Mind over matter

Mind over matter

“Sometimes I can't believe I’m going to be 60. I always say there’s no point moaning about getting older, when there’s nothing you can do about it. But still, I do find it quite funny. I look at that number, 60, and I think, ‘Really? Me?’” – English model Twiggy (1949-)

Prolific, famed American author, humorist and essayist Samuel Langhorne Clemens — Mark Twain — once noted that, “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.” The same quote is also often famously attributed to National Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher Leroy Robert “Satchell” Paige, whose career spanned an age-defying five decades, his last professional game played just two weeks shy of turning 60.

I’ve always liked that quote, mostly because it sounds like something a Charlie Berens clone wearing a camouflage jacket, plaid flannel shirt and a Stormy Kromer might say over a longneck PBR at the bar, nodding solemnly like he’s just solved the mystery of the universe. Holy schmoley! 

Lately, though, I’m not so sure it’s quite that simple.

In a few short weeks, I’ll turn 61. That number has a certain thud to it when you say it out loud. Sixty-one doesn’t glide. It lands. I don’t feel dramatically older than I did at 41 or even 51, at least not in my head. In my head, I’m still the guy who thinks he can carry all the groceries in one trip and still says things like, “I’ll just run down there real quick.” My knees, however, would like a word, especially when I get out of my wife’s low-riding Buick Lucerne sedan on a sub-zero morning.

Aging, I’m discovering, is less about the number and more about the accumulation. Not just of years, but of moments. Of losses. Of quiet realizations that sneak up on you while you’re busy living.

Last October, my wife suffered a devastating fall and fractured her femur. In one instant, our life tilted on its axis. Hospital and nursing home rooms replaced our living room and bedroom. Rehabilitation and caregiver schedules replaced weekend plans. Time began to be measured in physical therapy appointments, doctor visits and medication intervals instead of seasons and holidays. I became, almost overnight, a full-time caregiver in addition to remotely working my full-time day job and everything else life already asked of me.

That’s when age stopped being theoretical.

You can talk about aging in the abstract when it’s just a graying beard and birthday candles. You can joke about it when it’s AARP mailers and the senior discounts at Denny’s, Kohl's and Goodwill you’re eligible for but not quite ready to use. But when someone you love is suddenly vulnerable in a way neither of you anticipated, age becomes very real, very fast. It’s no longer about how young you feel. It’s about how fragile the body can be and how quickly independence — and life in general — can slip sideways.

At the same time, life keeps rolling on. The calendar increasingly fills with visitations and funerals — some expected, some shockingly not. Facebook has turned into a digital yearbook where my Class of 1983 high school classmates announce retirements, welcome grandchildren, and occasionally disappear altogether, leaving behind a flood of “rest in peace” comments under an old smiling photo. It’s a strange thing to scroll through your morning newsfeed and feel like you’re walking through a reunion and a memorial service at the same time.

None of this is meant as a lament. It’s just an observation. Aging isn’t a single door you walk through. Rather, it’s a long hallway with lots of side rooms. Some are joyful — new chapters, deeper appreciation, a quieter confidence. Others are harder — loss, limitation, the steady awareness that time is no longer theoretical and the sands in the hourglass are slipping away.

Here’s the thing, though. Even as my body — and my primary care physician — insists on reminding me that I’m 61, my mind hasn’t given up much ground. I still find myself getting excited about the prospect of checking off new “Bucket List” experiences and believing there’s another good chapter or two still left to write, both literally and figuratively. If age is mind over matter, then maybe the trick isn’t pretending the matter doesn’t exist, but refusing to let it have the final say.

Aging, I’m learning, is about paying attention — to what matters, to who matters, to the fact that ordinary days are anything but. It’s about showing up — for your spouse, your family, your friends — even when it’s inconvenient or exhausting. Especially then.

As I head down the slippery slope toward 61 in February, I don’t feel old. I feel seasoned. A little scratched and dented. A little wiser. More aware that time is precious, health is fragile, and love is the one thing worth rearranging your life around.

Yes, life looks different than it did even a year ago. But if growing older means growing more aware, more grateful, and more intentional with whatever remaining time I’m given by the Good Lord, then maybe that plaid-clad tavern philosopher nursing a beer was onto something after all. Keep ’er movin’.

Age may be mind over matter. But love, duty, and showing up? Those matter more than ever.

Vilas County News-Review freelance writer Eric A. Johnson can be reached at eric@fyinorthwoods.com.