Tag: aging

Categories
Aging Living San Francisco/California Street Photography

The Zone

Sail Away - San Francisco - 2014

I have been alive for nearly a third of the time this country has existed. It arrived the way facts do at a certain age, sideways, while I was thinking about something else, and it sat me down. Two hundred and fifty years, and my own decades take up a third of it — whether I meant to claim that much room or not.

I used to think the road was where I went to escape the smallness of a life. Now the road doesn’t call the way it once did. Some of that is willingness. More of it, if I’m honest, is a body that’s less steady, a bladder with a mind of its own. The body files its objections. I used to override them. I no longer do — not because I’ve grown wise, but because the overriding costs more than it used to and buys less.

But I want to tell you about what I got instead, most Fridays, for not quite a decade, because it isn’t nothing.

Doug came across on the ferry from Larkspur, and I’d meet him at the Ferry Building — watching the boat come in, watching him pick his way down the gangway with his camera bag, before either of us had said a word or made a single decision about where to walk. Then we’d head out along the Embarcadero, sometimes up into the financial district, and for the first ten minutes my mind would do what minds do. It would analyze. It would compose. There, the light coming off that glass tower, wait for the man in the overcoat to cross into it, no — too late, gone. Appraising and timing, the way I’d once weighed a stock, or a runway, or a route.

And then, without my choosing it, something released. There’s no threshold you feel yourself cross. But sometime after the tenth minute, the appraising stopped, and seeing took over. Not looking for. Not looking at. The street would stop being a set of problems to solve and become only itself: a longshoreman on a break outside a pier, a gull working the same patch of pavement three times, fog sliding under the Bay Bridge like it had somewhere to be. Doug, a few yards off, would go quiet the same way, and we’d shoot for an hour or two and then find each other again at the end of the block.

By then we’d have worked up an appetite for something other than pictures. Tadich Grill, if we could get in — the linen and the old wood and the waiters who’d been there longer than some of our careers. We’d order something plain and good, and that’s when the talking would start. Not small talk. The real kind. Work, kids, the state of things, whatever had lodged itself in each of us that week. The seeing on the street and the talking over lunch were not two different activities. They were the same hour, extended. One was attention paid to the world. The other was attention paid to each other.

I have flown airplanes and driven through weather I shouldn’t have, and I loved both for the demand they made on me — the total, narrowing attention that leaves no room for the self that worries. What I didn’t understand then was that a boat crossing from Larkspur, and a Friday, and an old friend across a table at Tadich, could ask the same thing of me, for free, without a single mile of my own driving.

Covid stopped it. Not gradually — the way most rituals fade, through scheduling and distance and the slow drift of people’s lives — but all at once, the way everything stopped that spring. The ferry didn’t run. The restaurants closed. We never quite picked it back up, not the way it was. I don’t think either of us decided to let it go. It just didn’t survive being interrupted.

A third of the country’s whole life, and it took me most of my own to learn what those Fridays were teaching me — and then to lose them before I’d finished learning it. I still see the ferry pulling in. I still see Doug on the gangway with his camera bag, in no hurry, already half in the zone before his feet touch the dock.

Categories
Aging Atmosphere

The Atmosphere Business

There are some rooms you just want to be a part of. A restaurant critic wrote that recently in the Financial Times, and I’ve been turning it over ever since. Not because it’s surprising — anyone who loves restaurants already knows it’s true — but because it named something I’ve been experiencing without quite having the words for it.

I’ve been paying more attention to rooms lately. Not to what’s happening in them, but to the rooms themselves. The light temperature. The materials. The way a space settles around you when you walk in.

There’s a Greek restaurant in Palo Alto called Evvia that I’ve been going to for years. It has no modern feel whatsoever — no reclaimed industrial aesthetic, no Edison bulbs performing nostalgia, no carefully curated emptiness. Instead: a wall of jars and bottles filled with colored liquids, honey-blonde wood, light that feels like it was chosen by someone who understood that warmth is not a design choice but a form of hospitality. I couldn’t tell you what era it conjures. I just know that when I walk in, something in me slows down. And the food is superb. That matters too — not as the reason you came, but as the room’s final kept promise.

I don’t think I would have noticed any of that at 35.

At 35 you move through rooms. You’re pointed forward — toward the person across the table, the evening’s agenda, whatever brought you there. The room is backdrop. At 35 I was probably thinking about the wine list before I’d finished reading the menu, planning the next thing while the current thing was still happening.

