Perhaps my father said it best when referring to his failing vision. “I’ve lost so much already; if they now take away my ability to drive, I won’t have much to live for.” The power of his statement still haunts me today, almost seventeen years later.

Dad was near the end of his life. He was only seventy-three years old, but had suffered the pain of gradually losing his ability to engage in a wide spectrum of activities. Much of what he took for granted in his midlife, and assumed he would engage in during his later years, became just a painful memory.

Hardening of the arteries had him abstaining from walks on the beach with Mother, and an uncontrollable shaking of his hands put an end to his building and flying of model airplanes, a cherished hobby since childhood. While sitting on the outdoor patio with my mother, I watched him walk with a hint of resignation toward the waiting car that would drive him to the optometrist. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would see him alive, or that his parting statement about driving, deprivation, and death would be both prophetic for him, and an advance notice for me.

And so it is with all of us. No one is spared the pain of loss during the final third of our lives. Capacities diminish and things fail, plain and simple. My mother was, and still is fond of saying (with a wry smile on her face), “Don’t get old,” as if progressing in age were something we had any control over. Her smile when delivering this message to her four sons diminishes as each year passes. Years ago it was funny. Now the poignancy of it has more weight than levity.

A first glimpse into my own process of aging came one day when Evan, my fourteen-year-old son, and I, were out for a recreational run. As far back as my memory extends, I always adjusted my pace so that we would meet the finish line together. Not that day. At only fifty-six, I struggled to keep up with this growing boy who seemed to effortlessly leap ahead of me, leaving an aging man behind to huff and puff.

Similarly, our tennis matches always ended with roughly the same close outcome. Then, one day, instead of fixing the result, I unexpectedly had to embrace defeat. I said to Evan after he triumphantly walked off the tennis court, “So, did you ever wonder why the score in our tennis matches remained the same over all these years? Do you think maybe you could gently, and in a nottoo-obvious fashion, continue that trend?” He didn’t respond, but the silence was deafening. No controlling the outcome anymore; moving forward it would need to be more a matter of acceptance, and the transition hasn’t been easy.

As if to reinforce the message, my cousin Jeff approached me a few months later at my father’s funeral and said, with a gesture toward the casket, “Well Ed, we’re next.” Sure made me stop and pause. Embedded in the inference was the fact that my father was the last of the previous generation, and that cousin Jeff and I would likely be the next in our family lineage to meet this same fate head-on. His terse remark also said to me, “Okay, this is it; we’re on the last stretch, so make it count.” But making it count while capacities are failing can be quite challenging, even when not engaged in a comparison with your much-younger son.

Relatively speaking, I’m still in pretty good shape for someone in his mid-sixties. I can usually engage pain-free in physical activities like swimming, biking, and walking; appear reasonably coherent; and even engage in amorous activities without concern that the plumbing won’t function properly—well, most of the time. But does the picture look like it did in my forties, or even my fifties? Due to nerve damage from an otherwise successful back surgery several years ago, I can no longer run with ease. My walk is with a slight and—to me—embarrassing limp. Tennis with Evan is a distant memory. Those things we call “senior moments” continue to increase in frequency. And forget about keeping up with the whirl of technological advances, which left me in the dust many years ago.

How does it feel? In truth, sometimes I can integrate the advancing limitations quite gracefully, and other times not so much. There is no doubt that the trajectory is a slow and steady decline, and no matter how fast I paddle, the physical capacity race is not one I can win. Sometimes I feel grateful for what I have, and at other times downright frustrated for what I don’t. But from deep within there is also a growing sense of acceptance that helps to soften me and diminish the angst inside. On a good day it even feels like I’m gaining on things; that the turbulence of transition into the final third of my life has begun to dampen. So, what has made the difference?

Over time I’ve come to understand that it is all a matter of identity. Who am I? Or more to the point, who do I think I am? If I think I am only my physical body, the rest of my life will be experienced as a decline, as a loss. If, however, I experience myself primarily as a spiritual being in a human body, the picture begins to change, or is assisted by the wisdom of advancing years. After all, would a gardener think he was his hoe, or a painter her paintbrush? Then why should we think we are just our physical bodies, or even just our personalities?

My self-imposed suffering turns out to be simply a case of mistaken identity, a symptom that emerges when I too strongly identify with my physical form—the one that continues to deteriorate year after year. If, instead, I choose to move beyond the limitations of a falsely imposed identity, and accept my connection with all that is, even embrace that I am all that is, then the entire cosmos opens to me. I begin to experience life as a continuous opening, rather than as a gradual closing. That the older I get, the more connected and the more expansive I feel.

