IMAGINATION

May, 2015

Who among us has not exercised their ability to imagine and/or fantasize about their future? From the time I had the mental capacity to do so I often imagined my future. I saw myself in medical school and imagined what life would be like as an intern and resident. I imagined my first medical practice years before It came to be, and when Patience and I decided to move to the country my mind was filled with notions and images of country living. I was living in Paducah months before I was living in Paducah. What ever it was to be, I could envision the next chapter in my life or the next stage of the journey…until now.

Over the past several years the future has been quietly slipping away from me. I can no longer clearly imagine what it holds for me. I’m not even sure I know what I would like it to be. For the first time I have no long term plans to lean on beyond my current studio projects. It has occurred to me that my future is in the canvas on the easel or the watercolor in progress on my drawing table, or perhaps the essay on ageing that I have been struggling with for the past several months. I will occasionally get caught up in a gust of enthusiasm over a new project and reclaim at least some vision of what may lie ahead for me, but it is never sustainable. I’m being forced to do something I have never been very good at doing…living in the moment.

It is all a bit disconcerting.

Arch. Drawing #32

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #24 I Saw the Future

I SAW THE FUTURE

2014

The temperature that morning was well below freezing. Snow was falling at blizzard levels creating a near whiteout, covering the ice that had formed during the night.  By the time the dogs were ready for their morning pee several inches of snow was on the ground.  As always, Patience escorted ancient Mama Pajama out, worrying the old dog would have trouble with the frozen brick steps of the breezeway. There appeared to be an accumulation of snow on the steps, which to Patience’s dismay was actually frozen solid. Instead of her foot sinking into soft snow as expected, it quickly flew out in front of her and she found herself suspended in mid air, before landing hard on her back with her right arm hyper-extended behind her head.

Somehow she managed to crawl back into the house and call for help.  I knew from the sound of her voice there was a problem and quickly ran downstairs to find her lying on the kitchen floor just inside the doorway.   She was pale, sweating, and close to passing out from pain and nausea, and was unable to move her right arm without causing her severe pain. After several tense minutes the nausea subsided and I managed to get her upstairs and into bed, place an ice pack on her shoulder, and give her something for the pain.  We knew she had to go to the emergency room, but didn’t know how we could manage that.  It was still snowing hard, and the streets and both of our vehicles were covered with ice and snow. Unfortunately I had cataract surgery several days earlier and was under strict orders not to lift over 10 lbs. and not to bend at the waist.  As I looked out our bedroom window at the awesomeness of Mother Nature I never felt so helpless.  Until you are told not to do so, you have no idea how many times you bend at the waist in a normal day. I did not consider myself an “old man”, but that is exactly how I felt, old, helpless, and dependent on others.  At that very moment, with the winter theater in progress, I understood the full extent of what old age might be like for me in the years ahead.  My only comfort was in knowing that my current incapacitation was temporary, although that was no help to us at the time.

Fortunately our despair was blown away by the thoughtfulness of a friend who called to check on us.  When we explained our situation Jason immediately came and drove us to the Emergency Room.  Later, when Patience was cleared to go home, (no broken bones or dislocations) he picked us up and delivered us back to 803 Madison Street.

Was this experience a glimpse into my future?  I don’t know.  But I do know that in addition to being grateful for the thoughtfulness of a friend, I will be grateful for every day that I remain healthy enough to care for myself and those I love.  I will never take them for granted.  And should the day come when I am dependent on others, I can only hope there are friends and loved ones to help.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #21

WHICH WAY ARE YOU GOING BILLY

MAY, 2014

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently conducting a personal retrospective of my work. Fortunately I have digital files of most of my artwork, as well as portfolios filled with drawings and sketches from the past 50 plus years. The volume of the work is impressive. Most of it is pretty good, some of it is very good, and some of it is not so good to awful. I have enjoyed seeing its evolution and have been sobered by the reminders of the failures. The experience has inspired me to move forward, building on the good while learning from the bad.

