Aging Consciously

I look at everything that I have done,
The years, the days, the hours;
Life it don’t overcome,
But it opens like a flower.

Love More or Less
Marianne Faithfull, Tom Mcrae

When I retired three years ago, I found myself with a large amount of free time, and financial resources sufficient to enjoy it. At the same time, I became aware of the challenges of aging, both by observing older people, and by noting the appearance of various twinges in my own body. I began to wonder why some older people seem beaten down by age, and resigned to further decline and death, while others seem to retain an enthusiasm for life, creativity, and friendship throughout their final years.

I have tried to follow the better of these examples by embracing a positive attitude, healthy living, good relationships, and my work as a writer and musician – to age consciously, through deliberate, hopefully life affirming choices. I have also learned that, although this commitment is necessary for the life I want to live, it alone is not sufficient. The challenges of aging and of mortality are daunting. To be honest, they can be terrifying. I find myself needing some sense of purpose, some work that will guide me through these fertile, unexplored, and ultimately final years I have been given.

Many of my contemporaries find this sense of purpose in religion, but I have never been able to embrace the leaps of faith and submission to spiritual authority organized religions demand. I have worked and lived my life as a scientist. I find enough wonder and beauty in the scientific explanation of the universe to fill my heart with a constant gratitude for being alive. When I read the words of Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Rumi, William Blake, and other spiritual masters, I find them to be more in tune with the traditions of humanistic reason and the joys of artistic expression, than the labyrinthine, guilt-ridden theologies required by most religions.

So, I find myself wondering how I can think of my remaining years in a way that makes them the great adventure I know they can become. Most importantly, how can I do this through reason, empiricism, and perhaps just a touch of faith and spiritual love? This is particularly difficult in a culture like ours, which places its greatest value on the dreams of youth, the seductions of the new, and the visible symbols of professional and economic success. In an often-quoted line from Yeats: “This is no country for old men.”

Fortunately, I have been blessed with a humanities education, which gives me some tools for answering these questions (as well as the ability to quote Yeats, a skill which is of less use to me as a happily married man than it was in my wilder days). In the course of going back over the library I’ve accumulated since high school, I seem to have found an answer in the same place I find answers to most questions: In the writings of Classical Greek Philosophers, particularly Aristotle, whose thinking has always resonated with my own perception of the world.

In his Ethics, Aristotle describes the highest good humans should strive for as ευδαιμονία, or eudaimonia. This is often translated as happiness, and although happiness fits as a literal translation, I think that our modern association of happiness with money, status, and consumption has devalued the term. Bliss and blessedness are much better translations, but the interpretation that strikes me as most fitting is flourishing.

Aristotle tried to understand the flux of existence by arguing that everything has a deep nature, an innate potential that is unique to it, and that becomes actualized over time. We can understand the seeming chaos of existence as a grand dance of everyone and everything moving toward a realization – a flourishing – of its potential. The important part of this idea is that this potential is inherent in the nature of the thing itself – not in some abstract, idealized, Platonic other. So, the big bang becomes a universe because the laws governing universes formed within it during its first few nanoseconds. A vibrating string becomes music because the physics of sound and the biology of hearing enable us to perceive harmony and rhythm, tension and resolution. Similarly, seeds become plants, bunnies become rabbits, babies become adults, and old men become . . .?

Every person, at every age strives to express his or her potential (they really can’t avoid doing so), and to flourish in so doing (if they are fortunate). This goal takes on a unique flavor at this time in my life: I am closing in on my last chance to actualize whatever potential remains unrealized within in me. The thought of anyone dying without realizing their unique, innate gifts – without flourishing – strikes me as terribly sad. Putting it bluntly, my purpose, my responsibility, my great adventure in these final years, is to complete myself before I die.

This has become the focus of my desire to live and age consciously, and it has placed everything I experience in a sharper focus. If music touches me more profoundly, if literature resonates with a deeper understanding, and if the beauty of nature, art, and well-graced men, women, and children is more arresting, it is because all of these move me toward this completion.

