Man in the Mirror
These are the very eyes that return my gaze in the mirror this morning, yet the face around those baby blues I sometimes don't quite know. Such an odd symmetry: he looks out at me from this found image from the lower strata of sedimentary memories in a box under boxes in the very back room; and I look back at those eyes, through them, and know what it is like behind them that very day, that 
hour, that instant in thought and memory. I know what he hoped for his future and I stand in the full flow of it twenty years later. What can I say to him now?
I could tell him that aging is like sailing. All you will do is stay on the boat, being who you are, doing what seems best to you in the sight of God in the space between the prow and the horizon. The boat is fixed; the sea moves under you in a steady pulse and flow through no effort of yours. Its current moves only one way. You will look back often but quickly lose clarity of the uncertain paths you have chosen or the ones chosen for you. Know that the sea behind you will be marked more by people than by paychecks, pleasures or momentary praise or tiny successes or failures. And it will come and it will go so quickly.
Aging is a verb, like skating, surfing, sailing. It means to stand firm with purpose and good balance while moving forward into new space and time where you have never been. Its passage will pull at our skin, fray your joints, suck at your strength and memory. Yet you will feel a part of it, the great sea of time. There will be a deep knowledge, even far down the path, that the elemental you is eternal-immortal, even as the shell around those eyes will go through its metamorphosis from the muscled vigor of youth to the craggy, wizened decline that will begin far too soon and last far too long to suit you. But even that is part of the story; it has its own purpose and meaning. Sail wisely and keep your eyes open. There is more to see than you have known.
Comments
The reason I like the face is the reason I like it now - and, yes, it is in the eyes, the steady gaze. It's unutterably poignant looking at old photos, the things you want to say, to give to the younger self, that only now... A hard-bitten journalist friend of mine once showed me a pile of all his old passports, intending to write a witty piece about coming upon these and the shocking passage of time on his face. He was clearly moved by looking at them. I don't think he ever wrote the piece. But blogging, I guess, is more personal and it becomes possible sometimes to share these things. Thank you. Wise words. (wizened? that's a little over the top, isn't it?)
Posted by: JeanG | February 17, 2005 6:53 AM
Yes, Jean, I thought about that word. But I like the double entendre that smacks of wisdom going along with the driedupness (at least to me) though it has none of that meaning in truth. And it is relative term. I feel wizened compared to that image, which I cropped to a bust only, since it shows me shirtless with comparatively massive deltoids, pects and upper traps, being from my body-building epoch. But only I know that. And now, you.
You are probably familiar with Ronni Bennetts site (Time Goes By) and her remarkable series of images in her header. I wanted to do the same and encourage others to do it, but I found I've far more often been behind the camera than in front of it; and I'm not often smiling and unselfconscious in the way Ronni seems to be.
Posted by: fred1st | February 17, 2005 7:04 AM
Beautifull, thoughtful post.
Your eyes then and now reveal the same inquisitive spirit.
Blog on!
There is so much more to discover, and now we have a means for sharing our discoveries with others. Self-discovery is no longer a solitary journey.
Posted by: David St Lawrence | February 17, 2005 7:19 AM
Ah, through the looking glass. Poignant thoughts to be sure. Satchel Paige once said getting old was a case of mind over matter: "If you don't mind, it don't matter."
But aging is more than the continued decline of body parts that begins at around 40. It is a compilation of life experiences, a collation of data from many years of input and, with luck, an enligthened outlook that comes from lessons learned.
You express it well my friend. I'm also reminded of Ralph Steadman's message to Hunter S. Thompson: "Call immediately. Time is running out. We both need to do something monstrous before we die."
Posted by: Doug Thompson | February 17, 2005 8:12 AM
It is up to us to return elders to their proper role in life - passing on the experience and wisdom of our years - as you have done so nicely with this post, Fred.
There is so much more to do that there is not time to rue the changes to our bodies. Wrinkles are painless and harmless. Ignore them.
And BTW, Fred, in not one of those banner photos was I unself-conscious except perhaps the very earliest toddler one. It took getting old to get over that.
Also, two bloggers have done me the honor of replicating my banner with their timeline-type photos on their sites. You can see them at these links:
http://covonline.net/index.php
http://plumbingthedeeps.typepad.com/weblog/
Posted by: Ronni Bennett | February 17, 2005 9:17 AM
Oh, well now we know why you *felt* wizened looking at the photo, Fred!
Ronni, this sent me on my first visit to your blog, but I'll be back.
Posted by: JeanG | February 17, 2005 9:35 AM
Nostalgia can strike from either direction, and this morning it hits me from the future---from in front of the boat. It's eerie seeing that picture, Dad, because the second I saw it, those seemed to be my eyes...: they were the next twelve years looking back at me. Glad to see them so young, unselfconscious, and oh so wizened. Mornin'.
Posted by: nathan | February 17, 2005 11:09 AM
It's funny, looking at this picture, having seen only photos of you closer to now. It's funny because, while beautiful, this picture looks somehow unfinished in comparison to the Fred I have an image of. This is not to say you're in some sense 'finished' now, but it's like looking at a partially completely portrait, or a yet-to-be-polished sculpture. There is something beautiful about the as-yet-undefined, but something unsettling, too. I love how you turned out.
Posted by: Siona | February 18, 2005 12:47 AM