To a lesser extent I’ve been doing the same thing with my personal life. The Internet and social mediums allow me to reach out to distant family, and old friends and acquaintances, to rekindle old relationships, establish new ones, and to nurture cherished memories. 

The accumulation of years tends to push us backwards, ever deeper into the past. Nostalgia can easily become the default setting that drives our thinking. This is enhanced by another characteristic tendency of age, the reluctance to move forward into new and unfamiliar directions and the fear of re-defining ourselves. There is comfort and security in staying close to what we know. Most of the “some days” are behind us, and experience has blunted the unbridled enthusiasm of youth. This is the mindset that has characterized the first several years of this decade for me.

Fortunately it doesn’t have to be this way, at least not totally. Now, at the mid point of the 8^th decade, I find that with a little effort and a lot of commitment it is possible to find the proper balance between these opposing directions. Where we place the fulcrum depends on individual preferences. Reaching into the past can allow us to re-visit both the good and the bad, perhaps providing new insights on what we once thought, or did.  There may be lessons to be learned that will provide some guidance for what is still to come. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to complete something left undone, or to re-kindle or redefine old relationships. However, as helpful as “managing” the past may be, the real challenge is optimizing the future. I am beginning to feel that this will become the major focus in the years ahead.

The priority should always be on the future, as long as we are allowed to have one.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #20

SEVENTY-FIVE

Spring 2014

Seventy-five, or 75, either way it’s a rather nice number, combining the number 7 with my favorite number, 5.  Maybe that is why I have treated this latest birthday with so much optimism and enthusiasm.  Gone is the gloom and doom that was seeping into my mind a few years ago, when I felt the best years of my life were behind me. It is true that lost opportunities cannot be recovered, but in their place are remarkable new opportunities - the chance to pursue dreams with a freedom and abandonment unfettered by the responsibilities of youth. I have promised myself to take advantage of this opportunity with newly re-claimed vim and vigor (meaning only one nap a day and staying awake until at least 9:30 every night).

In the last 5 years I’ve spent considerable time looking at the past, and will continue to do so because it remains rich with memories that I cherish, but the real focus now will be on what is yet to come. What makes this time so unique and unlike the past is not having so many other issues and tasks competing for my attention. There is a narrower and sharper focus that is enhanced by the uncertainty of the future. Every day, every week, every month is a gift.

I have a pretty clear idea of what I want to accomplish, and have set out to do so, one day at a time. I am excited about the future, and for this I am most grateful.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #19

RITES OF PASSAGE

February 2014 

An ageing doctor

There are several rites of passage that mark our entrance into the “senior years” of life. The first, the most passive of the lot, is the arrival of the Medicare card. I remember very clearly my reaction to seeing that card with my name on it: “this can’t be real!  I’m looking at a Medicare card with MY name on it. My father and mother had Medicare cards: what am I doing with one?” In all honesty I must say that my exaggerated bewilderment was accompanied by an amazing sense of relief and comfort, having just been several months without any medical coverage.

I got over it.

The second Rite applies only those who usually pee standing up – the dwindling urinary stream. Gone are the days of peeing over a bush into the neighbor’s yard. Now you’re happy if you can pee without getting your shoes wet.

I’ve had that problem fixed.

The third Rite…getting a cataract removed, and yesterday I had one removed from my left eye. The one in my right eye is next. I will spare you the details of this relatively simple (from the patient’s point of view – no pun intended) procedure, but I will share this single tidbit of information for those of you anticipating such an event.

Since yesterday morning I have had 1,219 drops instilled in the involved eye.

But it is worth it, because besides seeing the world better, I get to wear these cool Ray Bans.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #17 What a difference a year makes

What a Difference a Year Makes

2013 is the year that dispelled all the self-imposed age related restraints I had been laboring under in recent years.  The key word here is “self-imposed”, because my body has its own set of restraints that cannot be denied.  But they have no place in this narrative.

I had foolishly convinced myself that my best work was behind me, and there was no longer a place in my life for grand, sweeping aspirations and goals. My work would now be slow, deliberate, and a lot less ambitious.  (Picture a tired old fart sitting in his studio ever so slowly working at an easel.)  I was that close to putting myself out to pasture.