Something shifts. I can’t name the moment it happened, because there wasn’t one. Just a gradual noticing — that I was paying attention differently. That the room had become as interesting as the reason I came.

The word that comes to mind is savor. Which has an interesting relationship with time. You’d think that with less of it ahead, you’d move faster, extract more, optimize. Instead the opposite happens. Each thing becomes more worth inhabiting fully. The scarcity makes you slower, not faster. More permeable.

The FT writer talks about wanting to be held by a room. That’s a passive construction — something done to you, not by you. I think that capacity to be held requires a surrender that younger people can’t quite manage. Too much forward momentum. Too much else to get to.

What comes with the savor, I’ve found, is peacefulness. Not contentment exactly — contentment can be a kind of settling, a lowering of expectations. This is different. Peacefulness has knowledge in it. You’ve seen enough to know what a good room is worth. You’ve been in enough bad ones — too loud, too bright, too eager to impress — to recognize when a room is simply, quietly doing its job.

Evvia does its job. The honey-blonde wood absorbs the evening. The jars catch the light. The atmosphere, as an old restaurateur once put it, is what they’re actually selling.

Later in life, I know how to buy it.

Categories
Aging AI Business Living

The Being Phase

There is a metric making the rounds in technology investing circles that is, on its face, about market share and revenue concentration. Alex Sacerdote of Whale Rock Capital calls it the New Rule of 40 for AI. The formula is simple: take the percentage of a company’s sales derived from AI, add its percentage market share in that AI category, and if the sum reaches 40, you have a winner. Celestica, a company most people have never heard of, scores extraordinarily well. It owns somewhere between half and sixty percent of the cloud Ethernet white-box switch market. NVIDIA doesn’t need a formula. It simply is what it is.

Sacerdote designed the metric to cut through a specific kind of noise — the companies claiming AI exposure they don’t actually have, the giants whose AI revenue hovers at one or two percent of their base while their press releases suggest otherwise. The framework is a detector. It finds the companies that have stopped becoming AI infrastructure and started simply being it.

I found myself less interested in the companies than in that distinction.

I spent years at Visa watching a network that had long since crossed that threshold. By the time I arrived, Visa wasn’t becoming the global payments infrastructure. It was the global payments infrastructure. The work was real — fraud detection, modeling, the daily labor of keeping something enormous running — but the existential question had been settled before I got there. The network existed. Merchants accepted it because cardholders carried it. Cardholders carried it because merchants accepted it. That loop had been closing for decades. We were custodians of a fait accompli.

There’s a particular feeling to working inside something that has already won. It’s not complacency exactly. The problems are genuine and the stakes are high. But the uncertainty has a different quality — it’s operational uncertainty, not existential uncertainty. You’re not asking whether the thing will survive. You’re asking how to run it well.

I didn’t have language for that distinction then. Sacerdote’s metric gives me some. The companies that score highest on his New Rule of 40 have resolved their existential question. They’re not fighting for position. They’re administering a position already held.

The question that has followed me out of that career, and out of several decades of watching technology cycles turn, is simpler and more personal than any investment framework.

When did I cross that line myself?

I have been writing at sjl.us since 2001. That’s not a boast — it’s a data point. Twenty-five years of thinking out loud, of ideas arriving rather than being argued, of the specific memory as structural anchor. The blog is not becoming anything. It is what it is: a record of a mind moving through time, accumulated into something that has its own weight and shape.

The book on payments systems exists. The career at Visa exists. The photographs exist. The train journeys exist. The years in Dayton exist, and the years on the Peninsula, and the particular way the light falls on the California coast at Pescadero in the late afternoon — when the fog is still offshore and the hills are improbably green and everything goes briefly, completely quiet, as if the world is deciding whether to continue.

These are not things I am building toward. They are things I am.

Sacerdote would say I have high market share in a specific category. The category is small — one person, one particular configuration of experience and attention and accumulated knowing — but the share is essentially total. There is no competitor for the position of having lived this particular life. The moat is absolute. The switching costs are infinite.

I used to find that thought melancholy. The narrowing as loss. The aperture closing on what remains.

I’m not sure I find it melancholy anymore.

The L-Curve, Sacerdote says, is a long flatline followed by a vertical explosion. The tinkering phase, then the moment of lift. He means it as a description of demand curves for technology infrastructure. But I recognize the shape from somewhere closer. The long middle of a life, building and becoming, and then the morning you wake up and realize the building is substantially done. What remains is the being.

That’s not an ending. It’s a different kind of beginning.

