I’ve always believed that doing good is profoundly selfish. I like to think I do good out of the generosity or nobility of spirit, but I also know that I do good because it makes me feel good about myself.

That’s the curious thing about doing good. It feels good.

These past few days and weeks, I realize that when I get nervous, I do good. And I’m not nervous afterward. I have some good in my head looking ahead, and that also keeps me steady. It turns out I’m a good planner.

In my late sixties, I looked down the road at the prospect of writing a few more books, of living alone on my big farm, oblivious to the clouds gathering over my marriage and ordinary life, the speaking halls full of strangers, my stamina and appetite for running a farm and for sub-zero weather diminishing.

I felt myself veering towards the end to a loveless life.

My only real confidantes were therapists and a mentally disturbed young friend. I honestly thought that I would remain stuck in this quagmire until the end of my life, which suddenly seemed much closer than ever before.

Dogs are wonderful, but I was running out of things to live for. I remember taking my sheep up the hill and into the deep woods with Rose, my beautiful border collie, and housemate, on a gorgeous Fall afternoon.

I had been living alone for six years by then, and loneliness was getting to be the norm for me. I often spoke to Rose when I was troubled. I never thought she was listening. I guess it didn’t matter.

“What?” I asked myself that afternoon as Rose and the sheep  paused in a sun-drenched  meadow for some grazing, “do I fear the most about growing old?”

I didn’t need to think long about it. I knew the answer; it came from a place deep in my soul.

“I am afraid of becoming a seventy-year-old man who has no idea who he is when the books go out of the bookstores and out of print, and the audiences no longer come, and there is no meaning in my life.” I might have said this aloud, but I don’t remember.

When I said those words, I knew I had heard my soul speak, and I knew I had to change. I committed myself to my therapy and began to plan my life. I started focusing on my hospice work with Lenore and Izzy; I wanted to know why it felt so good for me to do this work. I tried to understand why I loved this work and found it so uplifting.

I knew my sense of well-being and my spirituality were at risk and stake.

I conceived of a retirement plan (I knew I wouldn’t have any money) that didn’t involve retirement, but rather involved change and new work, opening myself to love and selfishly, devoting myself to doing good.

Soon after that, Maria came into my life, and we began our incredible journey together.  My life began to fill up.

I left the big farm and moved to a smaller one and began to simplify my life. I devoted my writing to my blog, not my books, and reveled in the freedom and growth it offered me.  I found my writing voice again.

I began taking pictures, and this helped me to see the world in a new and different way.

I got divorced, confronted the worst parts of myself, and then, in 2016, began to search for how my new work could be done. I didn’t want to lose the wonderful feeling of doing good; I swore I wouldn’t descend into anger and grievance.

For me, retirement from one way of life was a rebirth, not an end. I have no desire to move to a warm place and sit in the sun. My life is full of beginnings, not ends.

I am now living in my plan. I channeled my fear and anger into good. I vowed to act on whatever I could learn, and however, I could change while there was still time.

What happened was that I found the truth beneath my fear. Now, another chapter on the horizon, one that will bring more learning and more change. I think we will all be called upon to change and to do some good for others.

I am ready for this now.

I can find my truth beneath the fear.  It will take me where I need to go.