Then came the Paducah Portfolio, After working for months on large canvases in 2012 for a gallery show in which nothing sold, I reacted by focusing all my efforts on smaller drawings and paintings, and the Paducah Portfolio was conceived.  With few exceptions, I devoted the entire year to the project, and in the process wiped out all of my nonsensical notions about age and work.  It is impossible to overstate how significant this has been for me.

I am facing 2014 with a head filled with ideas of things I want to do, which I will approach with the attitude that I will live forever.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #16

ALONE WITH MYSELF  

2013

Interesting things have been happening to me over the past four or five years, some of them physical, but many of them not. The subjective changes share a common theme – moving inward in my search for meaning and direction in these later years.

With each year, a bit of the world around me seems to melt away, leaving me increasingly alone, but not in an unpleasant way. I have become less involved in neighborhood and community affairs, preferring the solitude of my studio and study. My focus now is more on moving inward. I spend as much time looking back as I do looking ahead, trying to understand what I have accomplished and, the people I have encountered, wondering how it all fits into this later stage of my life. I am convinced that there is a common thread running through all of our years, and perhaps understanding that can be a helpful guide in navigating the future.”

This morning the word “isolated” best describes how I feel. Age, location, and circumstances contribute to this, but mostly it is the result of my desire to move inward. There is comfort in considering this as one more period of transition in a life of transitions, leading to an eventual resting place for my soul.

I continue to enjoy sharing food and wine (should read – pasta and wine) with our friends, although with Patience working full time we cannot entertain as often as we would like. I prefer the intimacy of smaller gatherings of friends and acquaintances to larger social functions. At this halfway point I can safely say the eighth decade continues to be full of surprises with its unanticipated changes. I can only wonder, what’s coming next?

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #14

WHAT DO I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP?

8-13

 

Fifty-five years ago I decided I wanted to be a physician, and spent the next 16 years pursuing that goal. Thirty-five years ago everything changed, and after five years of turmoil I knew I wanted to be an artist as much as I did a physician. Without reservation I followed the path I cleared for myself with commitment and enthusiasm.

So, at age 70, I was caught off guard when once more things began to change, and clouds of doubt and uncertainty rolled in, obscuring that once clearly defined path. It was the beginning of a transition that, four years later, is still in progress.

The question is not what does the future hold for me, but what do I want from the remaining years? 

I am gradually developing a clearer sense of what I want for myself, and what I would like to accomplish. This recent journal entry describes still another change, this one related more to my attitude to my work and my age than anything else.

“2013 is the year that dispelled all the self-imposed age related restraints I had been laboring under in recent years. The key word here is “self-imposed”. My body has its own set of restraints that cannot be denied, but they have no place in this narrative.

I had foolishly convinced myself that my best work was behind me, and that there was no longer a place in my life for grand, sweeping aspirations and goals, and that my work would now be slow, deliberate, and a lot less ambitious. (Picture a tired old fart sitting in his studio ever so slowly working at an easel.)  I was that close to putting myself out to pasture.

Then came the Paducah Portfolio, After working for months on large canvases in 2012 for a gallery show in which nothing sold, I reacted by focusing all my efforts on smaller drawings and paintings, and the Paducah Portfolio was conceived.  With few exceptions, I devoted the entire year to the project, and in the process wiped out all of my nonsensical notions about age and work. It is impossible to overstate how significant this has been for me. I am facing 2014 with a head filled with ideas of things I want to do, which I will approach with the attitude that I will liver forever.

I have no recourse but to trust Rilke’s admonition that I will “…live into the answers”.

