When I'm Sixty-Four

Another extended absence. Inexcusable.

Whatever the case, I ran across a passage from Marcus Aurelius's Meditations which I found to be representative of the time I've spent away from the computer and academic work this summer with my grandparents. So, I send a few passages along to you. Let them fertilize your soul as they may.

"The daily wearing away of life, with its ever-shrinking remainder, is not the only thing we have to consider. For even if a man's years be prolonged, we must still take into account that it is doubtful whether his mind will continue to retain its capacity for the understanding of business, or for the contemplative effort needed to apprehend things divine and human. [...] We must press on, then, in haste; not simply because every hour brings us nearer to death, but because even before then our powers of perception and comprehension begin to deteriorate."

Obviously, these words are very pertinent to me now, as I watch my grandpa struggle daily with Parkinson's Disease and the resulting decline of his mental faculties. I've wondered whether I, if faced with the same problems, would have the same desire that he frequently professes to keep going, like when he prays that he will live to be 100 (he's 79 now).

The above passage from the Meditations, though, is immediately followed by a paragraph on beauty:

"When a loaf of bread [...] is in the oven, cracks appear in it here and there; and these flaws, though not intended in the baking, have a rightness of their own, and sharpen the appetite. Figs, again, at their ripest will also crack open. When olives are on the verge of falling, the very imminence of decay adds its peculiar beauty to the fruit. [...] Thus to a man of sensitiveness and sufficiently deep insight into the workings of the universe, almost everything, even if it be no more than a by-product of something else, seems to add its meed of extra pleasure. [...] the eye of discretion will enable him to see the mature charm that belongs to men and women in old age, as well as the seductive bloom that is youth's. Things of this sort will not appeal to everyone; he alone who has cultivated a real intimacy with Nature and her works will be struck by them."

Is it really possible to find beauty in any situation? Is it possible to find beauty in my grandpa's disease? I'm not sure. But sometimes, in the midst of his often-incoherent ramblings, it's as if a ray of light shoots through the haze and he happens to say something really poignant, or really funny, often both. These moments do carry with them a unique kind of beauty.

One example came early on in my summer. I took grandpa for a drive down some of the dirt roads in the area, and we creeped by, looking out at the fields, forests, and streams. Grandpa talked about a lot of different things, voicing whatever thoughts or memories came to his mind. Suddenly, he burst out, "I've really loved God. I've loved his birds, and his trees, and his... girls." It was a funny thing to say, to be sure. But somehow it had, as Marcus Aurelius says, "a rightness all its own." I'd like to think that, whatever one might encounter in life, there will always be right moments to (however inadequately) alleviate the wrong.

And that's about as optimistic as I get. When I blog next, I'll probably be in Indiana, and loaded up on some new cynicism and pessimism and eager to share. But until then...