Over time I have grown to embrace the truth—that we are pure light, pure energy, and pure love. While I may not be able to live from that place all of the time, even connecting to it on occasion has been transformative. Gradually I’ve become less constrained by the weightiness of my physical and emotional 

structure (however beautiful and fun-filled they may seem at times). Now I am more awake to the eternal, to the place prior to form and, most importantly, to the understanding that I am that place.

I’m reminded of a friend’s favorite response when I get on my soapbox and deliver some of this spiritual advice to him. “Well Ed [yawning], call me when you have it down.” And he has a point. This wholesale change in perception doesn’t come as fast or as easily as trying on new shoes. I have found that it is a very challenging and slow-paced shift in how I perceive my place in

the world.

But the good news is that this alteration in how I see myself—connecting to the blissful truth of whom I really am—has the power to change my experience of aging from a sense of loss, to a sense of gain. It has allowed me to gradually

encounter the remaining chapters as an act of grace, and to embrace this life transition as a major leap forward in my expanding capacity as a loving, spiritual being.

Epilogue: Getting Old

Perhaps my father said it best when referring to his failing vision: “I’ve lost so much already. If they now take away my ability to drive, I won’t have much to live for.” The power of his statement still haunts me today, almost seventeen years later.

Dad was near the end of his life. He was only seventy-three years old, but had suffered the pain of gradually losing his ability to engage in a wide spectrum of activities. Retirement years were filled with a slow and steady falling away of physical and mental capacity. Much of what he took for granted in his midlife, and assumed he would be engaged in during his later years, instead became just a painful memory.

Hardening of the arteries had him sitting out walks on the beach with my mother to pick up shells. And an uncontrollable shaking of his hands put an end to his building and flying of model airplanes, a cherished hobby since childhood. While sitting on the outdoor patio with my mother, I watched him walk with a hint of resignation in his gait toward the waiting car that was to drive him to the optometrist for his checkup. Little did I know then that this would be the last time I would see him alive, or that his parting statement about driving, deprivation, and death would be both prophetic for him and an advance notice for me.

And so it is with all of us. No one is spared the pain of loss during the final third of our lives. Capacities diminish and things fail, plain and simple. My mother was and still is fond of saying (with a wry smile on her face): “Don’t get old,” as if progressing in age were something we had any control over. Her smile when delivering this message to her four sons gets increasingly diminished as each year passes. Years ago it was funny. Now the poignancy of it has more weight than levity.

I believe my first glimpse into the process of aging came one day when my fourteen-year-old son Evan and I were out for a recreational run. As far back as my memory extends, I always adjusted my pace so that we would meet the finish line together. Not that day. At only fifty-six, I struggled to keep up with this growing boy who seemed to effortlessly leap ahead of me, leaving an aging man behind to huff and puff.

Similarly, our tennis matches always ended with roughly the same close outcome. One day, instead of fixing the result, I unexpectedly had to embrace defeat. I said to my son after he triumphantly walked off the tennis court, “So, Evan, did you ever wonder why the score in our tennis matches remained the same over all these years? Do you think you could gently, and in a not-too-obvious fashion, continue that trend?” He didn’t respond, but the silence was deafening. No controlling the outcome anymore; moving forward it would need to be more a matter of acceptance, and the transition hasn’t been easy.

As if to reinforce the message, my cousin Jeff approached me a few months later at my father’s funeral and said, with a gesture toward the casket, “Well Ed, we’re next.” Sure made me stop and pause. Embedded in the inference was the fact that my father was the last of the previous generation, and that cousin Jeff and I would likely be the next in our family lineage to meet this same fate head-on. His terse remark also said to me: okay, this is it; we’re on the last stretch, so make it count. But making it count while capacities are failing can be quite challenging, even when not engaged in a comparison with your much-younger son. 

Relatively speaking, I’m still in pretty good shape for someone in his mid-sixties. I can usually engage pain-free in physical activities like swimming, biking, and walking; appear reasonably coherent, and even engage in amorous activities without concern that the plumbing won’t function properly—well, most of the time. But does the picture look like it did in my forties or even my fifties? Due to nerve damage from an otherwise successful back surgery several years ago, I can no longer run with ease. My walk is with a slight and—to me—embarrassing limp. Tennis is a distant memory. Those things we call “senior moments” continue to increase in frequency. And forget about keeping up with the whirl of technological advances, which left me in the dust many years ago.