NOTES FROM THE EIGHTH DECADE #13 NIGHT & DAY

NIGHT & DAY

August 2013

For years my life was defined by the events and circumstances (work, play, emotional and physical health, etc.) of the day at hand.  But recently a strange transition seems to be occurring. The days are taking on an increasing sameness, while the nights, which have always been consistently void of anything but dreams, are becoming unique. How many times will I wake up because of pain in my legs, back, or neck?  Will I have to get up to pee, or will one of the dogs have to go out?  Will Patience poke me and tell me to roll over because I’m snoring? Sometimes I wake up on my own and find that I am wide-awake at 3 A.M. I may eventually fall back to sleep, or get up and go into my study and read or listen to music. Or perhaps a profound dreams will wake me up, and I’ll find myself in that intermediate state between awakeness and sleep, not knowing if I am consciously continuing the dream or not.

While the days are becoming predictable, the nights are taking on a

life of their own. When the bedside light goes out I have no idea what adventure awaits me.

NOTES FROM THE EIGHT DECADE #12

BETWEEN YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

June 2013

Now, resting between yesterday and tomorrow, my understanding of myself is becoming blurred by time.

The accumulation of years, 74 to be exact, seems to have blurred my understanding of who and what I am. I have a reasonably good idea of who I have been, and what I have, and have not accomplished during my lifetime. The goals, desires, and aspirations that have guided me, although somewhat depleted, continue to bounce about in my head, as modest and grandiose as ever. However they have difficulty getting traction because the years have worn away some of the unbridled ambition and enthusiasm that never failed to convinced me I was in charge of my future.

This revelation – if I can call it that – came about as I grapple with the difficulties of trying to live in the moment, a concept that has taken on more importance in recent years. Having lived my entire life with one foot firmly planted in the future, grounding myself entirely in the present is proving to be difficult. Even in their “depleted” state, goals and aspirations intrude on the day at hand, pulling me into the tomorrows. The fact that at age 74 they are poorly defined only adds to the difficulty. What is a soul to do?

One option is to simply stopping thinking about it. Take my eyes off of my navel and stop all the ruminating, a sort of “buck up Gonzo” approach. Heaven knows how many times I have tried this. Unfortunately any success I may have had was always temporary.

Or, I can do what I always do…write about it, and if I’m lucky, by the time I finish doing so the issue will no longer exist.

So what will it be?  I’ll have to think about that.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #11

RESILIENCE   How well does it age?

October 2012

My first gallery show was a two-man show in 1977, and all of my work sold at the opening reception. For the next twenty years I sold almost everything I painted. When I moved to Paducah, over 900 miles from my home of forty years, I knew I would have to build a new client base, and was confident I could do so. After a few years of promoting my work and myself I succeeded in establishing a fairly consistent market for my art. Sales remained consistent, even through 4 years of a failing economy, until this year, when, as abruptly as turning off a faucet, they diminished to a depressing trickle.

I have had lulls before, but never like this. The past ten months have seen the fewest sales since coming to Paducah. Suddenly I find myself being tested, facing serious questions about my future; how viable is my art, can I recover the market I seem to have lost, what can I do to reverse this situation, and is it time for me to begin putting the paints away? Underlining all of these questions is an awareness of my age, increasingly a major factor in so many of my considerations these days.

Which leads me to the issue prompting this narrative…how resilient am I at this stage in my life?  When I began writing this, I was prepared to delve into the complex issue of aging, and how it affects our emotional and psychological attitudes toward the “stuff of life”. But at this very moment, the answer suddenly seems quite simple, physical issues aside; we are only as old as we allow ourselves to be. Or, as the old adage tells us, “you are as young as you feel”.

Adding years to our life entices us to think we must be changing, because after all, older people are different from younger ones. That is why all of my self-reflection begins with the reminder that I am 73 years old. This type of thinking is an insidious process that quietly skews our attitude and re-enforces the stereotypes of ageing. Recently I have begun to appreciate how mistaken I have been.

Age is irrelevant in dealing with problems and issues with my work at this stage in life. All that matters is my willingness to commit to the task at hand.

Note…according to actuarial data, a 73 year-old man can expect to live another 11.82 years. Now that is something I can hang my hat on.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #10

A DIFFERENT PLACE, A DIFFERENT TIME

September 2012

Medical office on our Maryland farm 1993

Gallery 5 in Lower Town 2003

I have had the good fortune of experiencing purpose and meaning in my life, pursuing what  I believed to be my personal destiny, medicine and art. My commitment to them has resulted in a series of changes in my lifetime, some planned, others not, but always accompanied by a sense of moving forward.  

