Recently, while lunching with a friend who is the same age as I am, we discussed growing older. He commented that it felt like turning pages in a book. Certain activities which were once the center of one’s life were now impossible because of limitations of being in one’s seventh decade, or because outside circumstances no longer permitted active participation. A page or two had been turned in his life.
I have given this a great deal of thought since then, and on one level I agree with him. I am certainly not about to water ski anymore, an activity that I enjoyed for years. I could probably not successfully babysit three young grandchildren for a week, which I did twenty years ago with ease. There are certain trips that I have to think about embarking on before I commit, as there are too many impediments to my slowing frame.
But that does not seem as sad or final as it sounds. Like a good book, even though one knows the plot, one can turn back the pages and enjoy them again in a different way. I still treasure the memory of water skiing down a lake with the sky flaming with pink streamers as the sun set. No one can take that away from me. I can enjoy those grandchildren who are now grown, and share with them the funny things they said or did during that week they were mine alone. I can take the trips I can take, and enjoy them to the fullest and remember with joy those I can no longer attempt.
My life is one long book with an unknown dénouement which has yet to come. I can enjoy the current pages I am reading with interest, look forward to those yet to come, and still treasure the pages that are past but still mine. A book remains a whole no matter what page one is on.