Aging is a successive series of losses,
some minor, some major,
all disheartening in some way.
A man I know said he wouldn’t survive
if he ever had to give up playing golf.
But he has survived,
flourishing in the things he is still able to do,
solving crossword puzzles in his wheelchair,
playing cribbage with his other assisted-living friends,
writing grandpa jokes for his grandkids,
making notes for a memoir.
His overall happiness hasn’t diminished as far as he can tell.
He still has much to live for.
I consider that I might lose the ability to travel,
or that I might radically choose such a thing myself
before age chooses it for me.
At moments, it’s difficult to fathom,
given my nomadic temperament,
my fiercely independent nature,
my high value of freedom.
But, it’s not impossible for my mind to grasp the concept.
Our ancestors have been nomadic from the beginning.
But eventually, many of them arrived at a place,
noticed it had everything they needed to flourish,
and decided to stay.
Nomadic instincts went into hibernation.
There is much to be said about the stability of community.
I imagine today,
when the time comes that I am unable to travel,
I shall not be overly upset.
I will still have my friends, my library,
my intrinsic happiness.
And though I may not be able to leave my home physically,
I shall continue to run away often,
exploring other worlds,
through my books,
and through my art.