Sacerdote’s metric will eventually stop working. All frameworks do. The AI infrastructure cycle will mature, the L-Curves will flatten, and some new measure will emerge to find the next thing that is just beginning to become what it will be. That’s the nature of markets. The detector has to change as the signal changes.

But there’s a complication worth naming. Analysts at Citadel Securities published a note recently observing that even the most powerful technologies must pass through the prosaic discipline of cost curves, capacity constraints, and marginal returns. Token bills are arriving unexpectedly. Compute is scarce. The vision of AI as ubiquitous, frictionless, and immediate is colliding with physical reality. Their conclusion: asset prices will periodically be forced to reconcile ambition with physical constraint.

That’s not a refutation of Sacerdote. It’s a reminder that feeling like you’ve arrived and having actually arrived are different things. The being phase has to be load-tested. The position has to hold under pressure.

I think about the fiber optics Corning is laying into the massive data center clusters — ultra-thin, bendable, carrying more light than anything that came before. The cable doesn’t know it’s infrastructure. It just carries what it’s given, at the speed it’s capable of, across whatever distance is required. It doesn’t matter what the cable believes about itself. What matters is whether the light actually moves.

That seems right to me. You become what you are over a long time, largely without noticing. And then one day someone builds a metric that accidentally describes your life, and you recognize yourself in it, and you think: yes. That’s the shape of it. High concentration. High share. A moat that deepened while you were looking elsewhere.

But the moat still has to hold.

The being phase, it turns out, is not the end of something. It’s the proof that something was built. And the daily question — for companies, for infrastructure, for a person in his late seventies still writing, still paying attention — is whether what was built is actually load-bearing.

You don’t get to stop finding out.

Categories
Aging Living

Life Is Wide Open. And Then It’s a Pinhole.

The world is shrinking. Or so we’ve come to appreciate. Jet travel has made it possible to get almost anywhere on the planet in less than a day. And yet.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve become increasingly reluctant to do the kinds of things I wouldn’t have hesitated to do as a younger man. Travel. Driving in busy traffic. Walking the streets in a sketchy urban neighborhood. Nothing dramatic. Just the ordinary texture of a life lived outward, which turns out to require a kind of low-level willingness I don’t always find in myself anymore.

I’ve been trying to understand this.

When I turned 60 I did something I’d never done before. I looked up my life expectancy on a CDC table. The number that came back was 22. I sat with that for a moment. Twenty-two years. I had been alive for 60 and I had 22 more in the actuarial average, which meant I was already three-quarters of the way home. Nobody had told me this was coming. Not the number exactly, but the feeling the number produced — the sudden rearrangement of the geometry, the sense that the horizon had quietly moved while I wasn’t watching.

I’ve been watching it since.

The metaphor I keep returning to is a camera lens. When you’re young the aperture is wide open. You travel. You navigate. You walk into unfamiliar neighborhoods without thinking about it because the lens is just doing what lenses do — starving for light, taking it all in, indiscriminate in the way that only the young can afford to be indiscriminate.

Then it starts to stop down.

Not all at once. There is no morning when you wake up and find the aperture closed. It happens gradually, a slow tightening over years, and you don’t notice because you’re still inside the frame, still moving through the world. Until one day you notice you’re thinking about the trip before you book it. Weighing it. The weighing itself is new.

What I didn’t expect is that the closing doesn’t feel linear. It feels exponential. The rate accelerating in ways that keep outrunning my revised estimates. You recalibrate. Then you recalibrate again. The next recalibration comes sooner than the last.

A friend saw Paul Simon in concert last night. That sent me back to Kodachrome, one of his early hits, a young man’s song about color and vividness and the wide-open lens of youth. Everything looks worse in black and white, he sang at 31. Something about that lyric now, from this side of the aperture, makes it more true than it probably was when he wrote it.

He just thought he was writing about being young.

As a young family with two kids we toured southern England staying at farmhouse B&B’s. One of those vacation memories that linger. We visited the Cotswolds. A place where the stone is the color of late afternoon even at nine in the morning. The thing that catches you there isn’t the famous honey-colored villages but the little creeks running through them — water moving in ways you didn’t expect, off to the side of what you came to see.

I won’t go back. Not because I’ve decided not to. Simply because the aperture has moved and the Cotswolds is on the other side of it now. Still lit. Still there. The creeks still running through in their surprising way.

This is not tragedy.

It is just true.

