I don’t get too excited about gadgets anymore. I lost interest in bells and whistles long ago. And I’ve come to terms with computers, cell phones, iPads and the like because they make life easier and come with a gradual learning curve at prices I’ve finally come to terms with, given that we’re talking about a piece of plastic made where the average annual wage falls short of most American lemonade vendors. 

But that all changed recently when, on a whim, I bought an underwater MP3 player. Call it a moment of weakness or maybe just confusion, but it made perfect sense when a swimmer at the YMCA told me the ‘phones offer a pleasant distraction on days when he doesn’t really  want to work out. I know that feeling myself, so I got the details and ordered a pair. And almost immediately began second guessing myself. 

They won’t arrive as expected; they won’t work; I won’t have the software I need for downloading tunes; technology has made a fool of me again. And on it went. Until they did arrive. Packaged perfectly. With clear instructions. And a willing customer service department to help me through the conversion of Mac files to MP3. 

I used them for the first time this week and it went, well, swimmingly. For the $40 sale price, they offer decent sound, a comfortable fit, and are as watertight as I could hope for. If you’re looking for portable sounds for your next swim or a morning walk  check out  the GO 4GB from Jlab Audio. 

I’m usually put off by attempts to euphemize the “oldness” of aging with references to  elders instead of old people, advancing years instead of getting old, saging instead of aging. I find such attempts to ease the pain of aging disingenuous, if not downright dishonest, though certainly true to the spirit of a world in which insurance sales types are now financial planners, auto mechanics are service technicians and phone clerks are customer care representatives. But I picked up a book recently that may have changed my mind about all that, at least for now.

“Claiming Your Place at the Fire” makes a case for living second half of your life on purpose, with intention and deliberation. I might have stopped at the mention of life’s second half, had it not been for the author’s rationale for doing so. With 40 as the long-standing point commonly considered the start of “middle age,” and the average lifespan now nearing 80, a second half of life seems an appropriate consideration for what we’ve done and what remains. 

The authors of “Claiming . . . “ had major best-seller with “Repacking a Your Bags” and “Whistle While You Work” a few years ago, demonstrating they know something about life’s transitions and helping us through them. Their latest effort carries on in that vein, exhorting readers to claim a place among other “vital elders” in the glow of life’s circle of energy, vitality and renewal. 

The book, as one advocate says, challenges us to think beyond the familiar notion of baby-boomers being the rat in the python, and to become nothing less than the python itself. I like this, and take to heart their suggestions for creating not just a continuation of the lives we’ve lived, but one that complements our first halves and may in fact have new themes, plots and characters. 

It all starts with questions, but nothing as simple as, what do I want to do or become now. Instead, the writers encourage us to explore such fundamental questions as, who am I and how do I use the wisdom of my first half to serve those I encounter in my second half. 

Where do I belong? is not the same as where to live on less that periodicals regularly throw our way as the main consideration when choosing a destination for our dotage. And while not pooh-poohing cost of living as an indicator of where we may find happiness, other more important considerations include finding creative pursuits that stoke your fires, and recreational opportunities that encourage healthful activity.

The book uses stories of those who have claimed their place at the fire, and how they did it, to inspire those of us still grappling with the challenge of not wasting the second half of our lives. It’s an easy, inspiring read, which offers enough substance and practical advice to a curmudgeon like me to almost, but not quite, think of myself as a sage rather than an old coot. 




    

He told me it sounded like life’s sweet spot. My friend was offering his take on the conversation I had that morning with my wife, in which she matter-of-factly raised the blinds to a sunnier side of aging than I had seen of late.  

Despite my commitment to help others bring luster to their golden years, to show others how to age with conviction, and to embody purpose and passion, I was struggling. With a career behind me, and nothing but a few dreams ahead, I had lost the motivation I need to continue--living, working, being a husband, friend and father. You name it; I couldn’t find it

The feeling wasn’t one of depression or desperation, though I knew both were not far behind. It was more the sense of ennui that drives the French film industry, that disengagement from life and the nagging hunch that this may, in fact,  be all there is.

It all started when the activities that used to stir me to action and brighten my days--concerts, dinner with friends, brisk walks through the park, sex--stopped working their magic. I had reached a point of equanimity, my past and future in a standoff, challenging each other for my present. 

Though my professional life had fallen sort of expectations, it had provided a healthy and consistent source of income. And while my personal life was hardly worth autobiographical treatment, my past had been filled with good friends, much fun and a good sense of what it means to be alive.

