"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light." (Melancholy, Dylan Thomas)

As my life hobbles toward six decades and I am well clear of the half-century mark (despite all indications against it), I am qualified, I believe, to make a few observations about the aging process of humans, in general, and myself, in particular. To recall my days as a youth (that is, between the ages of 18 and 40; clearly, the definition of what constitutes "youth" drastically changes as one gets older), I cannot help but feel an uneasy mix of profound humor and twangs of sheer terror. These two emotions are not as distinct as one might initially assume as many of us laugh in uncomfortable, anxiety-provoking situations. Once might be tempted to say that as one gets older and examines the years gone by, one laughs if for no other reason than to keep from crying.

While wine may improve with age, improvements in the lives of humans with age are seldom physical. The inevitable ravages of time cause one to notice the transgressions of youth. The leg I broke in high school football aches a little more each year, especially on arising each morning. My back and shoulders crack and pop with an alarming frequency with exertions that once were silently and smoothly executed. I, most assuredly, do not seems to bend as well as I once did. We need not dwell on the less debilitating changes (e.g. less hair, more wrinkles) that occur with age. After all, these are merely wounds to vanity that, as long as a mirror is not within view, are not always appreciated. Clearly, though we may be loath to accept the fact, machines, including the body, no matter how well made, inevitably degrade over time. But, compared to many, I think I survived the youthful assault on my carcass relatively well.

Likewise, in the realm of the mental functions of our apparatus, time brings many changes. My memory doesn’t seem to be quite as reliable as in my earlier years. I find myself carrying a small notebook to leave myself notes. When I read something that I might want to research later, instead of simply locking it away in the once-dependable vault of memory, I have learned to write it down. If I don’t take this precaution, it seems that items often seep through the leaks which have formed in my once-formidable neuron "bucket." Similarly, my visual capacities continue to dwindle. Whereas I once needed correction of just my far-sightedness, I now need (shudder) tri-focal lenses. I often ask myself: Do they make "quad-focal lenses?" But, then as I think of it, the degradations of time have a nice way of balancing out. To whit: our vision declines to obscure the deforestation of our scalps and the erosion of our skin. In some ways, I suppose, that is a good thing.

As there is a silver lining to every dark cloud, age does bring some benefits. I have noticed a discernable lessening in my temper. In my youth, I was subject to frequent bursts of rage. The precipitating spark of this anger was unimportant and, often, irrelevant - i.e. what caused me to go Krakatoan one day would have little effect on another. Looking back, the rage was, most probably, merely dissatisfaction with my life and its attendant circumstances. But uncountable events or people could trigger these titanic outbursts which were not so much directed at specifics as they were directed at the world in general. The latent period between the instigating factor and the actual eruption of angst (what we commonly refer to as "temper") was quite short. These emotional explosions were undoubtedly stressful - not only on me but on those around me who might also be in the line of fire.

Of late, the volcano is silent. I still feel the lava occasionally welling up from the depths but, strangely, it seldom spills over. It is not that I don’t experience the same inciting events; it is just that my fuse seems to be longer. The igniter stills gets lit; it just burns slower. The majority of times, the lit fuse dies off before reaching the explosive. I will not claim to be more patient. That might be a stretch. But I will submit that the pyroclastic flows are less frequent and, when they do occur, they are less destructive. That, dear reader, is another good thing.

With advanced years, even the usual triggers seem impotent. For example, driving is much less stressful. Though drivers still cut me off or otherwise abuse my tranquility, I have become immune. Similarly, I seem more tolerate of ignorance but, concurrently, I am no more tolerant of stupidity. Perhaps, this revelation has occurred since I now know there is a distinct difference. Ignorance is simply having no knowledge; stupidity is to have incorrect knowledge. Ignorance can be corrected with education; stupidity is immune to all remedies. This epiphany lends itself to personal solace: I can repair ignorance and I can ignore stupidity. Either course does not elicit my youthful fury. That, also, if a good thing. As has been noted "Patience and passage of time do more than strength and fury" (Jean de la Fontaine).

I also notice that I have become closer and have new-found respect for my parents. In my youth, I only saw how much more education I had compared to either of my parents. While not overtly haughty, I did have more than a bit of condescension for the thoughts and opinions of my folks. As I have advanced in years, I see that, in fact, I am not any wiser than they. I have come to understand that while I have more book sense; I do not have any more wisdom. They have relied on what Edmund Burke called "prejudice" which he defined as a universal "folk-wisdom" that is not learned from texts but from a shared experience with other humans. Burke said that prejudice, in his sense, was characterized thus: "the longer they [prejudices] have lasted, and the more generally they have prevailed, the more we cherish them" (from Reflections on the Revolution in France, 1790). I have, in the second half of my Biblical four score and ten, discovered that the prejudices of my parents are deep and well-founded. Likewise, that awareness of my elders’ possession of true wisdom is a very good thing.

The final alteration in my consciousness that I will bore the reader with is that I don’t spend nearly as much time worrying these days. I have, in the midst of my uncluttered, almost Zen-like tranquility, observed that it seems that the news (broadcast, online and in print) is not complete unless there is what I like to refer to as a "Chicken Little stories" (as in "the sky is falling; run to the king!"). These seem to give us topics for the water cooler in the office or for social gatherings elsewhere or, more simply, a reason to needlessly occupy us with pointless concern. Without a periodic "Chicken Little story" those living in today’s chaotic world (and I am sure that it wasn’t that much different in centuries past) would, apparently, have little to talk about with their friends and acquaintances. In my opinion, they also contribute to the general unease and anxiety of contemporary society (see The National Anxiety Center). However, when dutifully examined, these stories are usually of the "if there is nothing I, personally, can do about this problems, why should I care?" type. [An example of a recent "Chicken Little story" can be found here and, also, here.] Regardless of (a) the actual impact one reading the story can actually have on the problem or (b) how likely the situation described will, in reality, effect our lives, we seem to enjoy the self-flagellation that worrying brings.

I am convinced that in my earlier years, I would read one of these type stories and spend the rest of day ranting and raving about what I thought was the cause of the problem and what I thought had to be done immediately to remedy the situation. I suspect that is what the younger people (see earlier definition) do to this day. Fortunately, with seniority, the importance of these trivialities falls away. One might assume that I have become desensitized to stories of tragedy and impending doom or that I am just tired and despondent in my senescence. But, in actuality, it is more a sense of confidence that I have heard Chicken Little cluck many, many times before and I am confident that planet earth and humanity will be strong enough to survive the latest threat to their survival. I do not look at the news with rose-colored lenses; I see the news with a crystal clarity that, seemingly, is one of the many blessing of maturement.

Indeed, this view of the world is a very, very good thing.