At the start of this essay, I included as an epigram a few lines from a song written by the wonderful Marianne Faithfull. These lines capture this idea in far fewer words than I have needed. Repeating them offers a perfect end to this essay:

Life it don’t overcome,
but it opens like a flower.

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The Mad Men Finale: Creativity as a Way of Living in the World

As readers of this blog know, I am a huge Mad Men fan. So, whether in the hope of adding something new to the gigabytes of fan analysis and commentary that fill the internet; or consoling my grief at the end of one of television’s finest creations; or simply trying to stop the “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” song from replaying in my mind all day, I would like to share my own thoughts on the series finale. In particular, although many commentators have described the resolution of Don‘s journey simply as a cynical return to advertising with a great idea for a Coca Cola commercial, I found it to be a deeply resonant insight into the joys and struggles of living a creative life.


First, a few words about the other characters, whose stories expanded the themes of the show with remarkable power:

I found Joan’s story to be the most moving, being both heart wrenching and triumphant. Although I had hoped she would find the love she desired, I had suspected that the need to realize her professional and creative potential would become the center of her life. How can someone with her intelligence endure the abuse of unimaginative, sexist, corporate drones without developing an overwhelming drive to realize the gifts that had been denied for so long?

Although I was initially disappointed that Peggy turned down Joan’s offer of a partnership in her production company, I believe that her instincts were right. Joan was as much a mentor to Peggy as was Don, and it was clearly time for Peggy to move past both of her teachers and navigate toward her own goals. I do not know what will become of Peggy’s romance with Stan, but it is part of the process of finding her own creative voice.

As to Pete Campbell, I found myself happy for him, in spite of his ingrained tendency to selfishness, deceit, and self-pity. Although I doubt he will remain faithful to his wife for long, I do believe he has learned to keep his affairs discreet, short-lived, and out of town – an approach greatly simplified by the Lear Jet now placed at his disposal. I also believe Trudy probably will come to recognize and accept the arrangement, at least at an unconscious level.

I find Roger and Marie’s romance to be surprisingly sweet, and much deserved for a man who was possibly the sweetest character in the series. As they settle into a deep connection, made almost unbreakable by the intensity of their sexual passion and the ferocity of their arguments, I can see them becoming icons of sophisticated, New York Bohemianism, sitting at their usual table in a well-worn cafe, surrounded by a growing community of artists, writers, and assorted eccentrics.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking scene in the finale showed Don’s daughter Sally washing dishes in the dimly lit Victorian kitchen while her domineering, cancer-stricken mother sat smoking at the table. I can only hope that Don’s past and future presence in Sally’s life will help her to shake off her mother’s influence and live her own life – a possibility suggested by the strong albeit turbulent connection between Don and his daughter, and by Betty’s surprisingly perceptive comment in her last wishes letter: that Sally would indeed walk to her own drummer.

LOW RES image - Don Draper MAD MEN finale credit: AMC

That leads us to Don’s strange, somewhat ambiguous satori on the meadow overlooking the California coast. Although his “enlightenment” was ultimately grist for his advertising work, producing the famous “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” commercial, I disagree with those commentators who describe it simply as Don failing to rise above his life as an ad man. If we look past Don’s sexual irresponsibility, his desperate alpha-male persona, and the harm he has caused those close to him, we can see his journey as a flawed Everyman’s effort to realize the gifts of great creative ability in spite of the obstacles of modern society and his own fundamental loneliness. Continue reading

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The Day I Met Thelonious and Nica in Heaven

Nica and Thelonious
Nica and Thelonious

I was sitting in my music room the morning after the biggest snowstorm of the winter, alternately practicing my guitar and looking out at the snow piled heavy on the trees. My wife walked in with a late morning cup of coffee.

“I hate winter,” she said.

Not wanting to disappoint her, I gave my standard answer. “I love it. It’s pretty. Besides, we get to spend the morning drinking coffee and looking at the snow.”

