Old Age and The Receding Time

there's a difference . . .

Our culture is afraid of death. We spend billions chasing youth, wearing the armor of anti-aging to stave off the fear of that final goodbye. At a certain point, other people’s jokes about being old become little more than veiled anxiety, and that $72 face cream faithfully replenished each month becomes useless. The truth is: if we’re lucky, we get to be old.

Old age can surrender to society’s stereotypes of diminishment and loss—or it can be a luminous journey of self-awareness, joy, and unexpected grace. I choose the latter. I see this time of life as a profound development of the heart and soul. Somewhere in my late sixties, my “I don’t give a damn” gene kicked in. I stopped letting others define me. I became a beautiful old woman, living as much from the inside out as from the outside in.

My inner life is contemplation. It’s prayer. It’s a quiet, ongoing meditation that allows me to experience this world with a kind and grateful heart. I reflect upon the past, tying up loose ends with forgiveness and understanding. I take joy in the natural world—forest trails, city parks, the hush of a lake at dusk. I gasp with wonder when a hawk dips into my yard, as if to say “hello.” I think often about death—not with dread, but with awe. We are made of star-stuff, and one day, I will return to the stars.

For now, my gait is slower. I’ve let go of sports that strain my back, but I still hike, swim, and kayak. I move so I don’t stiffen. My skin sags in places I never knew it could, and that provides endless laughter for my husband and me. We lived through a life where how our hair looked mattered far too much—now he’s bald, and I wear braids. What matters isn’t reflected in the mirror anymore. It’s reflected in the soul. And that reflection, that dialogue with the soul, may be the greatest gift of being old.

For women especially, aging can be a juicy, creative threshold. A place of hard-won wisdom, with stories that ache to be told in prose, poetry, or art. We are the enchanted crones. The old wise ones who know the secrets of the oaks. We are alchemists, turning worry into peace, transmuting concern into gratitude. This is the work of aging—and it has the power to uplift, delight, and illuminate.

I don’t know how long I have left. My grandmother lived into her early nineties, gardening until the very end. My sister died at eighty-four, my mother at eighty-nine. I figure I may have ten or fifteen years. How will I live them? And what will the end look like?

For my grandmother, the end came peacefully—she went to sleep one night and never woke up. My sister, too, passed swiftly after collapsing one day. Both exits were gentle. If I could choose, I’d wish for such a departure.

My mother, however, lived through what I call the receding time. She slept more. Read the same Louis L’Amour book over and over, excited by each page as though it were new. In her final days, she spoke of her parents, longing to see them again. Life slowly ebbed from her—and she, in turn, slowly ebbed from life.

There is an important distinction between old age and the time of receding. Receding may be long or brief, and it can bring sorrow and challenge—for both the one who is letting go and those who love them. Not everyone will face dementia, but all of us will, in some way, feel life recede from us. And this is when the inner work we’ve done matters most: the reflection, the letting go, the opening to what comes next.

My grandmother believed deeply in her Catholic faith. I imagine that, if she had final thoughts, they were of sacred ascension. My sister’s spirituality was more private, rooted in a reverent acceptance of life’s cycle. My mother, in her final hours, wasn’t afraid—only curious, and ready to see those who had gone before her.

Love plays a central role in both old age and the receding time. Every morning, before I rise, I place my hand on my heart and say: “Thank you, Mother/Father God, for this day. Thank you for my life.” Lately, I’ve added: “Please guide me to walk through this day with a kind and grateful heart.”

That kind and grateful heart is the secret to aging well. I am an old woman with an open heart. I weep easily—at beauty, at sorrow. I’ve become a better listener: to my own inner voice and to the younger women finding theirs. What a wonder it is to witness them claiming their stories.

Being old is not a sentence of diminishment, even though we must let go of many things. Being old is a privilege. It is grace. It is the quiet space to look into our soul and give thanks—for this incredible, harsh, beautiful world we’ve been part of. It is the reprieve from the noise, the chaos. It’s the wondering of What’s next?

One day, I will recede from this life. But until then, I will live fully and love deeply. I will write poems. I will share stories. I will make friends with those who walk the path beside me—toward the horizon where eternity lingers, reaching her fingers out to us. Not as a stranger, but as the home we’ve always carried within us.

Thank you, dear reader, for walking this road with me. Thank you for your comments, your encouragement, and your companionship as we journey through space aboard this earth ship. Today, I offer thanks to my friend and teacher, Susan Albert,

Thyme, Place & Story

and my faraway sister-in-croning,

Jody Day

for inviting me to meet—and love—my crone self; and to

JULIA HUBBEL

for always inspiring me and reminding me to play— we are never too old to play!

Do you see the difference between old age and the receding time? Do you have your own rituals and celebrations of being old? Do you wear old as a badge of honor or are you afraid of it? How do you assign meaning to Old Age and The Receding Time? Please, let’s have a conversation.