A stopped-down lens has a property that took me a while to appreciate. The depth of field becomes enormous. Everything in the frame holds with equal sharpness — the near thing and the far thing, the room you’re sitting in and the long accumulated past the room contains. You lose the beautiful blur. You lose the selective mercy of a wide aperture that lets the background go soft and permits you to choose, by implication, what matters.

Now the background insists.

Nothing escapes attention. The specific quality of a morning. The thought that arrives before anything is being asked of you. The idea carried for years, worked through carefully, finally put into words.

Hermann Hesse understood something about this. The deepest lesson of Siddhartha isn’t something the protagonist learns from a teacher. It’s something he has to live until he knows it. Wisdom of this kind cannot pass from one person to another. It has to be earned on the inside, in real time.

Which is another way of saying it cannot be taught at all.

I can describe the aperture. I can hand you the metaphor. But you will only know what I mean when you are standing inside it yourself.

I couldn’t have written any of this at 60. Couldn’t have written it at 70. The aperture had to close this far before whatever this is came into focus — the particular clarity that arrives not despite the narrowing but because of it.

Nobody told me that was coming either.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Categories
Business Living Retirement Trading

The Whetstone and the Hammock

We spend the first half of our lives trying to build a fortress of comfort, operating under the assumption that the ultimate reward for a lifetime of labor is the sudden, permanent cessation of it. We dream of the hammock. We dream of the empty calendar. But an empty calendar is really just a blank canvas with no paint.

Patrick O’Shaughnessy recently sat down with Paul Tudor Jones, and their conversation inevitably drifted toward the later chapters of life. Jones shared a story about fulfilling a promise to his wife to move to Palm Beach after their youngest child went to college. Upon arriving, she sent him to a local general practitioner—an 83-year-old doctor still seeing patients. Jones asked the man for the secret to longevity in a town (Palm Beach) he bluntly described as the “land of the walking dead.” The doctor’s response was a swift hammer blow:

“It’s real simple. You retire, you die.”

It’s a jarring diagnosis, but it cuts right to the bone.

We are biological machines designed for friction. Take away the resistance, and the gears don’t just stop; they rust.

Jones took the lesson to heart, noting that if you don’t use it, you lose it. He works out two hours a day and continues to trade, deliberately keeping his mind pressed against the whetstone of the markets.

I’ve watched this play out in my own circles over the years. I’ve seen brilliant, energetic colleagues hand over their keys, step out of the arena, and within months, seemingly deflate. The sudden absence of daily problems to solve doesn’t bring peace; it brings a creeping atrophy.

I’ve found myself deliberately holding onto certain complex projects and investments not because they are financially necessary, but because they demand my attention. They force me to wake up and solve a puzzle. They provide the necessary gravity to keep my feet on the ground.

But Jones offered a second, perhaps more profound reason for staying in the game. He wants to make “an absolute pot of money” specifically to give it away. He views his daily work not as a grind, but as the pursuit of nobility. He found a way to bridge the gap between the selfish need to keep his own mind sharp and the selfless desire to fuel the causes he cares about. The work becomes an engine for something larger than himself.

The hammock is a trap. The mind requires weight to bear, a horizon to move toward. The goal is not to finally lay down our tools, but to choose precisely what we want to build with them until the very end.

Stay hungry, stay foolish – and stay busy!

Categories
Living Serendipity

Why Comfort Zones Block Serendipity and Growth

Barista preparing coffee with customers sitting and chatting in a cozy café
Customers enjoy coffee and pastries in a warm, inviting café

Serendipity used to be the default setting of my days, but recently I find myself having a quiet, losing negotiation with the front doorknob every time I try to step outside. There is a specific, invisible weight to the handle on a quiet evening—a subtle, undeniable gravitational pull that recommends I simply stay inside. My favorite reading chair feels less like comfort these days and more like an anchor.

I have been writing in this space since 2001. If you look back through the archives of my life—both the digital ones and the memories filed away in my head—you will find a younger version of myself who frequently and willingly threw himself into the unknown. Back then, I assumed serendipity would always just be there, waiting for me to stumble into it on a diverted commute or during a late, unplanned dinner.

Lately, I’ve noticed a subtle shift. As I’ve gotten older, my comfort zone has hardened from a permeable boundary into a brick wall. The things that once sparked a quiet thrill of spontaneity—a sudden change of travel plans, an unfamiliar route home, saying yes to an event where I know absolutely no one—now often trigger a low-grade exhaustion before they even begin. I find myself pre-calculating the energy cost of every deviation from the routine. I weigh the known comfort of my home against the unpredictable variables of the outside world, and the home usually wins.

