New Year

I claim to love living in the Northeast because of the seasons, but the more likely truth is because I grew up here. I do like natural markers of time, such as a noticeable solstice to indicate when winter begins, and the cold weather affecting my usual walks and yard work .

This year has been snowier and much colder than recently. Flu season is immense, and has affected me in spite of vaccination. I sit housebound, almost happily, and rejoice that I live in an era of abundant energy and goods .

I usually enter December wrapping nostalgia around the previous 11 months. At my age if I do not take care the entire past blends into a golden glow, and I quickly forget recent highlights. I accomplish my memory scrapbook with internet cleanups, visits, all the holiday chores and rituals .

And then – January. Looking forward, and during winter but spring is in view. New season tasks popping up already – taxes, travel plans, medical appointments. And a few items – not quite strong nor large enough to be considered resolutions – having to do with lifestyle, hobby, and happiness .

At the moment, however, I look out at snow, cough frequently, and too often say to myself “maybe tomorrow”. I guess concentrating on enjoying each changeable moment is also one of the benefits of very noticeable seasons .

Dreamtime

Sometime in late adolescence I read about the “dreamtime” of Australian Aborigines. Back then, it was presented as an irresponsible immersion in the moment, without regard for the past nor plans for the future. And, from the standpoint of what was still a highly puritan culture, a primitive decadence, hedonistically doing nothing to become better .

Now, as an advancing senior, I find myself also in a perpetual dreamtime. Not particularly hedonistic, but pleasant enough. The past becomes foggier each day, and the future is hardly worth thinking about. But this moment, now, is as wonderful as I wish.

Of course my original perception of ” dreamtime” was wrong. Like all human activities, it was a useful adaptation to a tough environment. More survival than hedonism. And fully sane, given the conditions .

My own dreamtime has a few aspects of that, and although my conditions are more paradisical than harsh, I inhabit the land of cockaigne, where pigs run around pre-cooked with forks stuck in them. Yet each day, even more importantly what I do each moment, is ever more precious. What I did – well, what of it? What will I will do? Forget about it .

No complaints, here at the water hole .

Medical Crazy

Evolutionary nature is cruel and capricious. The only thing that matters in evolution is reproduction. There are lots of complicated ways for a species to achieve that, including various instincts and even altruisms. But an organism that achieves too great a success will overpopulate and die off. Highly successful strategies that worked for millennia can be destroyed in an instant of bad luck as happened to the dinosaurs .

Until recently, although some humans may have dreamed of “threescore and ten”, most adults died by forty, and most children did not become adults. Old women past menopause would have lost all evolutionary reason to exist were it not for the “grandmother theory” that they promoted culture and advantage to their genetically connected tribe .

These days the pampered masses have lost all sense of gratitude for the scientific miracles surrounding them. Most children do not die before becoming adults. Most adults live past forty. Many can extend prime years to eighty and beyond .

Instead it is a litany of how awful things have become. More children with problems (instead of being dead!), more adults with pain and incapacity (ditto!). Everyone thinks they should be a vibrant perfect thirty-five years old forever .

Nature always disagreed, and still does .

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was the first holiday I “gave up” when I moved out of my boyhood home. I was often far away, relatively poor, and the hassle was just too great. Joan never considered it all that wonderful either – as a good Catholic her big holidays are Christmas and Easter .

As we raised our family we attended or occasionally hosted the gathering. Joan did it as a duty. I never enjoyed it much, probably because I always had to work the day after. And to be honest, I’ve had experience with too much alcohol, arguing, and pent up stress from everyone involved .

But this year much subdued. We spent the afternoon at my son’s house with his in-laws and our grandchild. The old folks pretty quiet, often remembering all those now missing. The younger people simply relaxing since they each also had to work the next morning .

Each day now is thanksgiving for me. I cannot believe my luck. I am fully enchanted in my magic bubble. I know it cannot last – but as the moments unfold I remain grateful for each one. I’ve already lived a fulfilled life twice as long as most of those of our ancestors. I’ve used and been treated to miracles unimaginable to them. Any complaints I may have would make them laugh in scorn.

Thus thanks. Giving thanks. Another thanksgiving day.

Age: 11

When I retired in my mid-60s, I spent a little time considering what I wanted to do and how I wanted to live for the next 20 years or so. Surprisingly, the answer came down to existing as I did when eleven years old. Even stripped of nostalgia, that was a golden time . I bestrode the earth as a miniaturized colossus. I thought I knew everything, I was quite independent but freed of all the real cares of supporting myself and daily existence . I had a secure place in my family and the world .

Every day – every instant – was new and exciting. I had no desire to return to nor even remember my past. I fully believed the future would be ever more marvelous. There was always something new and wonderful to explore. I had almost no responsibilities, carefree .

All my senses were magnificent, my body tuned. My mind unafflicted. Even hormones still well under control. Energy limitless, sleep effortless. A perfect animal supporting a pristine consciousness .

Thus my desire to do all I could to return to such an existence. Much as living in the garden of Eden, an earthly paradise. Forget about what I could not control, enjoy each moment, assume the future is unknowable.

Out of control. Loving every minute .

