For me, aging is both beautiful and liberating; at times, it feels like a Chess Match with Fate; you know the end is getting closer, but you have no control over when it decides to come.  You do what you can. You can only keep moving forward.  At times, I find aging bizarre, even ludicrous, often amusing. Sometimes,  you have to laugh. The first death is when I stop laughing.

About a year ago, I started forgetting the names of people, places, flowers, and friends. Before, I had no trouble writing or remembering what I was writing about or the topics I wanted to explore on my blog. I also had no trouble learning the complex technology in my Leica. I also had no problem taking pictures of flowers or loving and living happily with my wife.

Still, I was increasingly running into people at the farmer’s market or the Food Co-Op whose names I had forgotten. I came up with all kinds of tricks to slither around my embarrassment and fear that this signaled the beginning of my dementia or something worse. I became a liar or a trembling child again every time that happened.

I found myself sticking my hand out and saying a hearty “hi” to people who seemed to know me and who I recognized but whose name I couldn’t remember. We could chat, and I could slip away, trying to hide my inability to come up with a name.  It seemed rude to me not to know, and I was ashamed. I have always lived by my mind, and it was frightening to think I was losing it.

I told my doctor about it, and she said it was standard for men in their 70s to forget names of all kinds. The part of the brain that stores names began to fail even though most other people my age, I was to learn, have the same problem.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot: Why is it so taboo? Why am I so ashamed of getting older?

Why am I hanging onto someone other than the person I am? Someone who is buried deep inside of me.  I call him Little Jon sometimes. The people I love understand being old, and they don’t laugh at me or patronize me. They tell me their names.

Yesterday, I was in the grocery store and almost walked into a former student in my writing class who I’ve known for years but haven’t seen in a long time. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” I said, struggling to recall his name. I couldn’t, so I went silent, hoping for a clue, something to spark a memory. The moment turned awkward, even though it should have been pleasant.  He was one of the best students I had. This has happened many times.

I startled myself by sticking my hand out. “This is silly,” I thought. I had to stop it. “Sorry, Little Jon. You don’t wet the bed anymore.”

“Forgive me,” I said to my student. “I know you, but I can’t remember your name. Can you tell me what it is?”

He hesitated and then smiled. “Don’t worry, he said, ” I always forget names, and I’m younger than you. Everybody I know who is in their 70s has trouble remembering names. Sometimes, my grandfather forgets my name; he is in his 90s. But he never forgets who I am. I only remembered yours because I re-read one of your books when my dog died: your book on grieving for animals. So I was thinking of you.”

We talked for a while, and I was surprised at how good and light I suddenly felt.  The shame of aging was gone. He smiled again and asked what the name of my donkey was. “Simon,” I said, “I have never forgotten the name of any animal I have known, especially the dogs and donkeys.”

I felt decades younger.

I said it; I did; I said I couldn’t remember someone’s name; the sky did not fall, and he was not offended. Life goes on.

And I was not ashamed; it was a big moment, a time of liberation. Because our society hides the notion of aging, and older people become invisible, I don’t have to do it myself—quite the opposite. As we were saying goodbye, he called me to stop and came back over.

“Listen,” he said, “I appreciate your honesty. I’ll share mine. I was lying, too. I’m younger than you, and I do remember people’s names. But when the time comes, I will remember to be open and honest about it, as you are. Thanks for that lesson and the others. And by the way, I wasn’t lying about my grandfather.”

I have a book by a Dutch psychologist. In it, he says that forgetting names is a sign of wisdom and courage in China, as they become less critical as we move through life. He wrote that life is a process; wise people go along with it. Congratulations to me, then, I thought. I have more important things to remember, like what I’m writing at the moment. The words flow like a Spring stream.

I remember a friend whose wise aunt told her never to throw a watermelon when afraid or angry because it made a mess. This was great advice. The same thing works for fear and shame.

I decided this was a lesson for me, not really for him. Aging shames me at times; why would anyone look at me and feel any differently? That’s how poorly I felt about myself.

I will remember what I can and say what I can’t – Google is often my best friend, an AI search engine close behind – and anyone who doesn’t like it or who makes fun of my typos on my blog can stuff it right up their ass.  People in our culture are always eager to shame others, but I will not be a person who shames himself for the wonder and lessons of growing older.

Sometimes, I wince when I look in the mirror. Sometimes I smile.