The abrupt decision to leave Pharmacy school for a pre-med education and medical school – 19 years old

Switching residency training from General Practice to Internal Medicine which resulted in being drafted for 2 years of military service. – 26 years old

Leaving a full-time private practice for part-time Emergency Room work to pursue a career in art.– 39 years old

The end of my seventeen-year marriage – 40 years old

A second marriage – 44 years old

Moving from the city to an 18 acre farm – 46 years old

Opening a new medical practice on the farm after 12 years of art and emergency medicine – 53 years old

Moving to Paducah Kentucky and leaving medicine completely – 63 years old

In many respects I have lived with one foot in the future, and have never hesitated to “turn the corners in my life” (a phrase borrowed from one of Willie Nelson’s songs). My ability to do so depended on several factors. 

I’ve had an unfailing belief in myself as well as an incredible sense of optimism, a combination that overcame the fears and apprehensions associated with change, especially when approaching the unfamiliar.

I also possessed a powerful resource - a medical degree. I knew that no matter what the future might hold for me, there was always the option of finding full-time or part-time work in medicine. 

That was then. Now, at age 73, I face entirely different circumstances. The optimism and belief in myself are still with me, though slightly tarnished by the realities of these many years. But the biggest change has been the loss of that key resource, my medical degree. I no longer have the comfort of that fallback position; we live on a fixed income with little to no options of increasing it, other than the sale of my art, and that is tenuous at best in this current economy. I have no regrets about the choices I made. There is no doubt in my mind that they were the correct ones to make, and they have served me very well. This new place and these new circumstances... just one more corner to turn.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #9

I DON’T FEEL SEVENTY

January 2012

I just turned 73, and the words of my dear mother come immediately to mind.  She was 70 years old when she said, “Billy, I don’t feel seventy”. At the time I mistakenly assumed she was referring to how she did or did not feel physically, however, reflecting on my own experience with this process we call ageing I realize now what she really meant.

As a young man I assumed that as I aged physically, I would also age mentally and emotionally, seeing and responding to the world with a mind-set that was unique and characteristic of the elderly, because old people were different from young people, or so I thought.  I have since learned otherwise. Yes, the years take their toll on our bodies, and the accumulation of our experiences undoubtedly affects our attitudes and belief systems, but at our core, the essence of whom and what we are remains unchanged. We see the world through the same eyes, we receive and process the input from daily living with the same hopes and fears that have defined us for all of our years. I don’t look the same as I did ten years ago; I have aches and pains that I’ve never had before, and I am keenly aware of how tenuous my future is, but I still look twice at an attractive woman, I like the same music, and I have the same fears, hopes, and personal quirks that I’ve had all of my life.

I don’t feel like I am seventy-three. 

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #7 Winding Down Years

WINDING DOWN YEARS

April, 2011

It started before I got out of bed this morning. I woke up thinking about what someone once wrote: “…never was a man so unafraid of his destiny”.  That quote played an instrumental role in my journey many years ago by allowing me to think about my own destiny. Until then, destiny was an idea I attributed only to larger than life historical figures. It was a revelation to realize I too could claim what I considered to be my destiny - a life that combined both medicine and art.

Lying in bed it occurred to me that although I have been living it, I no longer had that confident grasp on my destiny. The solid foundation underlying my life for the past 30 years was slowly beginning to weaken as doubts and insecurities began to find there way into my head. I thought of myself as being in those “winding down” years, where it is difficult to look very far ahead. I approached my morning journal intending to write something about this and was immediately struck with doubt and misgivings.