But I have been sitting with a growing realization lately: when we meticulously optimize our lives for comfort, we inadvertently foreclose on serendipity.

Serendipity requires a loose grip. It demands a willingness to be occasionally inconvenienced. You cannot schedule a chance encounter, and you cannot algorithmically generate a moment of sudden, blinding clarity. Those things only happen in the messy, unmapped spaces between our planned destinations. They live in the friction of the unexpected.

I often think about the writers and thinkers who deliver sentences with such compression and weight. Their most profound insights didn’t arrive because they stayed perfectly insulated from the world. They arrived because they allowed themselves to be interrupted by it.

I am trying to learn how to open the door again. It doesn’t mean manufacturing chaos or pretending I have the boundless, restless energy of my thirties. Acknowledging my own changing capacity (especially physically) is necessary, but using it as an excuse to stop exploring is a mistake.

Overcoming this gravity means making a conscious, deliberate choice to leave the itinerary blank for an afternoon. It means taking the long way home, even when the usual route is faster. It means accepting that the discomfort of stepping outside the routine is the unlock to open a new experience.

The architecture of a well-lived life isn’t built out of safety. The most interesting rooms are the ones we never intended to enter but just happened into.

Categories
Aging Living

The Architecture of Autumn

We have long been told that time is a thief, a silent prowler that robs us of our vitality and leaves us with the husks of our former selves. We track its progress in the mirror, in the softening of a jawline or the deepening of a crease.

But recent insights into the relationship between the mind and our biological “clocks” suggest a more haunting possibility: time isn’t just stealing from us; we are handing it over.

New research into epigenetic aging—the cellular measurement of how “old” our bodies truly are—reveals that those who harbor deep anxiety about aging actually age faster.

Specifically, the fear of declining health acts as a catalyst, accelerating the very decay we dread.

“Fears about declining health had the strongest link [to faster biological aging], while concerns about beauty or fertility didn’t appear to have the same biological impact.”

It seems the body is a faithful servant to the mind’s expectations.

If we view the later chapters of life as a slow-motion catastrophe, our cells begin to prepare for the wreckage. This creates a tragic feedback loop: we worry because we see signs of age, and our worry ensures those signs arrive with greater velocity.

In my own reflections, I’ve begun to think of aging not as a process of depletion, but as one of distillation. In our youth, we are a broad, shallow lake—vast, shimmering, and scattered. As we age, the borders close in, but the depth increases. The water becomes clearer, the essence more potent.

If we can shift our internal gaze away from what is being lost and toward what is being concentrated, perhaps we can quiet the ticking.

To age well is not to fight the clock, but to stop treating the passage of time as an indictment.

We are not just growing old; we are becoming more of who we were meant to be.

The architecture of autumn is not one of collapse, but of a different, more golden kind of light.

Categories
Living Music

The Strangest of Places

There is a particular kind of silence that fills the room when you read the obituary of a contemporary. It isn’t just the news of a celebrity passing; it is a check engine light on your own dashboard. Bob Weir is gone. He was 78. I am 78.

I have good memories of seeing him playing with Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, et al at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Such a different time the 60’s were and the Dead’s music was a big part of that.

When you share a birth year with someone, you share a timeline. You walked through the same decades, witnessed the same wars, the same shifts in culture, albeit from different vantage points. For Weir, it was from the stage of the Fillmore or Winterland Ballrooms and stadiums across the world. For me, it was a different path. But arriving at this specific mile marker—seventy-eight years of age—feels like we both pulled into the same station at the same time, only for him to disembark while I stay on the train a little longer.

I was reminded of a line from “Scarlet Begonias,” quoted recently by Alyssa Mastromonaco:

“Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”

In our youth, those “strangest places” were literal—backstage hallways, late-night diners, or the chaotic joy of a festival crowd. We looked for the light in the noise. But at 78, the definition of strange changes. The strangest place to find the light now is often in the mirror, observing a face that has weathered nearly eight decades. Or it is found in the quiet of an early morning, realizing that the absence of pain is its own kind of euphoria.

Weir spent a lifetime improvising, trusting that the music would find its way back to the tonic note. There is a lesson in that for those of us left here. The “light” isn’t always a flash of brilliance or a grand finale. Sometimes, if you look at it right, the light is simply the grace of being here, right now, able to listen to the song one more time.

The music never really stops, does it? It just changes players.

