By Robert C. Koehler
And now here I am.
As I write these words, I claim – or attempt to claim – the present moment, which is totally new to me . . . so new that when I got up yesterday morning, I didn’t know where my socks and underwear were, or indeed any of my clothing. I was about to scurry down to breakfast, here at the Appleton Retirement Community, where I now (apparently) live, but, unlike at my old house, I needed to get dressed first.
Found the packed clothes, but I can’t say for sure I have fully found myself yet. I’ve moved. I’m closer to my family, but I’m no longer in my house of 40 years. I’m no longer in Chicago, my city of almost 50 years: the place where I found not just my career, not just my wife, but a complex comingling of global humanity. I found the whole world there. I found spiritual evolution – which of course is everywhere, as long as we acknowledge that it is.
So as I implant myself in my new life – as I organize not just my cupboards and closets and bookshelves, but the entirety of this new life – I quote the words of a recent correspondent, who reminded me: “Don’t think of this process as an elderly chore, but rather as an elderly rite of passage.”
Well, yes, every move, every change we make in our lives, is a rite of passage – the next step in our becoming. I believe this abstractly, but it’s something else again to fully embrace the passage known as aging and all it entails. (I’m 79.) Is this really a “rite” – a step deeper into life – or is it just a slow, wobbly shutting down? I don’t quite own or control my whole life the way I used to. Someone just came up to my room and – with a cheery smile on her face – took my blood pressure. I’ve been given a pendant to wear at all times, so if I fall and can’t get up, I can push the help button.
This could easily seem like an anti-passage, the gradual ebbing of agency, the gradual ebbing of life. And it is all that. But as I write in this moment – as I put this new life I find myself leading into words – I want those words to glow. I want them to convey awareness. I want them to convey wonder.
So I look out the window as I write. It’s a blue-sky, sunny afternoon. I’m overlooking the parking lot – but that’s not what I see. What I see is a large tree . . . I don’t know what kind. It’s just a tree. I’m on the third floor of my new building, so the tree – let’s call it beautiful – is three stories high. The branches tremble. The dark green leaves flutter. I feel their movement in my heart. This is art – this is being. Through and beyond the leaves are patches of parking lot and one wing of the building in which I live. Oh, this fraction of the universe! I’m immersed in it. What a gift to my consciousness.
And yes, this tree will die, and so will I . . . so will all of us. Mostly the thought that comes next is: “Yeah, but not now. Later.” And then we continue on with our plans for the day, our plans for our lives. But as I sit here in this green and fluttering moment – ooh, the wind has picked up – I sigh and breathe and look around, at my chaotic new apartment . . . a lamp in the corner, my cane at my elbow, a bag of Goldfish cheddar crackers on my desk, a tiny work of stained glass by my daughter leaning against the window, and so much more. I sigh once more. I pick up my pen.
I have no insight to offer. But I stare again at the tree and its dark green leaves. They’re still right now. Then the wind stirs them again.