What am I thinking, that it is time to pack up and dust off the rocking chair?  That instead of exploring and pushing at the boundaries with new work I should be content with looking back and reminiscing? This is absurd. Is there some biological clock that tells us it is time to slow down and begin looking back instead of ahead? I don’t think so. Granted, there is a natural tendency to do this as we reach these later years, approaching work, and life, with a bit more deliberate and critical thinking. And if we’re lucky, there may be some wisdom somewhere that we can draw on (no pun intended). Yes, it is difficult to see a long-term destiny when we reach the 80th decade and beyond, but that only means our energies are focused on the work in front of us today. We not only can, but must continue to explore and create. Long-term plans now span 1-2 years and not 10-20, and what the work may lack in terms of grand, sweeping ambition it makes up for in its intensity and commitment. I once made a promise to myself and to every patient that I left behind that my goal was create the best art that I am capable of doing. I intend to honor that promise.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #6 AM I OLD YET?

AM I OLD YET?    Some notes

July 2010

When do we become and “old man”, or an “old woman”? Does the transformation take place at a certain age? Are there criteria that we can use to make that call, and if so, what are they: physical appearance, functional status, mental acuity, attitude and personal outlook?

The old man I see so clearly in my mind wears a wrinkled face topped with thin unruly hair, including wisps in his ears and nose. His back is slightly bent and his gait slow but certain. His trousers are baggy and his flannel shirt is encased in a loose cardigan sweater. Although his hearing is impaired, his vision is adequate with glasses, and his appetite for companionship, conversation, and good food and wine is undiminished. As a young boy this description fit my grandfather in his mid 70s when he lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. One of my jobs was to take my grandfather on a daily walk when weather permitted. He held my hand in one hand and his white cane in the other, and together we walked the quarter mile to the highway and back. I remember my grandfather as an old man.

The years passed, and I watched my parents grow old. Sadly my mother died at the age of 76, never reaching the status of an “old lady” in my eyes. My father died at the age of 82, about a year after suffering a stroke that left him partially disabled. In spite of that he was never the old man I saw in his father. And as I’m writing this, it occurs to me that the difference between my perception of my grandfather and my parents is not due to anything on their part, but is a reflection of my own age.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #5

THE TIMER IS RUNNING

December 2009

As one would imagine, I have been pondering the significance of being seventy years old since my 69th birthday last year.  Turning seventy has some emotional significance that was not there during the decade of the sixties.  Seventy sounds so much older than sixty-nine and conjures images in my mind of men with white hair and thick white mustaches, walking slightly bent forward, wearing a button down sweater and lace-less shoes. Shamelessly I have found comfort in hearing from friends and family that I do not look seventy, or in their surprise when I tell them my age...”I never would have guessed”, or “are you kidding me?”

I imagine that all who have had the good fortune to reach this milestone shares these thoughts.  Observations on turning seventy are as varied as the folks who offer them, from embracing their age and rejoicing in its advantages, to rebelling against it and bemoaning lost youth. I see and understand both points of view. There is indeed a sense of freedom that accompanies age, as well as a feeling of relief from having navigated all the years with reasonable success. For me, that offsets the loss of physical capacity as well as the enthusiasm and nativity of youth. 

But more than anything else, positive or negative, what resonates the most is the threat to the “some days” that have been so much a part of my life. Those some days were my fall back, my promises to myself; they were there to keep my dreams alive. They are not completely gone, but their expanse, their range, has been severely narrowed by knowing that most of my years are now behind me and that the once unlimited future has become both limited and vulnerable. Mentally I have been processing all of this for several years, but that magical number, seventy, seems to have crystallized these notions into a simple, concrete concept, the timer has been set. It is on and running, and I don’t know where it has been set to turn off, 6 months, 6 years, or 20 plus years. Of course the same can be said for all of us, regardless of age, but few of us pay any attention to it until we reach a certain age, which for me appears to be seventy.

NOTE FROM THE 8TH DECADE #2

APPROACHING SEVENTY  

 December 2008

Castelnuovo della Daunia   watercolor

I left Italy thinking the Italians knew how to live. Not just because they enjoy their food and wine and their outgoing attitude to friends and family, but because they seem to be less uptight about life and less concerned with pretentious displays of wealth or position. However they are concerned with fashion and style, and they dress with fastidious care.

