Hey there, old man
a letter to my 80-year-old self
This is one of my favorite things I wrote as part of the 30-day writing challenge I did earlier this year. It’s a letter to my 80-year-old self. I hope, if nothing else, it inspires you to reflect on who you’d like to be and what you’d like to feel in half a century. Perhaps it will even inspire you to write to that person.
Hey there, old man:
If we've made it this far, I suspect there's little to complain about. And if you're feeling good, I guess we're playing with house money. Who knows, maybe eighty is the new sixty. B thinks we might live forever, or at least closer to 1000 years than 100. That sounds like a long time. I'm curious how you feel. Maybe you have the vitality I always I dreamed you would and your response to another 900 is, "count me in!"
Fifty years. I can't say I have any idea what fifty years is like. Although it does seem like time passes at a rate that is a function of time lived, so perhaps the next fifty will feel closer to the thirty I've already knocked off.
I wrote another essay (for this thirty day writing challenge; I hope you kept on finding time to write all these years... it's the only way we get to communicate after all...) about Ooh La La by Faces. I'm sure you remember that chorus. L and I were talking about how we wish we had our well-earned wisdom back when we were younger. You laugh, I'm sure. Do you feel wise? You are probably actually wise at this point, and thus think you are only just beginning to put things together. I hope you've had a life of learning, hanging onto curiosity, not settling. It's easy for me to forget sometimes, but the world is so, so rich. I hope you still feel that. I hope you still think the kids are going to be alright.
To be clear, I hope you did settle in the right kinds of ways. Frankly, I hope you did that many years ago. Settled into who you are, settled in with the people you chose to spend your life with, settled into building a wonderful marriage and family and home. Settled into work and creativity that feels good and honest and like you're offering something to the world. Settled into knowing that these things are not problems to solve but the lovely, messy, open questions that linger all life long. And settled into knowing that just because those questions lack answers doesn't mean you couldn't hurl yourself at them anyway, committing and not looking back. I hope you burned the ships a few times and set yourself up for the possibility of grand failure and unknowable upside--especially with other people.
I hope you still see the wonder in this world. In its people, its music, its nature, its stories, its magic. I hope you spent your life looking up, drinking it all in, savoring it. I'm trying. There are good days and bad days. At least I can say I don't forget to do so for too long.
I hope you've lived a big life with people who made it bigger. That's what I'm looking for in others, and what I'm trying to give. I have always been afraid of being alone. You know that, and hopefully you remember being so foolish. More than any single thing, I hope you can look around and feel your heart full: from loving and being loved. I hope there are little (and grown-up) kids running around and crotchety old folks like you--maybe even a few you’ve been friends with since you were thirty--who call you on your b.s. like they do with me. And I hope that they help you remember how lucky you've been. Maybe some laughs, too.
I don't know what I'm telling you for. These things that I spend so much time worrying and wondering about are probably long in the rear-view, at least as variables.
There's that Vonnegut quote I love:
“Stephen Hawking… found it tantalizing that we could not remember the future. But remembering the future is child's play for me now. I know what will become of my helpless, trusting babies because they are grown-ups now. I know how my closest friends will end up because so many of them are retired or dead now… To Stephen Hawking and all others younger than myself I say, 'Be patient. Your future will come to you and lie down at your feet like a dog who knows and loves you no matter what you are.”
I hope you feel the serenity I can only assume Vonnegut is talking about here. That point where the facade of past and future dissolve into the only true thing, this moment. Petting the dog, grateful, looking out over the horizon of such a wonderful world and such a wonderful life.
I'd ask you to send back some advice for me from out there, but I guess I'm missing the point. I suspect you'd tell me the same thing I'd tell my younger self: you're on your way. There's no rush. This is the good part.
I'm sorry I've not written to you sooner. I guess I needed some time to consider you. I've been busy. I'm sure I've got more to say. You'll have to find out for me. See you soon.
Jackson