AGING
I look at my hands and they remind me of my father. Interesting. I had thought
of him as being old. I don’t think that of me. I suppose everything is relative to
one’s perception, isn’t it? He aged and I haven’t. Yet our hands are alike. He died at
age seventy. As I write this I am sixty-nine.
Photos of my father hang on our walls
reflecting his life in various stages. I see me, at times, in those
photos. I compare us at different ages
and I see similarities yet I don’t look upon me as aging in that progression of
years. Agreed, my face looks older and
there are moments when my body reminds me I am advancing in age. But my mind
feels thirty, ready to find new things, to experiment, to see various aspects
in life through fresh eyes. My mind is
going counter to what my body is doing and at times there is a conflict,
sometimes a true battle. But the mind
always wins. It wins because I want it
that way.
It’s not that I refuse to grow old. I have no aversion to that. I accept the fact
that this shell that holds my intellect and spirit must deteriorate. That’s inevitable, of course. But as I look upon that certainty as an
undisputed truth I also see a dichotomy.
Within this process there are two basic governing factors. One is involuntary
and the other is voluntary. In that
which we can’t control, meaning the aging of our body, we allow. But with that in which we can have a say,
meaning our attitude, we can direct.
To me attitude is that constantly
sought-after secret to life. If one were
to climb the tall mountain looking for the guru to give a single answer to life
it would be attitude. There is no power
that can totally control a situation other than attitude and that power is the
impetus that allows me to view myself as not being old.
And I do take advantage of it.
I will seize the opportunity while I can to
parlay a positive, progressive attitude into the thrilling escapades and
adventures that keep me young and fresh and invigorated. I will see myself as capable of doing anything
I am intellectually suited for and mentally fit to do. If a new idea is conjured up in my brain I
can pursue it because creativity has no age limitation. If I see an opportunity to expand my mind I
will pursue it, for knowledge knows no age barriers. Any path that is available for exploring can
be traveled, if I so desire, since there is no age restrictions on
discovery. All I need in order to enter
into these many realms of new opportunities is a will to pursue and a
determined attitude to back it up.
In some ways I have developed this way of
thinking as a means of keeping my mind focused on life. So often people who have the power to remain
young-thinking allow themselves to sink into oblivion simply from a disinterest
in what lies just on the other side of that mystical and mythical barrier
called old age. They desire to give
their brains a rest, to allow their intellect to retire and take it easy. They don’t want to pursue those many new
avenues that come with the wisdom of maturity or the knowledge that long-term
experience has provided. And in that
sense they allow their aging bodies to take control and then that voluntary
take-charge opportunity simply becomes a combined involuntary action.
This attitudinal approach to age is important
to me. It draws into focus and deals
with the very critical element that places people on different plains. That
element is challenge. Never is a human’s
mind at it most invigorating moment than when challenged. All factions of the
brain kick into gear when the person is faced with that moment of truth.
Choices must be made, decision are required, actions need to be taken, clear
thinking has to surface and an open mind must let all facts and relevant matter
flow through completely unobstructed and undaunted. The brain becomes alive and
churns ferociously as it stands face to face with the challenge before it.
That to me is the true sense of living. And
if a person pursues a youthful mind then, barring genetically induced setbacks
or unforgiving accidents, that mind will also work toward retaining a youthful
body as well.
I have come to realize why I once looked upon
my father as being old at my age. I have come to see why I view myself as
not. I was looking at his body and not
his mind. I was observing his physical limitations and not his spirit. I didn’t come to know the depth of my
father’s nature. But I do now, and I see
my father in me and I in him.
As it is, our hands are not the only traits
that are similar.
And that is inspiring.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
MUSIC
Adagio – in a leisurely manner
Allegro – brisk or rapid in tempo
Andante – moderately slow and even
Behold the moods of music.
I did, early on.
Back in the days of my innocence, long before
television, my mother, being the music major and teacher that she was, thought
the time had come for me to take up piano lessons. It aged her. But enlightened me.
Since then the memories of those piano
lessons have floated in and out of my mind.
To this day I can still see this scraggly little nine year old sitting
on a dark ebony bench, so high that the feet barely reached the pedals, working
fingers so feverishly to hit each key perfectly but floundering and struggling
just the same
I smile now looking back. I didn’t then.
Recently those memories became even more
alive while readying our house for sale and performing that long-dreaded task
of cleaning out the accumulations.
Digging through long forgotten items gathered
from my mother’s house I came across one of the music books used in those early
attempts to teach me piano. The pages had yellowed a bit and the binding had
come loose, but the black notes sprawled across those sheets of compositions
were as vibrant and fresh as when I first laid eyes on them. My spirit jumped with delight in discovering
this gem from the past.