How does it feel? In truth, sometimes I can integrate the advancing limitations quite gracefully, and other times not so much. There is no doubt that the physical trajectory is a slow and steady decline, and no matter how fast I paddle, the physical capacity race is not one I can win. Sometimes I feel grateful for what I have, and at other times I feel downright frustrated for what I don’t have. But from deep within there is also a growing sense of acceptance, which helps to soften me and diminish the angst inside. On a good day it even feels like I’m gaining on things, that the turbulence of transition into the final third of my life has begun to dampen. So, what has made the difference?

Over time I’ve come to understand that it is all a matter of identity. Who am I? Or more to the point, who do I think I am? If I think I am only my physical body, the rest of my life will be experienced as a decline, as a loss. If, however, I experience myself primarily as a spiritual being in a human body, the picture begins to change, or is assisted by the wisdom of advancing years. After all, would a gardener think he was his hoe, or a painter her paintbrush? Then why should we think we are just our physical bodies, or even our personalities?

My self-imposed suffering turns out to be simply a case of mistaken identity when I too strongly identify with my physical form—the one that continues to deteriorate year after year. If instead I choose to move beyond the limitations of a falsely imposed identity and accept my connection with all that is, even embrace that I am all that is, then the entire cosmos opens to me. I begin to experience life as a gradual opening rather than as a gradual closing. That the older I get, the more connected and the more expansive I feel.

Over time I have grown to embrace the truth: that we are pure light, pure energy, and pure love. While I may not be able to live from that place all of the time, even connecting to it on occasion can be transformative. Opening to the place of emptiness—a spiritual place of no separation, no distinction between me and the oneness of it all—is what makes divine the tangible world. Form is still there; it just isn’t as limiting as I once thought it was.

Gradually I’ve become less constrained by the weightiness of my physical and emotional structure, while breaking out of the prison of my body and mind (however beautiful and fun-filled they may seem at times). Now I can be free and more awake to the eternal, to the place prior to form, to the place prior to all that is familiar to me and, most importantly, awake to the understanding that I am that place.

I’m reminded of a friend’s favorite response when I get on my soapbox and deliver some of this spiritual advice to him. “Well Ed [yawning], call me when you have it down.” And he has a point. This wholesale change in perception doesn’t come as fast or as easy as trying on new shoes. I have found that it is a very challenging and slow-paced shift in how I am in the world, in how I stand in my shoes.

But the good news is that this alteration in how I see myself—connecting to the blissful truth of who I really am—has the power to change my experience of aging from a sense of loss, to a sense of gain. It has allowed me to gradually encounter the remaining chapters as an act of grace, and to embrace this life transition as a major leap forward in my expanding capacity as a loving, spiritual being.

Epilogue: Getting Old

Perhaps my father said it best when referring to his failing vision: “I’ve lost so much already. If they now take away my ability to drive, I won’t have much to live for.” The power of his statement still haunts me today, almost seventeen years later.

Dad was near the end of his life. He was only seventy-three years old, but had suffered the pain of gradually losing his ability to engage in a wide spectrum of activities. Retirement years were filled with a slow and steady falling away of physical and mental capacity. Much of what he took for granted in his midlife, and assumed he would be engaged in during his later years, instead became just a painful memory.

Hardening of the arteries had him sitting out walks on the beach with my mother to pick up shells. And an uncontrollable shaking of his hands put an end to his building and flying of model airplanes, a cherished hobby since childhood. While sitting on the outdoor patio with my mother, I watched him walk with a hint of resignation in his gait toward the waiting car that was to drive him to the optometrist for his checkup. Little did I know then that this would be the last time I would see him alive, or that his parting statement about driving, deprivation, and death would be both prophetic for him and an advance notice for me.

And so it is with all of us. No one is spared the pain of loss during the final third of our lives. Capacities diminish and things fail, plain and simple. My mother was and still is fond of saying (with a wry smile on her face): “Don’t get old,” as if progressing in age were something we had any control over. Her smile when delivering this message to her four sons gets increasingly diminished as each year passes. Years ago it was funny. Now the poignancy of it has more weight than levity.

I believe my first glimpse into the process of aging came one day when my fourteen-year-old son Evan and I were out for a recreational run. As far back as my memory extends, I always adjusted my pace so that we would meet the finish line together. Not that day. At only fifty-six, I struggled to keep up with this growing boy who seemed to effortlessly leap ahead of me, leaving an aging man behind to huff and puff.