Humble

These days, it is quite easy to feel as a god. We eat well, speed along without effort faster than birds, know everything at the flick of a screen, control vast powers. We think we are pretty close to omniscient and omnipotent. Well – compared to the past, at least, we are .

So we tend to take ourselves very seriously. What we do or don’t do must shake the cosmos. Every emotion must be huge and deep and meaningful. Our successes are tributes to our glory, our failures are – someone else’s fault .

Humble is no longer in most vocabularies. As a contrarian, I cultivate it. I do not feel in control. Kind of a god? Yeah I can’t escape that. Important? Responsible for my divinity? Nope. Just damn lucky to have been born into my time and situation. Fortunate to have adapted well . Certainly enjoying the experience. But always very aware that I hardly “deserved” or “worked for” most of it .

Sure, I’m moderately proud of who I am and what I have done. That’s it. I fight hubris tooth and nail. I simply pray that things will continue. I’m a leaf swirling down the stream, but an ecstatically happy leaf.

I know everyone is stressed, often rightfully. I wish they could step back and take a deep breath. But – hey! I’m just humble old me, so nobody listens .

Vision

Each one of our senses is miraculous and far more complex than we usually give credit for. I hesitate to claim I am primarily “visual” because I truly celebrate them all, but I am often greatly aware of what I see and how I perceive it .

Anyone who gives a moment of thought is amazed at colors, and lines, making sense of the environment by constructing objects in depth. Keenly tuned to any movement. Able to instantly assemble a worldview of depth and perception when we glance around. Focusing on anything for fight, flight, or manipulation. The list is endless, and there is no need to expand the craziness by trying to explain the mechanisms of the eyes, nerves, and brain .

My vision naturally works with everything else. If I hear a noise, I automatically try to see what caused it. Before I eat I view each morsel. When I walk I use my internal visual mapping to aim my steps and avoid bumping into things.

And I am somewhat frustrated when my eyes cannot help . The wind and cold surprise me. Internal issues scare me. Other times I use eyes unconsciously as when I read and my mind ignores all the intermediate processing from printed symbols to dreamlike thought .

Incredible. Miraculous. Instantaneous. Always available. And – unfortunately – prone to errors, incapacity, and age .

Elder Myth

Most of us understand our lives as a narrative story. Elders tend to form that into a mythology. Like any good literature, the best exaggerate the highs and lows and often have a structure with a moral. Grandparents especially enjoy inflicting this on their young grandchildren. Or at anyone else when there is a holiday gathering. It’s a way of making a mark on the universe, claiming an importance almost as meaningful as in tales of heroes of old .

Nor is it wrong to do so. There is more to existence than daily meals and bedtime. Formulating one’s place in eternal mystery is important to all of us. And once in a while it is nice to share – even proclaim – that adventure .

Unlike many others, I do not think such tales actually help the young in their own lives. Life and circumstance were always unique, and the days change at a dizzying speed. At best this is just another form of entertainment with the added benefit of being (mostly) true .

Oh, perhaps there is some moral value. But really it helps everyone share and join internal narratives to feel far less lonely in the ineffable cosmos.

Sanibel Sad

“You can’t go home again” -, well you can’t really go anywhere as it once was. Older folks are often wrapped in nostalgia. As one of them, I remember many places I was privileged to visit before great change. Often merely modernity, sometimes catastrophe. Sanibel Island was one of them .

When my wife and I visited years ago it was – like many places we went – caught between old and new. The new was glitchy, shiny, and inaccessably privatized. The old had a patina of history along with the comfort of the commonplace.

Hurricane Ian exchanged all that, of course. New things are being rebuilt, but all is shiny, private, glitz. I find myself never wanting to revisit anywhere that once charmed me .

This culture is, I think, testing the proposition that private wealth is always better than public for anything but the most utilitarian needs. Mostly gaudy and ugly, but above all else tightly secreted away. With rare exceptions, America has no grand public spaces, and even fewer that are not merely an attempt at preserved wilderness .

It’s a forward-looking time. Ignoring real history in favor of myth, and ignoring the present in the race to the next great thing .

Sometimes an old man believes all the great things are gone with the wind .

Next Time

We are conditioned by evolution and experience to expect there to be a “next time” for most events. Next time the sun comes up, the next time it rains, an endless procession of recurrences .

We use that knowledge to plan and learn. “Next time will be different” we may say. We hope to do better in things at which we have failed, repeat exactly things we have enjoyed. And for most of our lives, for much of our daily existence, that belief works very well indeed .

Oh, we know there are unusual one-offs. Never again a fifth birthday party. Hopefully not another car accident. We stash those away and hope or fear as “once in a lifetime” .

As I grow older, “next time” becomes more problematic. Almost all the things I used to know have changed. Places are no longer as they were. Some people have vanished. Institutions I took for granted have mutated as in horror films. Some of it is good, I acknowledge, but even that means there is no true next time for a lot of my memories .

And it begins to get a little frightening. Any given day, for any given event, any given encounter, there may never be a next time. Such absences cascade until I feel trapped in a few quotidian routines that I can (for the moment) count on .

And yet – I DO still expect a next time most of the time.