A Prayer for Middle Age

Our last day in Guadalajara, 2015. Where it felt like all of life was yet to come.

The thing about middle age is you see what’s coming for you.

​Parents die. Friends suffer heart attacks or battle cancer, and even get taken early. Others become unrecognizable as they gray and grow. In your own body, joints crackle more and pieces need to be examined, deeply, to ensure they are benign, and you feel like you spend half your life at doctors and assorted therapists. And the anxiety starts to grow: Is my shoulder just sore? Or is that my heart? Will I have enough time? Can I eke out more years with one more mile, one more malasana? Will I get to do everything that remains?
 
The thing about middle age is you see what’s coming for you.
 
And so you have to decide: Will you fight, or will you fold? Will you explode each day that remains with intention and joy, or will you burrow into a long waiting game? You have to decide what actually matters to you: Is it the promotion? The legacy project? The groomed lawn? The clean house? No? Then what is it? Maybe the math brings clarity. 30ish years left, on average. Which seems short, but then you start cataloguing: In the past 30 years, you've seen the world, and you learned to be comfortable exploring in your own skin. You learned two languages well, and a few others at party trick level. You learned to love, again and again. You made a family. You lived abroad. You wrote poems. You grew tomatoes and okra and ground cherries and columbine and milkweed. You wandered so many neighborhoods that were home, skipping or singing or letting a dog lead you. You hugged infinitely. You laughed deeply. You argued fiercely. You stood in conviction and, hopefully, with integrity. You racked up degrees and accomplishments, but more importantly, you threaded webs of connection across time and space. You know this is a life well-lived.
 
But the thing about middle age is, you see what’s coming, and you are forced to acknowledge that life is a finite experience. Grieve that, but let it metastasize into fuel for what remains—into art, into love, into joy, into hugs, into travel, into connection, into kindness, into clarity. Let your grief guide you towards living, creaky knees and all. Let your grief show you what’s coming, and let it show you how to get there in fullness and delight.