Fifty-Nine

Somehow it still surprises me that I am 59 years old. And because I also happen to be someone who understands things better by writing about them, I've decided to write about being this age -- this oddly tumultuous age. Not necessarily about 59 precisely, but about being in one's fifties, or even having recently passed that 6-0 threshold. 

I have begun to think of this period as the frontier years -- not only because they represent that borderland between relative vitality and mobility and irrefutable old age, but also because I have noticed that the growing awareness of mortality that accompanies this phase of life often has the effect of pushing us towards new adventures. Plain and simple: it's now or never time.

J

This morning I read an article in the New York Times about today's twenty-somethings; it refers to a psychology professor named Jeffrey Jensen Arnett who describes the 20s as a distinct life stage characterized by "identity exploration, instability, self-focus, feeling in-between and a rather poetic characteristic he calls 'a sense of possibilities.'"

Well, other than tweaking the latter phrase to read a sense of diminishing possibilities, it's almost exactly the way I have been describing the 50s.

That sense of diminishing possibilities is a salient characteristic of the stage, and it's often the impetus for bold action. At the same time, we are armed with the accumulated experience of half a century of living, which yields a certain perspective that we could not have possibly fathomed when we were young.

Finally, there is an added twist: those of us living in the frontier years right now are also the ones who came of age in the 1960s, the ones who never do anything quietly, the ones still hellbent on doing things differently from our parents. We're the Boomers, the loved and the loathed. (And we are not going gently.)

In addition to examining my own navel, Boomer style, I have decided to talk to other people about what it means to be this age, about formative experiences we have shared or endured alone, about how we are navigating the border country, and the wisdom accrued. This is the season that demands that we decide what is really important in life. I

f we pause and look around, we can see it clearly now. I'm interested in knowing how my peers and cohorts perceive and handle this.It's true, though, that all this pondering and wandering is a luxury of the fortunate, and I want to acknowledge that before I go any further.

Case in point: my own beloved father, who worked like a slave all his life just to keep things afloat. He had his keys and lists and paint supplies all lined up for another long day of work when he died the night before at 67. The privilege of indulging himself in frontier whimsy and late-life dreams was never granted him.

He did, however, possess plenty of hard-earned wisdom, and he spoke quite clearly through his 50s and 60s about what life had taught him. Unfortunately, I was still in the stupor of a suspended adolescence and couldn't see much beyond my own nose.

"The clock is ticking," he used to say, ominously and often.  He could not make me understand; I just thought he had no sense of fun. (Isn't that the way it has ever been between the young and the old-ish? They do not breathe the same air, speak the same language, or inhabit the same planet.)

So here I am, at 59, and I finally do hear that clock ticking. But I have inherited a different kind of life, a life with room for brooding and analysis and some illusion of self-determination. I want to write through the frontier, make sense of it somehow, be conscious.

I know. It's a vague idea, but sometimes the best way to go from an idea to a real project is to simply dive right in, even if you don't know exactly where you're headed. That's what I'm doing: diving in. Which means you lucky readers of this blog get to dive in with me. Better still, send me your thoughts on the subject to add to the music and maybe the sense.

So here's my first official input from a fellow frontier traveler on this, a highly regarded artist named John who grew up surfing the beaches of California, hiking the arroyos and hills, and traveling the world. He has been painting professionally since 1968. (I guess I need to get permission to use his full name, and when I do, I'll let you know who he is, and you can check out his website and see some of his work.) T

his brief conversation took place only yesterday at a community barbecue. John was busily coloring a poster with marker pens, making even a funky banner for a lost & found and ticket booth look artistic, and, apropos of nothing, I asked him if he remembers being 59 or thereabouts, which for him was really only a matter of looking back two or three years, and he's open and easy to talk to and didn't even think it was strange. He said:

Fifty-nine? It was the year I really stepped outside of myself. I lost nine friends that year. Yes, nine people that I knew died. A few were older, one was young. It started me thinking. What do I really want to do with my life?That same year, my wife decided she wanted a divorce. And all the money I ever made was stolen by my investor.What's important. That's the question that arises. I made a list of my priorities. It looked like this: my son; surfing; painting; and working on my house in Mexico. If you don't examine your life, you are just living in a chaotic mess. At this age, we really know that. You have to step outside of the chaos.

Wow. All my theories completely confirmed with a sample of one. Good start!

Another question I am asking folks is what they think was the formative shared historical event that shaped the lives of our generation, or if there was one personal event that dramatically changed them. I'm looking for patterns.

John’s response to that question is one I imagine I will hear often:

The war in Vietnam. Absolutely. We were young and seeing people coming back messed up. Or not coming back at all.

Well, maybe this is a lame idea, but maybe it will yield some brilliant insights. It's already making me feel less alone, more apt to hold on tightly and cherish what's in front of me, more fortified for Istanbul-type adventure...

Part one in an ongoing series, perhaps? Or maybe just this blog post.