We Have a Choice

As we grow older, something quiet and decisive begins to happen.
Life either opens us to its mysteries—or gently closes around us.

I don’t mean mysteries in the abstract,
but those simple, enduring truths that live beneath belief systems—
beneath politics, doctrines, and creeds—
the kind that can’t be argued, only recognized.

Even in the midst of the daily noise,
the chaos that presses in from every side,
if we can remain open—spacious, receptive—
something in us begins to settle.
Trust grows.
A quiet contentment takes root.

And we begin to sense a more ancient knowing,
a kind of primordial wisdom
that has always been there, just beneath the surface of things,
waiting for our attention.

But it can go another way.

If our gaze narrows—
if we spend our days tracking our 401(k)s,
studying the lines on our faces in the morning mirror,
counting the deepening creases around our eyes,
and the slow, quiet silvering of our hair—
we risk becoming confined by our own anxieties,
caught in the small, tightening loops of “what if.”

Then the world begins to shrink.
We see only diminishment,
only the slow unraveling
of what we once called a productive life.

And yet—there is another calling.

To grow into elderhood is to recover a way of seeing
we once knew well.
Like a child before language,
we learn again to notice—
to point, almost instinctively,
toward the subtle beauty that lives in the everyday:
light finding its way across a wall,
a voice that feels like home,
the simple fact of being here.

To meet it all
with something like awe—
and yes, with a sense of childlike curiosity.

As wise elders, we can use our voices—
and step-in no-hand shoes—
to help secure a safe and equitable future
for the next generation of emerging adults.

And from that place,
we step forward—not away—
to engage a hurting world.

With our voices.
With our presence.
With our well-worn shoes carrying us where we’re needed—
toward a more just and gentle world
for those who are coming after us.

This is the work of wise elders:
to see clearly,
to love deeply,
and to remain available
to what matters most.

We do have a choice.

We can live these remaining days in alignment
with that deeper wisdom—
becoming steady companions,
reliable mentors,
a quiet source of grounding for children and grandchildren.

Or we can turn inward in another way—
fortifying, insulating, protecting—
redecorating, again and again,
the small rooms of our own fear.

We have a choice.

And life, even now,
is still inviting us
to choose well.