The Secret Lives of Old People
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- October 26, 2024
Carol Orsborn, author of Spiritual Aging: Weekly Reflections for Embracing Life
Today, when someone asks me “How are you?” I’m not going to report on the state of my health, complain about the friend who moved to live closer to her daughter or the unseasonable weather—all of which are true. But as of right now, I’ve got something else I want to talk about more. (If you are one of the many dreading aging, sit down. It may blow your socks off.)
I’m in the part of old age that is a hoot. Part Disneyland, part Donkey Island: Nobody ever told me that this patch of the journey could be so at once so fun and so unhinged. For years, I worried about making something of myself: setting a career path, raising a family, creating a legacy, staying fit. Then suddenly at 76, the switch got flipped and I no longer recognize myself. Hang on for my description of what this looks like in real time. First, a disclaimer.
In old age, I find that the general ethos of our times is that it is as tasteless to talk about happiness or fun as it is to share the extent of your savings, which of your grandchildren got into Harvard or your great health. Those of us who are sensitive souls think it polite to sink to the lowest denominator because we don’t want others to feel bad in comparison. The only issue is that in regards to aging, as a result nobody ever hears that even if your health isn’t what you’d hope for, you’ve endured loss, it’s stormy out, you can still be having the time of your life.
What can this look like? Throwing on some well-worn boots and a 30-year-old rain hat and heading out for an adventure. I happen to be in downtown Toronto half the year (the rest of the year I live on a river in Tennessee) so while this was my day yesterday, it’s only an example.
I love riding the streetcars with only a general sense of where I’m heading and see what unfolds. I can still remember the feeling of embarrassment when I’d board and some kind soul would offer me their seat. I must have been much younger then because now when I somehow finally hoist myself onto the thing, everybody within eyesight leaps to their feet. And there’s no embarrassment. I feel more like Moses and the Red Sea parting: powerful.
Then the fun really begins. I prefer sitting farther back but I’ve got to get there before the lurches and careening starts. On a good day, like yesterday, I can swing myself monkey-bar fashion, all the way to the back gently steadied by helpful hands. And then, in just the nick of time, I land heavily into the welcoming seat only to discover that I’m surrounded by a gaggle of old people greeting me with earned respect and spontaneous affection. We know things. Within seconds, we are sharing everything from the best stop to get off at for the prettiest park with a clean public bathroom to life lessons learned. There is laughter so loud the businessman in front of us throws us a look. There are tears, there are missed bus stops. Who cares? We’ve got time and it’s all part of the adventure. I’d meant to go on to describe the rest of the day in detail, but suffice it to say it included a giant sea turtle and a fresh croissant.
Earlier in my aging, I dragged myself through the post midlife stretch, thinking all chance for success and happiness to be as behind me as were the regular paychecks and identities with built-in meaning. But I was wrong. I can see now that the grieving, setbacks and tantrums that accompanied the transition from middle to older age were necessary. Loss, diminishment, the shocks of aging: these very things I dreaded most turned out to be the means of my delivery. They ripped away my ego defenses, tore through my masks and left me humbled: my authentic if vulnerable self exposed—and I didn’t die. It took some getting used to: this long-buried spirit of mine that only ever just wanted to swing to the back of the streetcar on monkey bars. But here we are.
I write all this knowing that there are going to be days ahead that are not going to be fun. I’m no fool. But not yesterday and God willing not today. Ask me how I am tomorrow, and who knows how I’ll respond. But today, all I want to talk to you about is my arrival to the preciousness of this moment and how good it is to be alive.
