I’m learning that there are two distinct parts to how I am aging in my life, and the more I separate them, the better off and happier I am. And I do separate them; I see them in very different ways. I wish other people would as well.

Our culture makes no distinction between the body and the mind of the elderly; we are all doddering, incompetent, incapable, expensive, and minutes away from death.

People only know us from what they can see (or don’t see); we walk more carefully, lose our hair, and take a lot of pills.

I have learned that there are two parts to me now that need to be understood separately from one another – what is happening to my mind and the other,  what is happening to my body.

A friend read on the blog that I was having a toe amputated.

She called up in that sympathetic voice we used to express our sorrow for somebody’s death or cancer diagnosis. I’ve gotten a few of those in the stores. Lately.

“Jon,” my friend said with great concern, “how are you?” I think she expected to find me in tears or cowering by the phone.

“I’m fine,” I said, “things are going very well, and I’m happy and healthy.”

She was silent,  confused, perhaps thinking of me as demented or in denial. It was a pity call.

“What can I do for you?” she said. “Nothing,” I said, Maria and I can handle it.”

“Oh,” she said,  disinterested in the rest of my life, “well, that’s good to hear.”

She sounded disappointed. We said goodbye.

My sister, who seldom calls me, called with some urgency. “Are you all right?” she said. “What do you mean?” I answered.

“I heard about your foot,” she said.

“It’s fine; it’s a good thing for me to do,” I said, “I’m fine.”  There was silence. I sensed she couldn’t wait to get off the phone.

If I wasn’t gravelly ill, then what was I?

People often text or come up to me on the street with sorrowful concern, asking, “how is your health? Are you all right.”  This puzzled me until I stopped and thought about it. That’s the only way they know me now.

Bless my nurse practitioner, who told Maria, “there is nothing old about Jon.”

When I think of my life, I separate my body from my mind and consciousness. I have diabetes, sleep apnea, and heart disease, yet I feel good, healthy, and happy, better than I have felt all my life.

I don’t define myself by my chronic diseases or surgeries. I don’t complain about them or feel sorry for myself. For most of my life, no one outside my family ever asked me about my health. I feel out of sync sometimes with the outside world. It often feels like the real me is no longer visible beyond my surgeries and doctor’s appointments.

I don’t understand why people are suddenly praying for me. The world isn’t going to change because I’d like it to, but I feel it’s important to make the case that aging gets us closer to death, but it is not death in itself. I’m much more alive than some of the younger people I know.

I am living my life, doing my writing, exploring and reading more than ever, making more mistakes than ever, forgetting things more than ever, making love more than ever, and doing more good work than ever.

The cruel and jeering messages come rolling in as I make mistakes on my blog. It took me a long time to delete them. It’s about time.

Age has helped me lift the veil of fear that haunted me all of my life. I am free at last to be me.

This is all apart from the health issues that affect almost everyone as they age.

I am not unique; I get what everyone else gets or will get. I guess I am a living lesson to be learned. That’s a valuable thing.

I see a lot of doctors and sometimes need some surgeries. I know the staff at the pharmacy by their first name. When I drive to the drive-thru, they have biscuits waiting for Zinnia.

I am where ever one else has been already or will be soon. They call it life. It happened in a flash, and my head and soul never got the message that I was tottering and useless and falling apart. My Beavis and Butthead period has been useful. Because I am stupid, I am free.

My health is excellent under the circumstances. My amputation will not curtail my walking; it will make it easier and healthier. My heart is strong and causing no trouble; my diabetes is under control. In a year or so, I’ll need to have cataract surgery.

I see none of these things as crises.

I see all of them as life.

I know, I know. People are just trying to help.

This doesn’t help; if I feel good about my life, maybe they could try it too. That really would be helpful.

I accept that my body will start changing rapidly as I age.

But I’m in a great place.

I firmly believe I will write, blog, think, love Maria and the farm, and take pictures for a long time.

My body has little to do with that, except I’ll die one day. That is, I suppose, a big deal.

In the meantime, I will need more maintenance than I would like or am used to.

And if so, I’ll get what I need and bow to the rest.

And I’ll share it all as best as I can. My soul seems to be getting younger.

I think that could be helpful to others. From my messages, I think it is.

I understand that much of the outer world only sees my body and can’t fathom my mind or imagine my soul.

I talk or have lunch with a friend my age in our Old Secret Society, where we can enjoy the company of people who don’t stereotype us or obsess with our health. There

There has never been a mention of drug prices. No one has ever said, “at our age.”

The body gives us one kind of health, the mind, soul, and heart a different one.

Tomorrow morning, I go to the Mansion for my Meditation Class. I’m bringing a bunch of jewelry for the residents.

I’ll take photos, laugh with the residents, and read from my books on aging. I’ll stop on the way home to get Maria and me our veggie wraps.

My life is full of meaning and purpose.

I’m fine, thank you for asking. Really.