Similarly, our tennis matches always ended with roughly the same close outcome. One day, instead of fixing the result, I unexpectedly had to embrace defeat. I said to my son after he triumphantly walked off the tennis court, “So, Evan, did you ever wonder why the score in our tennis matches remained the same over all these years? Do you think you could gently, and in a not-too-obvious fashion, continue that trend?” He didn’t respond, but the silence was deafening. No controlling the outcome anymore; moving forward it would need to be more a matter of acceptance, and the transition hasn’t been easy.

As if to reinforce the message, my cousin Jeff approached me a few months later at my father’s funeral and said, with a gesture toward the casket, “Well Ed, we’re next.” Sure made me stop and pause. Embedded in the inference was the fact that my father was the last of the previous generation, and that cousin Jeff and I would likely be the next in our family lineage to meet this same fate head-on. His terse remark also said to me: okay, this is it; we’re on the last stretch, so make it count. But making it count while capacities are failing can be quite challenging, even when not engaged in a comparison with your much-younger son. 

Relatively speaking, I’m still in pretty good shape for someone in his mid-sixties. I can usually engage pain-free in physical activities like swimming, biking, and walking; appear reasonably coherent, and even engage in amorous activities without concern that the plumbing won’t function properly—well, most of the time. But does the picture look like it did in my forties or even my fifties? Due to nerve damage from an otherwise successful back surgery several years ago, I can no longer run with ease. My walk is with a slight and—to me—embarrassing limp. Tennis is a distant memory. Those things we call “senior moments” continue to increase in frequency. And forget about keeping up with the whirl of technological advances, which left me in the dust many years ago.

How does it feel? In truth, sometimes I can integrate the advancing limitations quite gracefully, and other times not so much. There is no doubt that the physical trajectory is a slow and steady decline, and no matter how fast I paddle, the physical capacity race is not one I can win. Sometimes I feel grateful for what I have, and at other times I feel downright frustrated for what I don’t have. But from deep within there is also a growing sense of acceptance, which helps to soften me and diminish the angst inside. On a good day it even feels like I’m gaining on things, that the turbulence of transition into the final third of my life has begun to dampen. So, what has made the difference?

Over time I’ve come to understand that it is all a matter of identity. Who am I? Or more to the point, who do I think I am? If I think I am only my physical body, the rest of my life will be experienced as a decline, as a loss. If, however, I experience myself primarily as a spiritual being in a human body, the picture begins to change, or is assisted by the wisdom of advancing years. After all, would a gardener think he was his hoe, or a painter her paintbrush? Then why should we think we are just our physical bodies, or even our personalities?

My self-imposed suffering turns out to be simply a case of mistaken identity when I too strongly identify with my physical form—the one that continues to deteriorate year after year. If instead I choose to move beyond the limitations of a falsely imposed identity and accept my connection with all that is, even embrace that I am all that is, then the entire cosmos opens to me. I begin to experience life as a gradual opening rather than as a gradual closing. That the older I get, the more connected and the more expansive I feel.

Over time I have grown to embrace the truth: that we are pure light, pure energy, and pure love. While I may not be able to live from that place all of the time, even connecting to it on occasion can be transformative. Opening to the place of emptiness—a spiritual place of no separation, no distinction between me and the oneness of it all—is what makes divine the tangible world. Form is still there; it just isn’t as limiting as I once thought it was.

Gradually I’ve become less constrained by the weightiness of my physical and emotional structure, while breaking out of the prison of my body and mind (however beautiful and fun-filled they may seem at times). Now I can be free and more awake to the eternal, to the place prior to form, to the place prior to all that is familiar to me and, most importantly, awake to the understanding that I am that place.

I’m reminded of a friend’s favorite response when I get on my soapbox and deliver some of this spiritual advice to him. “Well Ed [yawning], call me when you have it down.” And he has a point. This wholesale change in perception doesn’t come as fast or as easy as trying on new shoes. I have found that it is a very challenging and slow-paced shift in how I am in the world, in how I stand in my shoes.

But the good news is that this alteration in how I see myself—connecting to the blissful truth of who I really am—has the power to change my experience of aging from a sense of loss, to a sense of gain. It has allowed me to gradually encounter the remaining chapters as an act of grace, and to embrace this life transition as a major leap forward in my expanding capacity as a loving, spiritual being.