My future, on the other hand, offered little more than what I imagined would be illness, financial shortfalls, and marginalization. What it had going for it was the same possible payback that every lottery ticket does. That is, the chance however slight, that my slim investment would great dividends, that life would prove worth living, and that no matter what another day might bring, the chance offered by playing was far greater than keeping that buck in my pocket. 

So we’re back to my wife insisting that we have arrived at life’s sweet spot. At 65, the insecurities of youth are behind us, she said So too, is the quest for status and stuff that fueled our forays into soul-squelching corporate jobs. And as far as fears associated with getting old, she pointed out that if we keep ourselves healthy and our expectations in check, we have more than most to live for and with.

And with her words, sun streamed into my living room. I knew she was right, as she usually is in matters rooted in my insecurity. I knew there was nothing of the past to relive, and no more to be gained by wishing that I could somehow find again the intention and drive that come with job, family, and accumulation. 

I stand squarely in life’s sweet spot, relieved of youth’s ignorance and not yet touched by the cold, arthritic hands of age. It feels good to stand in this warmth.  

I’ve practiced yoga off and on, mostly off, for the past 20 years. During those times of what I will gently characterize as dismay over the shape I was in, when everyone had a suggestion about how I could improve in this area, yoga was often offered as a thinking person’s alternative to weights, running and the rest.  And that’s how it has been through the years--yoga as a break from whatever regimen I was into at the time.   

As is the case in all exercise, though, I’ve harbored suspicions about whether I have been getting as much out of the discipline as I could. I’ve used yoga as a stretch, with a hint of muscle-building in the process. What I’ve wondered about is the mind-body connection, the idea that putting myself in or near ridiculously uncomfortable postures called asanas could somehow increase my connection to my Creator, the Great Spirit or whatever we’re supposed to connect to. Just what did flexibility have to do with god,  even one of my own choosing?

And then my daughter invited me to attend a class with her yoga instructor, Matthew Koder, Central Iowa’s Yoga Teacher of the Year, the young protege of master James Miller. And that’s where I experienced the link between what happens on a yoga mat with what’s going on between my ears, with the life I lead between awakening and going to sleep. 

Like all things profound, it came in the form of a simple lesson, one I’d heard before. The way we do anything is the way we do everything. The 28-year old devotee of Adamantine yoga opened me to the idea that poses become difficult when I lose focus.

That my mind is willing to quit long before my body is. That sometimes a simple shift in the way I place a hand or turn a knee--the tweak of a seemingly inconsequential part on an integrated flow of movements--can make all the difference in the world. That the will to complete an asana is more important than what I think my body will do.

Today on a semi-crowded elevator a woman asked nobody in particular how she was ever going to get used to Iowa’s cold after spending the past few months in Florida.  I recommended yoga. With a look that suggested she wanted me to address her tan more than her predicament, she confessed to owning a mat that she never used. Quoting from Matthew’s website, I told her what the mystic Pattabhi Jois said . . . Body is not stiff, mind is stiff.

The temperature dropped to about zero today, making me feel more alive than usual. In the chill, people move from office to car, and car to store faster than it takes to remind a friend “to stay warm.”  You know that you walk among the living because you can see them breath. Holiday packages and bright decorations offer reminders of time passing quickly, and tasks that remain in the shopping days ahead. 

It’s a great time of the year, to be sure. But what about when life doesn’t pack the charge of the holiday season? How do you energize yourself when your warning light shines blinking red? For me, it’s a matter of trying something different, learning something new, or simply opening myself to an idea.

A good bet for all of the above is a visit to your local Borders, local bookseller or, better, the public library. Upon entering, take it all in. Sense the knowledge and purpose presented on the shelves and promotional displays. Walk slowly in appreciation of the  ttought and labor other men and women have poured into bound volumes that await your consideration. 

I usually head first for the periodicals section. There, I look for titles in subjects about which I know little or nothing. Last week, when it seemed like autumn might never give way to winter, I was drawn to poetry. I sat down with a magazine for poets, after which I checked out a collection of poems on CD read by their authors.  

When I returned to my car and inserted the first of six discs into the player, I was immediately transported. From nagging thoughts of life’s doldrums, I was transported to  the worlds of James Weldon Johnson, Gertrude Stein and Robert Frost. I can’t guarantee a trip to your local purveyor of printed words will snap you out of your funk every time, but it certainly beats the digital alternatives that serve to deaden rather than awaken.