I returned home from my first trip to Italy 2 months ago, and have been addicted to a fantasy of returning to Italy to spend a year writing and painting in the tiny village of my grandfather, Castelnuovo della Daunia, located in the northern part of Puglia. I find myself clinging to this fantasy because it gives me hope that my life is not at a dead end, a disturbing thought that has been creeping into my consciousness lately.

The truth is, I don’t know what to think anymore. I will soon be 70 years old, an age that looms large and carries with it a lot of heavy emotional stuff. Mostly stuff like I am too old to be thinking about my “somedays”, or scheming about how I can spend a month let alone a year in Italy. And I’m too old to think I can become any more than I am in the world of art.

On the other hand I remind myself that it is not the numbers that count, it is how you feel.  It is what is in your heart and your head that determines how old you are. If I think that I am too old for all of the above, then I might as well just roll over and die, and I am not ready to do that.

I don’t know if I really want to spend a year in Italy. Maybe what I really want is something to look forward to, something to add excitement to a life that I fear is growing increasingly dull and mundane. This may be a good time to remind myself of important lessons from the past: if you don’t think something can happen, then it probably won’t. But if you nurture your ideas and give them time and space, those that were meant to be will grow with a chance to bloom, those that weren’t, will die.

Perhaps the years ahead won’t be so dull after all. Who knows, I may even make it back to Italy some day.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #1

The first installment of essays on the mixed blessing of ageing.

Introduction

Change has always been relatively easy for me, which is very fortunate, since I have made more than my share of major changes over the years. In fact change may have been the most consistent element in my life. With one exception, all of them have been of my own volition, and have given me little reason for regrets. But I am now facing a change that may prove to be the most challenging of them all…ageing.

I first began paying attention to this inevitable process as I was approaching my 70^th birthday. Somehow being 70 was so very different from being sixty-anything. As an avid journal writer I began the dutiful task of recording the results of my ruminations, which I have gathered together in this folio I’m calling Notes from the Eighth Decade. Each is presented as an independent narrative in the chronological order in which they were written, so there is occasional repetition.  As might be expected, the deeper I got into the 8^th decade, the more I felt the need to write about it.

SEVEN -O

August, 200ß

It took awhile, but I finally figured it out. This mental funk of the past few months can be trace back to my 69th birthday in May.

There have been several significant birthdays in my life; my 17th which allowed me to apply for a drivers license, a milestone for any teenage boy, and of course my 21st, making it legal for me to drink and make a fool of myself. It would be 44 years until the next milestone arrived, my 65th birthday, accompanied by a Medicare card! My parents had Medicare cards for heaven's sake, and now I was looking at one with MY name on it. This might have caused problems for a lesser man than me, but possessed of a strong heart and mind - well, at least a strong heart - I dealt with it and got on with my life, knowing it would be 5 years before I would be facing another significant milestone. Sixty plus is one thing, but SEVENTY, that’s clearly something else.

Imagine my surprise and dismay when 4 years later, after my 69th birthday, I find myself struggling to deal with the idea that I am less than a year away from being 70 years old. It doesn’t matter that I’m only 69. Sixty-nine doesn’t really exist. It is only there to tell me that in a very short time I WILL BE SEVENTY! At this point I should explain that I am what the psychologist Carl Jung would call an intuitive, meaning I tend to always focus on the future, living ahead of myself; sometimes I feel like I’ve already lived 2 lifetimes. I realize it may be premature to deal with all of this now, but maybe by doing so my 70th birthday will be a breeze. 

I know, getting old is relative and it is mental, not physical. When I look in the mirror, do I see someone who is SEVENTY years old? Of course not. Just because I can’t get up from kneeling without holding on to something doesn’t mean anything. And so I make a little noise when I get up from a chair, it’s just a little ooomph, and that doesn’t count. There are of course a few other problems, which are too delicate to discuss here, but they too are basically all mental, aren’t they?

So, what is my problem with 70? I guess it is the realization that all of the “some days that I have always counted on may no longer be there, and for a Jungian intuitive that can be rather threatening. But that is another story.