Living In the Moment — the art of aging

The art of aging paints with favorable, random, brush strokes. As I’ve aged I’ve slowed down at almost everything I do. I ache and tire. Sleep is disjointed. Cancer fights me (but I am winning). I paint my life moment-to-moment as best as I can, often missing the lines, even the entire canvas sometimes. But I paint on living.

More favorably, I live in the moment, appreciate more deeply, and find great pleasure in baseball, birding, and eating. I read more; I savor my Scotch neat, sip by sip, as though it will be my last.

Lyrical music resonates with me. Poets speak my language.

The heart and its foundation – the soul – is my moment-to-moment flowing river of energy, love, and compassion. I block negative thoughts. I dwell on good. I love and weep with joy.

Last night, my wife of 25 years, and I, fell asleep in bed around 10 pm. We left the TV on low. We held hands. We fell asleep holding hands. My relaxed jaw gave into my smile. I awoke two hours later still holding hands, now sweaty and cramping, and I slowly disengaged them. A commercial about “Low T” promised I could get my testosterone level back to that of a raging bull.

I giggled, muffling my sound not to awaken her. I told the TV pitchman to keep his libido to himself. “I, mister, sleep holding hands,” I proudly informed him. “No drug,” I schooled him, “can give you that.” I took the remote and clicked on the Food Network. Virginia slept while I pondered what our Sunday breakfast might be eight or nine hours from then.

I had aged lovingly in three very human hours.




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