Carefully I lifted each page and examined the
scores lying there before me, compositions from some of the world’s greatest
masters.
And then during my routine perusing, the room
suddenly brightened and the pace of my heart quickened.
There facing me, as if a stranger had
returned to reawaken an old friendship after years of separation, was
Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number Six, the Pathétique Suite.
Oh how I loved that piece. How I thrilled
each time I had a chance to practice it. We had become such close companions,
such compatible partners, such intimate friends.
Sitting there on the floor with those papers
and sheet music and books scattered about me I began to hear this hauntingly
beautiful melody sweep into my mind and I rekindled the emotional swelling
experienced that day when I had finally memorized the symphony completely and
could perform this revered classic with feeling and sensitivity and ultimate
delight.
I have no piano now on which to play this
treasure.
There’s no need for one.
I close my eyes and see small fingers move
gently over the keyboard and can feel the body sway with each mood inspired by
the melody and hear the perfect application and then recall the struggle to
retard that slight smile fighting to become released upon execution of the
final cord.
No. I
don’t need a piano. After all it’s merely the conveyance by which the mind of
the beholder and the soul of the composition are fused and preserved.
But I do need the gratification and serenity
and rapture of such masterpieces as Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number Six wrapped
tightly about me, as if a shield, buffering me from today’s din, so I may never
lose that deep appreciation gained from those challenging piano lessons and my
mother’s love of music.
Through the genius of those capable of
affixing small oval dots in various forms on five thin lines, the human spirit
becomes immersed in incomparable emotions. No other language speaks as
passionately as music.
I look at the yellowed pages from a book long
unused and hear the music of great orchestras performing magnificent
symphonies.
I smile and close my eyes.
My fingers move and glide over empty spaces.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I am not
embarrassed to admit it at my age. I am
a Disney freak and
Ever since I was
six years old I have been addicted to anything Disney, and the
That’s what Walt
Disney has done for me. He has given me the ability to get lost in a childlike
adventure, which, in turn, rejuvenates my spirit and fervor and builds up the
reinforcements so vitally needed whenever I emerge from my fantasy cocoon and
reenter the real world once again. Is it any wonder then that I have become
persistent that we return to the happiest place on earth in
My initial
exposure to
Once the car was parked and we walked a few feet to the waiting station for the tram I stared out at the magic kingdom and felt the excitement began to rise. I was actually breathing faster and I’m sure talking faster too.
When we boarded
the tram and the voice came on welcoming us to the
But it wasn’t
until we had walked down that slight slope and into the wide tunnel that ran
under the railroad tracks and then emerged out into Main Street USA that I finally
lost total connection to reality and melted into another world all together. I
was not myself anymore, totally ignoring the true fact that we were simply at
an amusement park.
We took in everything, did everything, used up all our tickets even the minor “A” ones, which, of course, were plentiful. We ate our lunch there in Adventure Land and sat on one of the benches in the center separation circle and stared up at the statue of Walt Disney holding Mickey Mouse’s hand and I immediately found a tremendous kinship in that sight.
When the
adventure was over late in the day I babbled all the way back to my sister’s
house in
That night it was difficult getting to sleep. I was ready to return the next day and experience the unbelievable wonder all over again. But other plans prevent that and only left me with a vow that I would return and return often.
We did return
but not all that often. Yet there
weren’t wide gaps between visits either.
And as the children came along they too developed a strong attachment to
Walt Disney and
And why all this absorption, this passion, this obsession with fantasy?
For those who aren’t dreamers the answer to that question would be hard to come by. But for those who believe in the precious treasure of escapism in an environment that was created strictly for that purpose, then no answer is necessary. It is so self-evident.
In reading about the life of Walt Disney in articles and biographies found on the Internet I begin to get a feeling for his ability to escape into the fantasies he created. The man was a dreamer, indeed, and a strong observer of both humankind and the natural world around us. He came from a background of hard work and high values, characteristics not usually associated with dreamers and fanciers of fantasy. His choice to be engaged in whimsical art and entertainment, leading to escapism and magic, became a business, a demanding yet productive business, and eventually a most lucrative business. And through that business he set the tone for those of us who took immediately to his way of thinking, for there was a definite kinship there. We could tell what was going on. We could sense the subliminal message he gave, that it was right and proper and necessary to escape from the real world and find our imagination.
I’ll be returning again at an age when most men are looking toward that final horizon. But the magic is calling me, luring me westward, drawing me into its fold ready to transform me once again into the child I need to be. I will escape. I will become transformed. I will be saying hello to Walt and Mickey once again and we’ll carry on a great conversation
And why not?
After all is
there no limit to what one can imagine in the
