In Sailing to Byzantium, an aging William Butler Yeats wondered how he could remain vital even as he was “fastened to a dying animal,” and concluded that he’d have to let go of the romance and exuberance of youth. “That is no country for old men,” he chanted. But what is?
To begin, we might accept a simple reality. Almost every one of us—those over 70 years of age and certainly those of us in the 80-year range—lives with declining health and strength and vigor. So, too, our friends and siblings. As you know, my brother recently died of pancreatic cancer. Recently, friends have been plagued with strokes, heart disease, dementia, and Parkinson’s Disease. All my friends wonder about the nearness of death. Each of us speculates about the end and suffers our infirmities. The suffering is hard but not unique. We, who have been fortunate to live into old age, live much of each day within a community of people like ourselves, in a country of old men and women.
Much as youth and vigor, then the complexities of work and family, once shaped our world, now the awareness of declining powers and opportunities have come forward. Trust in the future, once key to keeping our spirits high, has been waning. Friendship circles are depleted. We are lonelier than before.
There are those who want to turn their heads, to deny that this is their land too, but, for the most part, I’m not one of them. And one by one my friends also seem to understand that they have emigrated here. Whatever pleasures and fulfillment we are to find, must be found within this landscape.
There are, of course, infinite ways that people enter this new country. Denial might not be my way, for example, but it works for others. There’s a study group I’ve belong to for years. Once, some years ago, I asked, “What’s it like being old? “Old, they snorted?” To a person, they claimed not to be old, though one had already died, another had recently had a heart attack, two others had had strokes. And as far as I can tell, that attitude fueled their lively lives.
There are those in my circles who dwell on their youth. Some nostalgically and with pleasure, like the experience of reading a favorite novel. Others ruefully or regretfully, wishing that life had been more fulfilling or more adventurous or more creative or more successful.
For those of us captured by the past, there can be a sense of life as lost possibilities. And for some that loss is particularly intense. In Natural Theology, the poet Kelly Cherry puts it this way: “It is the loss of possibility that murders us.” I would rather not to dwell on these grim feelings, but in our crowd, we need to find a way to embrace or at least accept them in order to live our actual lives.
Many of us seek consolations for our losses. Perhaps a calm to replace the energy and anxiety- fueled lives we led as parents and professionals. Or an acceptance of our limited selves, an acceptance that replaces the need to be better, ever better. And we yearn most of all to at least replace vigor with wisdom.
Many if not most of us fight the decline and the fears. To do so, we develop strategies. According to Simon de Beauvoir, for instance, “There is only one solution if old age is not to be an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning…” (129) This is a familiar strategy for me but, try as I might, I can maintain it only some of the time. But even when my fighting spirit wanes, I resist saying or even thinking that it may be too late; and I return to the fight.
Some of us dwell on death, itself, like a terrifying lover. How near it has become. How frightening. How painful. How unknown. This was my brother’s way. He feared and hated death yet regularly read about the contemplations of others. Like so many others, me included, he’d wish for a clean, sharp, painless end, like a heart attack while you sleep or, as with my brother-in-law, as you hike your favorite mountain trail.
I have friends who wish, especially, to age, then die, with dignity and some sense of eternal connection to this world. Through the legacies of their children and grandchildren or the legacy of their work. For some, there is another world to anticipate. Even without an explicit religious creed, my sister believes that she will finally rejoin her husband after all these years.
Others take a psychological approach, hoping that there will be the time and the will to say proper goodbyes. Yet others choose a more prosaic approach: They write and rewrite their wills and their healthcare proxies. The feelings that accompany these activities and conversations range from stiff, accountant-like recitations, to romantic encounters.
Almost all of us try to find some meaning in this strange land. Adrienne Rich has a line that resonates for me. She talks of “…trying to let go without giving up.” I know that there are activities I must yield. There are friends I will continue to lose. There are ideas, even, that no longer seem either vibrant or true. And I never will help as many people as I have yearned to help, or write that novel I dreamed of. In this country of old friends and neighbors, I must let go of many dreams and many people.
But here’s my claim: Seeing clearly the challenges ahead and letting go of old expectations has already begun to lighten my load. It has calmed my restless spirit. It has let me settle into this new zip code, enjoying my family and friends, the books that I read, the work that I continue in smaller doses, the walks around Potter Pond. It has helped me adjust to and settle into a self, which, as ever, is new again.
Even in the midst of these painful days, ravaged by the death of my brother, there are simple pleasures and even joy. Springtime is a joy. My long love affair with Franny is a joy. My children are a joy. Playing and talking with my grandchildren is almost always a treat. I still love to read and watch movies and listen to music, especially Bach and Mozart these days. But I even enjoy learning a bit from my grandsons about rap.
I can’t help but notice—haven’t you?—that there is a sweetness and caring in our circles. The kind words and gifts of flowers that soften our struggles and our grief. I’ve noticed that there is an intimacy born of genuine candor when I talk with friends. I don’t doubt that we’ve always felt these intimacies but they seem more available now. And they hold me.
That’s the paradox. We have had to enter this land of old people in order to know and appreciate one another more explicitly, maybe more deeply.
Barry Dym 