“Some of us have to go out and run errands,” she said, sipping her coffee. “What are you working on?”

“A Thelonious Monk tune: Pannonica,” I said handing her the sheet music. “I can’t seem to get it right.”

She looked it over. She’d had early training on the piano and could read music easily. Sometimes, I felt envious.

“I’ve heard you practicing this,” she said. “You sound pretty good to me.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I can play the notes OK, but I just can’t get the feeling right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a love song, but I can’t seem to make it sound like one.”

“A love song?” she said looking over the music, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “It looks strange for a love song.”

“That’s Monk’s genius. He could make all those odd chord changes and dissonances sound beautiful. You see,” I went on, “it’s a song he wrote for a woman who literally saved his life. I just can’t seem to give it the feeling it deserves.”

My wife took another sip of coffee and sat down. She knew I wanted to talk. Continue reading

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Death and Spreadsheets

It has been too long since my last entry in this blog. This is not a result of ill health or other problems (in spite of the title of this posting), but comes from the very happy fact that I have finally started work on a long-planned novel. After finishing six chapters, I find myself wrestling with some structural issues in the plot, and thought it might be helpful to step back from the project for a Sunday afternoon, and share some other thoughts that have been on my mind.

I am retired, and fortunate enough to enjoy a pension from my former employer as well as Social Security (which I have paid for and expect my government to honor, Mr. Boehner). Still, I do depend upon my investment portfolio for a significant portion of my income. Being a computer scientist, I have constructed a number of spreadsheets using risk analysis, Monte Carlo Modeling, and other techniques to determine if I will outlive my money (certainly a blessing, but like many blessings, it is one that would create some degree of inconvenience).

Death and the Miser, Jan Provoost (1465-1529)


I have done this for a few years now, and was happy to see that each year, the probability of my money lasting seemed to improve. At least I was happy until I realized the reason this was so. Each year I live means I have fewer years to pay for. Death, it would seem, has become a major factor in my financial planning. Continue reading

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What are the stages of a man’s life, and what the hell am I doing in this one?

This morning, as my wife and I were relaxing after our Sunday morning breakfast and enjoying a last taste of coffee and orange juice before starting a busy day of not watching the Super Bowl, she decided to play one of the Twilight Zone episodes she recorded from the New Years SyFy Channel Twilight Zone Marathon (NYSFCTZM). It was the episode with Andy Devine as Frisby, the doyen of a group of old coots whose lives centered on telling tall tales around the stove at the local gas station. I won’t go into details about the episode other than to say that Frisby’s tall tales result in his being abducted by space aliens, and his atrocious harmonica playing leads to his release. The story ends with all the other old coots throwing Frisby a surprise party on his sixty third birthday, and refusing to accept his sworn account of the abduction as anything other than another tall tale.

Rembrandt: One old coot regarding the bust of another old coot

Unfortunately, watching this episode, and its implication that men of my age can legitimately be relegated to old coothood made me wonder about the current stage of my life. I am a few years older than Frisby, but hardly consider myself to be an old coot. I asked my wife for some reassurance on this note, and received an affectionate, witty, but disturbingly ambiguous response. As a result, I began thinking about this stage of my life, and what it all means. This is something I do from time to time, probably because I am at this stage of my life.

Part of the problem is that I don’t know of a clear alternative to old coot that I can use to describe myself. I don’t really feel comfortable imagining myself in the demographic group assigned to me by popular television news and entertainment shows and their commercials, which characterize men of my age as reinventing themselves with great vigor and creativity, in spite of being obsessed with golf, unable to make love to their sexy but age-appropriate wives without pharmaceutical assistance, and possessing an overwhelming urge to vote Republican.

So, I have decided to spend this Super Bowl Sunday in a pursuit even less productive than watching football. I have decided to develop an improved model of the stages of a man’s life, in the hope that it will help other men my age escape the stigma of premature old-coot-hood. I will limit it to the lives of males – actually retired, white, American, former professional, middle class males – since that is the only sort of life I have experienced. Continue reading

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