“How beautiful the leaves grow old,” wrote John Burroughs. “How full of light and color are their last days.” – Amen.

I like many things about aging; in some ways, I am better at it than when I was young. This week, I decided to focus on the one or two things that bothered me the most about being 77, apart from the occasionally chilling realization that I’ll soon be dead.

Still, there is no need to go there constantly. It will speak up when it wants to.

The part of getting older that challenges me the most is so apparent and straightforward that it is almost embarrassing to discuss it.

Everyone else is young. But I am not.

Being old requires many adjustments and constant learning. To age well, I have to change well and frequently, as most of the time, my body seems to be in charge, while I want my head to be in charge. Every day, I remind myself of the good things in life: the love around me, the animals, writing, blogging, and photography. It’s all good.  And I know the pharmacist’s first name. We are friends.

I’m not young and will never be young again.

Still, what is sweet about my age is that there is little else to do but love and live well. Life becomes all the more precious and touching in all its many layers of beauty, no matter how hard the young work to destroy it. More and more, I’m happy to be what I call a Refugee From Being Young. I’ve discovered I can’t keep up with it and don’t want to.  I don’t know any young people who seem happy and live without stress.

Being loved in this society is easy in many ways. The vibe of our youthful and youth-crazed society is speed, tech, noise, and energy; it feels like push, certain, drive, ambition, restlessness, texting, TikTok, and Instagram. I don’t want to live in a TikTok environment.

All this energy is exciting, but it doesn’t seem to offer hope or meaning and feels isolating. This fast-paced world is a whole of everything but the human community or the ethics and morals required for human connection.

All around me, the very reality of getting older is pushed to the side or forgotten altogether. The good news is that we older folks are beginning to do it ourselves, seeking and finding connections. I feel that on my blog all the time. I even have a  Blog Reader Community, which meets on Zoom weekly. We have come to love each other.

Our culture celebrates being young in a way that does not celebrate being older. I often wonder what is left for me now that being young is defined by our society as the true definition of life. Being old is determined by health and loneliness.

I can sometimes be childish, but I can’t be young.  I love change, but I can’t keep up with being young. Hollywood producers balk at hiring writers because they fear that people over thirty are now too out of touch to communicate with the young, no matter how talented.

I used to be a young writer and was deluged with job offers, interviews, culture interviews, and people who wanted to discuss what was happening in the world.

When I turned sixty, my publisher no longer bothered to speak with me, flatter me, work with me, or want my books. I was not alone by any means. My very talented editor, as he always did, honestly told me, “They want young people who can write a lot of books. You’re out of touch.” Then came the Internet. Those people are smart.

She was right. Nobody invites me anywhere anymore, and I can’t say I miss it.

It turned out well for me. People like me have followed my blog for some time now, and it is still growing steadily as it finds its voice. Many people are glad not to be young again —an exhausting and tense experience—and want to finally live their lives without rushing to keep up.

I was never as good at being young as I am at being old. At 77, I’m a natural, older man’s shuffle.

But I can’t lie.

I’m not young or at the center of anything but donkeys and manure, and almost everybody else is. My only future is the one I make.  I’m on it.

I have one choice, and I accept the power of time: time to move along.

My spirit loves being older. The burden is that it keeps pushing my face to the mirror of time.

The blessing is that being older helps me understand the meaning and fleetingness of time—my spirit is in full bloom for the first time in my life.