Rethinking Aging
Your audio-and-text option:
Listen to Sydna’s story as you read it (below).
At precisely five o’clock, the internal rhythm of the Magnolia Retirement Community shifted from leisure to necessity. Doors opened and closed with brisk urgency, and the faint, institutional aroma of roast beef and green beans began to drift toward Sydna’s apartment. It was time for the early dinner seating.
Sydna, 83, stood by her window, watching the purposeful movement below. She had been invited to sit at the “fun table” — a group that maintained a determined approach to cheerfulness.
She should have been polishing her shoes. Instead, she pulled on a wool cardigan and slipped out her back door, choosing the quiet, paved path that circled the property’s wilder perimeter.
The air was already turning cool and crisp, carrying none of the stifling warmth or relentless chatter of the dining hall. The path rose gently toward the highest point of the grounds, a knoll overlooking the distant highway and, more immediately, the sunset.
The ascent was slow, forcing Sydna to rely on the carved wooden cane her grandson had made. She felt the customary flicker of guilt: “I should be inside, being social, being seen,” she reminded herself.
That pressure — the persistent social expectation that successful aging requires constant, communal activity — was often the most stressful thing about being a part of a senior living community. “People genuinely seem to believe that if I were alone,” Sydna lamented to herself, “I would automatically be lonely.”
She reached the top of the path, where two old oak trees dominated the landscape. Below her, the community lights were beginning to glow, promising connection, noise, and routine.
Sydna ignored the lights. She turned west.
The sky was already magnificent. It was not a gentle, fading glow but a riot of private color: bruised purples bleeding into brilliant saffron, sliced through by thin bands of rose gold. It was an extravagant, momentary spectacle, and she had it entirely to herself.
She leaned against the rough bark of one of the oak trees, breathing in the cold air. For a fleeting second, the ache of being alone — the simple, undeniable truth that Mike was gone and her children were miles away — pricked her.
But that ache quickly gave way to a powerful sense of presence.
She let her gaze drift toward a massive, ragged cloud formation on the horizon. The shape was familiar, the memory sudden and vivid: it was the towering stack of sails on the schooner she and Mike had chartered off the coast of Maine 50 years ago, the day the sudden squall hit and they laughed so hard they almost fell overboard.
That memory — so specific, so intimate — unfolded perfectly in her mind. It was a complete film reel that she didn’t have to compress, summarize, or explain to anyone. She didn’t have to say, “Yes, it was a squall, but we were young and silly…”
The memory was whole because the moment was private.
Sydna realized at least one truth stood the test of time during her eight decades: the most valuable experiences were often unshared. The beauty of the sunset, the sharp pain and subsequent joy of a forgotten memory, the quiet documentation of a rare goldfinch — these were not diminished by the lack of an audience. They were, in fact, enhanced. Solitude was the necessary ingredient for depth.
She felt fully present, fully seen, and fully at peace. She had chosen the private majesty of the sunset over the institutional comfort of the dining hall, and that choice felt strong, deliberate, and necessary.
When the last sliver of sun dipped below the trees, Sydna carefully pushed herself off the trunk of the oak tree and began her slow descent. She hadn’t missed anything. She had simply been engaged in the most essential activity of her day: being excellent company for herself.
That was okay. In fact, it was more than okay; it was right.
Also hear and read this “parent story” from 2024:
![Promo for Lisa story plus this quote: “Stories [and values] have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” – Sue Monk Kidd](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!qOpD!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F6c104ca5-0e4e-4101-b982-51130c2ca891_1058x358.png "Promo for Lisa story plus this quote: “Stories [and values] have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” – Sue Monk Kidd")
Go to “How Could Lisa Be Both Invisible and Assertive?”
Age: Our greatest asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
Weekly Stories About Aging Well
“It’s impossible not to love someone whose story you’ve heard.” - Mary Lou Kownacki
Stories about addressing ageism.
Stories about handling ableism.
Stories about thriving during the second half of life.
Accolade: “Love reading your stories. You never disappoint.” - Mary K.
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I was nine years old in 1952, the year we had an extended family picnic/reunion on the grounds of our local church.
I was shy and didn’t know many of the people swarming around the large spread of food and drink. So, after my second hotdog and my favorite cake, I found an open side door to the church.
I went in and laid on one of the steps. It was so quiet and peaceful. I was content to be by myself for a while on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I was, after, escaping the every-day world of excess.
Then, I heard someone outside call, “Jimmy? Where’s Jimmy?”
I slid outside into the bright sunshine. The family wanted a four-generation photo, and I was the missing family member.
I still have the black and white photo of all four of us stacked behind each other: myself, my dad, Laverne, grandpa Edwin and great grandpa John.
* When do you feel completely comfortable being by yourself?”