I look in the mirror and see evidence of aging, and wonder: what does it mean, being old? I ate in a sort of trendy restaurant yesterday, and saw people in a range of ages, more younger ones than I’m used to encountering. I think I live in, exist in, a kind of seniors’ ghetto. The building I’m in is largely seniors. The church I attend is a delight because, although the majority by far are seniors, there are some younger and even some children. I don’t know them, but I get to see them, sometimes overhear them. My daughter lives far from me, and there are no grandchildren. So I have little familial contact with the generations following mine. I wonder who am I now, old, single, Middle Class comfortable and, as I never understood when my old father talked about it, looking for a purpose?

I feel the pull to be positive. And I have been, am, very lucky, “blessed” as my father would insist. I have been having a life full of gifts, finding paths through my days that fit me, that have brought me pleasures and joy as well as comforts. I have had trials, but with enough support so that I could endure and learn from them. I have had a life companion, and the wonder of not being alone for most of my time alive. There are people I love who return my love, and help me grow, and by “grow” I mean learn to be able to let go of most bitterness and find or create some meaning from upset, pain, and confusions. And perhaps writing this, naming my current feelings and reminding myself of my path getting here, implicitly promises that I will find or make some return gifts to the world, implicitly promises a future purpose while teaching me (AGAIN!) patience.