Hello, dear reader.  I need you to be in my head sometimes, whoever you are, whether we’ve met or not.  Thanks for being there, because I’m sure you realise, it’s pretty pointless writing to myself.

Mostly I write because I’ve got a dream, a story, an idea – whatever – that needs to come out, but sometimes I write – to you – because I need to think something through, and need your help with it, and your very presence is the help I need.

I don’t know about you – well, aint that almost certainly the truth! – but when I’m thinking, I have loads of thoughts in my head, all jumbled up at the same time, and the only way I can bring any order to them is to write them down, because writing is linear, sequenced and, though possibly confused, supplies a path to walk down which may come to a place, a conclusion.

So, thanks for joining me on this walk. 

Getting Old?

I didn’t think I was old; not really.

66 had a symmetry I concentrated on,

Without any serious implications.

Somehow 60 had been a bit of a triumph;

I’d never thought I’d get that far,

Not the way I have lived,

So I was pretty smug on my 60^th.

50 had come and gone,

Nothing earth-shattering occurring,

And the other 0 birthdays

Were really just a bit of fun.

So, anyway, the being old,

Like for real,

I had managed to avoid,

Deep where it matters,

And then they turned off Big Ben

And I realised that I’d be 70

When they turn it on again in 4 years.

It’s ridiculous, because even as I write

I’m kicking against the truth of it,

Trying to find some way to stop 70

From being old, somehow,

Just oldish, or some such.

I mean, I’m 4 years away from it,

And there are no guarantees.

I want it to happen, don’t get me wrong.

I’m not excited about it, you understand,

But as I sit here, I sure as hell don’t want to miss it!

I believe in life after death in a very personal way,

Built up over all these wonder-full years,

From learning and experience,

And this belief includes

Having time after death,

Time somewhere else,

Doing other things,

And meeting up with folk

And - stuff I can’t get a grip on -

And then we come back – reincarnation.

I’m not a conventional believer, I suppose,

But I see little reason why anybody should be.

We are individuals, leading individual lives.

We make meaning of the here and now,

And the there and later (and before)

In our own ways, based on what makes sense to us,

And perhaps in an infinite universe,

With infinite possibilities,

We create our own universes,

And we’re all right,

In all our different ways.

I don’t know.  I don’t care.

It is as it is.

I suppose to support matters spiritual, or soul-full,

I attend church at the First Unitarian in Dallas,

Which is, if you’re interested, a non-creedal organisation;

Unitarian Universalists believe in a unity, not a Trinity,

And that all souls are universally acceptable

To what ever it is that we do or don’t believe in,

And I’m pretty much stretched / comfortable

With that place, those people,

Probably because I’ve never physically been there

And have no desire to go – and risk my illusions!

They / we / I try to:  Give.  Change lives.  Repeat.

Not a bad aspiration.

I’m only mentioning this because,

The truth is that if I was offered eternal life

Here, as a human being,

I’d give it a pass, because I’m happy with

What the future holds after this life,

Even though I don’t know what it is,

And I’m not ready for it yet …

Perhaps that’s the way a life examined

And enjoyed should be, as Socrates didn’t quite say!

It’s just that getting old, one gets a bit decrepit,

And the body starts to pay you back

For all the stress you visited upon on it,

During those wild and carefree years.

(There’s actually something quietly amusing,

In an ironic sort of way, about that.)

More concerning from my point of view,

Is the fact that the mind can go. 

Dementia scares me shitless, truth be told. 

I’ve always really enjoyed my mind,

It’s a pretty groovy place for me to hang out,

Though I appreciate fully that this

Would not be the case for anybody else!

So, the getting old thing isn’t actually about being older;

It’s about the consequences,

And pay back for past madness.

I want to be in control,

And less and less will I be –

The old cliché of second childhood comes to mind.

Maybe we need that, to learn true humility.

I recognise that when I was younger

I was no more in control than now,

In many ways probably less,

But I could con myself I was.

When one is young there’s an irrational,

But none-the-less real,

Sense of immortality,

And a delightful sense that one is going to

Take the world by its tail

And shake some order into it.

I guess that’s the crux of this getting old thing;

You can no longer con yourself you’re in charge,

And that’s … what?  A bit frightening?  Perhaps.

In some ways, though, it’s exiting,

You know, like when you first fell deeply in love,

And it was wild, passionate and out of your control,

Because your very heart depends on the smile of your lover –

You recall that wild journey?

Well, this is different 

But in some ways the same, I guess,

Since I so love life,

And am on a voyage of discovery;

And if I make 70 I should be humble,

For it is a privilege denied to many –

Actually, in the history of humanity, to most.

I need to see this whole business -

The journey of my soul -

As a part of a continuum. 

