The Inside of Aging: The Shoreline

This is #2 in a series of short essays on aging.

I think I was in my fifties when I became aware of a shoreline. It was over the horizon, out of sight. The realization of its existence came unexpectedly, revealing itself so gradually, so undramatically that I hardly knew that something new had entered my life. I could smell the sea, but nothing in my line of sight betrayed it. I saw no cliffs, heard no breakers. Nevertheless, I knew the shoreline was there even if I couldn’t see exactly where. I was coming to a limit, a place where I could go no farther.

Until then, my future was endless. It was a direction, an arrow pointed forward. In my work, for example: I would become a writer, the best writer I could be, and one article would lead to another. One book would lead to another. And so on, endlessly. As there was no limit to the valuable and interesting subjects to write on, there could be no limit on my career.

Or travel. My work took me to exotic places, meeting and interviewing people very different from myself, seeing new sights, learning. The list of countries worthy of a journalistic examination was long. New issues arose constantly in India, Argentina, Sri Lanka, South Africa, Viet Nam. I wanted to visit them all, and then some. I thought my travels would never end. Or, more accurately, I didn’t think. I assumed the world would always be there, and so would I.

And that was just for work! Travel for pleasure, with my wife, with friends, to Italy or England or Utah could continue forever. Gardening would go on forever. Baseball.

Then one day I realized I didn’t have time to see it all or do it all.

Somebody called me up and asked me to help him write a book. I would be paid well, the subject was interesting, and the man asking for help seemed like a nice guy. All systems go! I’m a professional writer! If somebody offers money to write, I generally say yes! The only problem was that I had another book in mind, one of my own. It would have to wait if I worked on this project. But no problem, right? My book wasn’t really urgent. I could put it off for a year.

Now, though, the thought came to me that at my age this might be my last or next-to-last book. That idea had never, ever occurred to me.

 I needed to ponder seriously whether, with limited time, somebody else’s project might prevent me from doing my own work, which I cared about deeply. I needed to prioritize. I needed to focus my energies, so that (if this was my last published work) it would be worthy.

I’d realized I’m not going to write forever.

The sense of a shoreline goes beyond projects and places. It’s a vision of a future that isn’t endless.

I’m 73 years old. It’s reasonable to hope I’ll live to 93. That’s 20 years. Twenty is a very finite number. I can count to 20 on my fingers and toes. One year, I’m down to 19. Another year, 18.

I can see already, it’s going to move fast. That doesn’t make me fearful. I have no sense of panic. No, but it concentrates my mind.

I just came back from a backpacking trip with my two grown sons. I’m grateful I can still backpack.  My sons asked me what I was writing. I told them about this project, mentioning the idea of a shoreline. They were interested, but also amused. The rest of the trip they ribbed me about my imminent end. And yes, it is funny. I don’t want to take myself too seriously.

Nevertheless, it is sobering to know there is a limit, and that it’s not too far off.

When I was young, the vast expanse of time gave me freedom. I could try things. My mistakes could be overcome. Time wasted was of no account. Now, I have a tighter focus on the choices before me.

I relate this to the somber words of Psalm 90: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” You number what is precious and limited. You don’t count the coffee beans in a bin or the needles on a pine tree. What would be the point? You count the days until Christmas, or the pennies you need to afford an ice cream cone. Numbering helps you keep track of every last one. That is true of days. Each one deserves our best attention. Each one deserves to be numbered.

You can’t say exactly when you will reach the shore, only that it exists and that it’s not too far off. Knowing that makes you pay attention to where you are. It makes every day precious. That is part of the inside of aging. Paradoxically, life seems short and more precious.