What else is there to do?

Aging, attention, and becoming

It’s time for my annual pilgrimage.

Not the sort a friend just made, walking blisters onto her feet and renewal into her soul on the Camino de Santiago, but with parallels, nonetheless. Something went wrong every day, she told me, starting with a canceled flight. But it was still an incredible experience.

“Yes,” I think. “That.”

They say aging is a test of endurance. I say, so is living. Every day, I face my demons. There are no shortcuts. And so far I’m still at it, because despite themselves, they can’t keep me from what’s miraculous, precious, or beautiful.

Here’s something precious:

My community loves a woman named Carol. As a volunteer managing social media for the local farmers market—an institution I helped launch 28 seasons ago—I shared a photo of her with a few simple words:

This is Carol.

Carol shops at the farmers market every week.

Even when it rains. Even when it’s hot.

Even when other people stay home and grumble about parking.

Carol is smart.

Carol is kind.

Carol has seen a lot in her years—and she still chooses joy.

She rolls up weekly, picks out the best of what the market has to offer, and always has a kind word for the farmer.

Everyone smiles when Carol is here.

Be like Carol.

The world needs more Carols. 🌻💛

The post has garnered close to 300 reactions and a flurry of supportive comments. Carol is almost 90. She wears compression socks, uses a rollator, doesn’t stand as upright as she once did. And she is utterly delightful.

Here’s something beautiful:

Last week, at the same farmers market, I approached a stand run by a couple I’ve known for many years, two people who have endured a lot. She walked away just as I arrived, her husband watching with weariness and worry, saying how unfair it is, what life has done to her. She’s been leaving with greater frequency, the result of progressive cognitive decline and imagined offenses she typically blames, without cause, on him. I offered to go after her, see if I could encourage her to come back.

I remember how my mom struggled as my dad’s capacities deteriorated, how he accused her of having an affair when she left for a meeting, or a short trip out of town.

Just as she reached the edge of the road, I met up with my wandering friend, called her name, put my hand on her shoulder.

“It’s Elizabeth,” I said. “Would you like to walk back this way with me?”

“Did he send you after me?” she asked, frowning.

“No. I just wanted to hold your hand for a little while.”

On the short but slow journey back, we talked about how she’d just as soon not be here anymore and about how we were wearing the same color. I told her how nice it felt in the shade of their tent, and how the breeze made all the difference. I asked her what she’d call the color we were wearing. We landed on peach, or salmon. By the time I moved along, she seemed to have forgotten that she was angry.

Other than good fortune, there is nothing standing between me and the end of my life. This has been true since the day I was born. That I’m still here, moving through my sixties, feels nothing short of miraculous. I’ll take all of it I can get. (I’ll get back to you on that when it hurts more to be here than I imagine the leaving will.) I know the clock is ticking, which means the chance to grow older is like winning the lottery every damn day.

So, I will live. Soften. Ripen. Practice being who I think I want to be. I will savor my days, knowing it only takes a hint of sweetness to balance the sour, the bitter, the salty. As my body fades, I’ll amplify my light. As it falters, I’ll amplify my love. Send them both to the places they’re needed most—which, of course, is everywhere. What else is there to do?

Think about that for a minute, would you? Think about the wonder of living. Of all the options, we’ve arrived here. This morning, we opened our eyes, wiped away the crust, made our way into some kind of day.

Have you looked around lately? Really looked? At the ants crossing the threshold? The plants sprouting on the doormat? The faded sign, the sagging flag, the flowers in the window? At the sloped shoulders of the guy getting home from a 12-hour shift, at the woman and the dog who go past every morning and evening? What kind of dog is it again?

Good god, we’re alive! Tomorrow is my birthday, and I’m not about to be quiet about it. What a remarkable thing it is to be born at all, to live at all.

I am on a pilgrimage. This can only ever be a solo journey, a well-traveled path curving with the pulsing current of humanity, conversations slipping over worn stones that ask how I’ve been, where I’ve been, where I’m headed.

A pair of trees, once small as wrists, stand textured and stately. In their canopies live the dreams I lifted up long ago. Looking up from the shadows, I see them pirouette overhead, responding to forces beyond their control: now rain, now bird, a blast of wind, a fallen friend.

My body is this path. My legs are these trees. My arms, branches. My dreams still dreams, but with deeper roots. I am noticing what’s here, holding what’s here, loving what’s here. I don’t know what I’m becoming. But I’m calling it wondrous.

~Elizabeth

Andrea Gibson: August 13, 1975 – July 14, 2025

In a May interview with The Wall Street Journal, Warren Buffett asked, “How do you know you’ve become old?” I’d love to know your thoughts on that, the essay, or whatever else is rising up for you today. Here’s to whatever “becoming” means for you!

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