Maybe the Venerable Bede had it right;

A sparrow flies from the storm and dark

Into a mead hall, where all is warmth and light,

And then flies out the other end,

Back into the storm and dark.

That time in the Hall is life.

The journey before going into the hall,

And the journey coming out of the hall,

Are other parts of the journey,

The incomprehensible parts,

For which we have no road map,

Or flightpath.

For me, the sparrow would not be

Flying in from the storm and the dark,

But rather from a mystery wrapped in love,

And returned to after the time in the hall.

The sum total of the sparrow’s journey,

Or yours, dearheart, or mine,

Is not something we understand

Whilst we’re in the hall,

Though we ponder and puzzle,

And search for a certainty endlessly.

I’m not sure, of course, one understands fully

When one is not in the hall,

But I think that at least one should

Consider the journey

As an opportunity to learn,

And to grow in both understanding and grace,

Becoming incrementally wiser,

And more grace-full,

If at all possible -

And if one tries, it always is.

Unfortunately it’s not always easy!

One might say, however, 

What, worthwhile, ever is?

So, 70, if it is to be so,

Is part of a continuum,

One that did not start at 0

And will not end at 70, or whenever

My soul flies out from the hall

And into the unfathomable.

It should be regarded as no more extraordinary

Than 1 or 7, or 13, 21, 30, 40 – life begins at … what

A load of crap! – 50, 60, 70, 101, 32.5 … whatever.

Perhaps one should measure time in moments,

Or maybe breaths. 

(So you don’t need to Google it,

Dear reader, I did.  Around 672,768,000

breaths in a lifetime, if you live to be 80.

Hands up who thinks that vast number

Makes breathing look like hard work!) 

Years seem a bit more sensible, if arbitary,

Though one understands the turning planet

Makes it a bit of an obvious choice,

And a bit easier to conjure with than breaths.

Both are meaningless though, aren’t they?

That’s not how life should be measured,

How the milestones on the journey should be counted.

Perhaps, though, it becomes meaningful

If it is measured in events,

Both meaningful and unmeaningful. 

There may be, somewhere in our hippocampus,

A little counter which clocks them up,

An event odometer,

And during REM sleep you sort them

Into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ ... though bad

Can be meaningful too, I suppose.

You know that thing,

That your entire life

Flashes before you as you’re about to croak?

Maybe that’s us, winnowing

The wheat from the chaff,

The sheep from the goats.

(I find this latter expression difficult,

As I prefer the goats to the sheep.)

Though I am obliged to wonder,

As I’ve been about to croak on the odd occasion,

And even been diagnosed as having

Well and truly croaked,

And I have had none of these revelations.

I was, however, well looked after

When things were a bit crock, physically,

And I went somewhere else to get myself

Away from the discomfort,

And some ... thing? body? ...

Gave me love and succour,

Kept me warm, sane and secure,

And everything was okay,

And I knew, with all of me,

That it would be, 

Whatever the eventual outcome.

So, I have lived most of my life

With the two words ‘Carpe’ and ‘diem’

Front and centre,

And indeed nowadays

They are framed in a picture,

Kindly made up for me by a friend,

And are the first things I see in the morning.

I don’t know if the symbolism was conscious

Or unconscious, but each letter is written

Upon a playing card.

Grasp the day, in all its glorious uncertainty,

In a game more sophisticated and fun

Than any game of poker;

The ultimate game, life and death.

Quite literally, Give. Change lives. Repeat!

Maybe that’ll do, dear reader.

Maybe I shouldn’t overthink it.

It’s a moment in the hall,

One I should, and do, grasp daily.

And as that moment is viewed,

It carries within it a section

Of the known within the unknowable whole,

And that section can be viewed as a journey,

With the sparrow’s intial confusion on entering the hall,

And then he starts getting the hang of it,

Flying forwards, taking in the scenery,

Evaluating it and making sense of it,

Until he gets pretty blasé,

And on he cruises,

And the more he see,

The more he realises he doesn’t really understand,

And then he nears the exit point,

The place beyond which he cannot see,

Though he knows there is something there,

And still he continues,

Wondering what’s after the exit;

Reflecting on what was, what is and what may be,

Until at last, filled with the wisdom of uncertainty,

His wings weary from the flight,

He exits the hall to ...

Something not to be feared,

Part of the normal progression of the soul,

Where perhaps he can truly evaluate his journey,

And take what he has learned and place it

Within his learning and yearning spirit,

And then once more take to the wing,

And rejoin the most complicated card game,

There ever was or ever will be,

And his soul may die at birth,

Or live to a hundred,

Whatever the random game serves up,

And he can learn from that what he will.

So be it.  Amen.

Yep, dear reader, that’ll do.

That’s tamed 70.

Thanks for your help.

I hope it has been useful for you, too.