Categories
Aging Living

Time’s Tightening Lens

Margaret flipped the calendar to April, taking a moment to pencil in a dentist appointment for the 15th. As her eyes traced the upcoming weeks and months laid out in tidy little boxes, a pang of something indescribable tugged at her heart.

She had just celebrated her 75th birthday a few weeks prior. The well-wishes and family gatherings had been lovely, of course, but it also brought into sharp focus the reality of where she was in life’s journey.

“The days may be long, but the years are shortening,” she muttered under her breath, adapting an old adage. How true it rang.

When Margaret was young, summers seemed to stretch into eternities of adventures and discoveries. The school year trudged by in an endless succession of monotonous weekdays, only brightened by bright visions of the coming break. Back then, the iris of her life’s lens was wide open, framing each experience and possibility in brilliantly expansive clarity.

Then came the headlong rush of early adulthood – college, career, marriage, mortgages, raising children. Those years flashed by in a kaleidoscopic blur of milestones and transitions as the lens iris gradually began contracting.

As she hit her 50s, then 60s, Margaret noticed the iris tightening more rapidly, compressing the time between each passing holiday, season, and anniversary into an ever-dizzying cycle. Her fading eyesight from developing cataracts didn’t help matters, casting a hazy filter over the world.

But then, a few years ago, the miracles of modern medicine gave Margaret’s vision a new lease on life. The cataract surgery and implanted lenses allowed the vibrant colors and crispness of the world to flood back in like a rediscovered treasure. In that sense, her visual perspective expanded once more, even as the metaphorical iris of her life continued its contraction.

And now, at 75, it was as if someone was inexorably closing that iris tighter with each advancing year:

“For the majority of my journey, the road ahead stretched endlessly, with infinite possibility. Now, I can see the horizon in the rearview mirror growing larger by the day as my lens’s aperture shrinks.”

Margaret sighed and rested her chin in her hand, the April calendar still open before her. She knew her remaining years were dwindling – not infinite and permanent as they once felt, but finite and fleeting. Compounding the sense of time slipping away was Margaret’s deteriorating health and mobility in most respects.

Just last year, her knee replacement surgery and recovery had put a frustrating damper on her activity levels. The idea of extended travel grew less appealing by the day as simple acts like walking through an airport became more taxing and painful. Margaret felt her world gradually contracting in parallel with the narrowing iris of her life.

The tender moments spent with her grandchildren took on even greater poignancy these days. Holding them close, breathing in their young scent, Margaret fought back tears at the realization that her lens’s window was just about fully closed – she may only get a precious few more years of making memories with them before her body gave out completely. She wonders whether she will live to see them graduate from high school, or from college, or get married and have children of their own? She starts adding numbers together – but then stops, it’s just not helpful.

“When you’re young and healthy, the whole world is framed in a brilliant wide-angle vista,” she thought with a melancholy smile. “But as you age, your lens’s aperture shrinks tighter with every passing day, slowly dimming and limiting your horizons along with your vitality. Sometimes, though, modern medicine can re-expand part of that diminishing vista, if only for a short time.”

As Margaret reflected, she wondered why this profound truth about the compression of time couldn’t be more visibly grasped and heeded in one’s youth. Perhaps it was the utter lack of firsthand experience with anything but the perception of a boundless future stretching ahead. Or the youthful naivete and feeling of invincibility that blinds us to the inevitability of age and mortality.

Or maybe it was the sheer inability to emotionally connect with and envision the people we’ll become further down the road – our future elderly selves feel like separate beings, unmoored from our present gaze. Our culture’s obsession with perpetual youth and human hardwiring for present-bias didn’t help either, constantly diverting attention away from the road’s eventual dead-end.

By the time that bone-deep wisdom of time’s finicky passage finally sets in, it’s often too late to fundamentally reorient our paths and appreciate the expansiveness while it still lasts. If only there was a way to bottleneck that epiphany to the young, Margaret thought, to inspire them to maximize their ambitions before that iris inevitably narrows to a sliver.

Margaret closed the calendar, arose from the kitchen table, and headed out into the backyard garden she had cultivated for over 40 years. The vibrant blooms seemed to pop with richer color and clarity thanks to her recently restored eyesight. More than ever, she wanted to soak in and appreciate every beautifully ordinary day and finite vista she had left, before her lens finally closed entirely.

Aging is one of the many happenstances over which we humans have absolutely no control, but – as with all happenstances – we have absolute control over how we play (or don’t play) the cards dealt us by the fickle fingers of fate.

Joe Klock