Once Upon a Time: Why Seniors Need Fairy Tales Again

Let me ask you something. When was the last time you read a fairy tale?

Not to a grandchild. Not as a favour. For yourself.

If you are like most seniors, it has been decades. We put away fairy tales somewhere around the time we put away dollhouses and toy trucks. We decided they were for children. We decided we had outgrown them.

But here is what I have learned after nearly eighty years. We did not outgrow fairy tales. We just forgot why we needed them.

Fairy tales were not invented to entertain children at bedtime. They were told and handed down from generation to generation because they contained lessons that people needed to learn to survive in an increasingly hostile world.

Think about it.

Little Red Riding Hood taught children not to trust smooth-talking strangers.
Hansel and Gretel taught them that even seemingly kind people could have dangerous intentions.
The Three Little Pigs taught that doing things right the first time, brick, not straw, could save your life.

These were not gentle stories. In their original forms, they were terrifying. And they were supposed to be. Because the world was terrifying, and children needed to know how to navigate it.

We are adults now. We think we do not need such warnings. But the world is still hostile. The strangers are still smooth-talking. The wolves are still at the door. And we, perhaps, have forgotten how to recognize them.

There is a famous story about Albert Einstein. A mother asked him how to make her son more intelligent. She expected him to say something about mathematics or physics.

Instead, he said, "Read him fairy tales. If you want him to be very intelligent, read him more fairy tales."

Einstein understood something that we have forgotten. Fairy tales are not the opposite of science. They are its companion. Alongside physics and poetry, they are our best instruments for discerning the rules of reality and building from them models of what is possible.

Physics tells you how the world works. Fairy tales tell you how to live in it.

The Italian writer Cristina Campo wrote something that has stayed with me. She said that hope and trust are different things, and confusing them can be dangerous.

Hope is counting on a lucky break. Hope is thinking that this time, things will work out because you deserve them to. Hope is fragile. It depends on particular events going your way.

Trust is different. Trust does not count on particular events. Trust is sure that there is a larger pattern, a deeper economy, which encompasses everything that happens, the good and the bad, and surpasses their meaning the way a tapestry surpasses the individual threads that compose it.

The hero of a fairy tale does not hope. The hero trusts. They trust that if they follow the path, if they pay attention, if they are kind to the strange old woman who asks for help, something will come of it. They do not know what. They do not know when. But they trust.

That is what we have lost. Not hope. Trust.

Here is the thing about fairy tales that we forget as adults. The hero is always asked to do the impossible.

Find the golden thread in the dark forest.
Answer the riddle before the sun rises.
Awaken the sleeping princess with nothing but a kiss.

And here is the secret. The hero succeeds not by being stronger, smarter, or luckier. The hero succeeds by forgetting their limits when contending with the impossible, and paying constant attention to those same limits when performing it.

That is not a contradiction. That is wisdom.

When you are facing the impossible, a diagnosis, a loss, a change you never wanted, you must forget your limits. You must act as if you are capable of more than you think you are.

But you must also pay attention to your limits. You must rest when you are tired. You must ask for help when you need it. You must know that the impossible is achieved one small step at a time.

Fairy tales teach this. We forgot.

Here is something that sounds strange, but I believe is true. Adversity, challenges, and bumps in the road are often the first signs that a great healing has begun.

Think about a fever. It is uncomfortable. It is scary. But it is also the body's way of burning out an infection. The discomfort is not the problem. It is the solution.

The same is true for the hard things in life. The job loss that forces you to finally pursue what you love. The illness that teaches you to slow down. The death that reminds you to cherish the people who are still here.

Fairy tales understand this. The hero does not defeat the dragon and then live happily ever after without scars. The hero defeats the dragon and is changed. Wiser. Kinder. More capable of seeing what matters.

We want the victory without the transformation. Fairy tales know that is not possible.

Here is a final thought to carry with you.

Everything you treasure exists not because it had to. Not because it was likely or necessary. But because the universe took a gamble against staggering odds.

You are here. Against all odds, you are here.

The love you have known. The children you raised. The friends who have stayed. The sunrises you have watched. The meals you have shared. None of it was guaranteed. All of it was improbable.

And yet here it is. Here you are.

Fairy tales remind us of this. They remind us that possibility always exceeds probability. That the wildest reaches of the possible are not found in spreadsheets or statistics but in stories. Stories about girls who sleep for a hundred years and wake to love. About boys who trade a cow for magic beans and find a giant's treasure. About ordinary people who, when faced with the impossible, find within themselves the trust to walk forward anyway.

This week, read a fairy tale. Not to a grandchild. To yourself.

Read The Snow Queen. Read The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Read the story of Baba Yaga or Vasilisa the Wise. Read something that reminds you that the world is stranger and more possible than the news would have you believe.

And when you finish, ask yourself: What impossible thing am I being asked to trust right now?

You may not have an answer. That is fine. The hero never knows at the beginning either.

But the path is there. The thread is there. And you, like every hero before you, have everything you need to find it.

Once upon a time are not just words for children.

They are the oldest, wisest, most hopeful words we have.

And we need them now more than ever.

When the Circle Grows Smaller: A Guide to Dancing Anyway

 Let me tell you something we do not talk about enough.

As we age, our circle grows smaller. It is just true. The phone rings less often. The holiday card list shrinks. The chairs around the table that used to be full now have empty spaces where laughter used to sit.

And if you are like me, you have started attending a different kind of gathering. Celebrations of life. Memorials. Whatever name we give them, they are the same thing. A room full of people who all loved the same person, standing around trying to remember the good jokes and pretending not to notice the empty chair at the front.

It is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise has not lived long enough.

But here is what I have learned after nearly eight decades of watching people come and go. Death is not the opposite of living. It is part of living. And if we spend all our time mourning the circle growing smaller, we miss the chance to love the people who are still in it.

Here is a strange truth. You already know how to heal. You already know how to rebound, restore, and prevail. It is not something you need to learn. It is something you need to remember.

Think about it. Every time you have fallen, you have gotten back up. Every time you have lost someone, you have kept going. Not because you are special. Because you are human, and humans are built to survive loss. It is stitched into us like the hem on a favourite coat.

The problem is that we forget. We get so caught up in the pain of the moment that we cannot see past it. We think the grief will last forever because it feels like it will last forever.

But it does not. It softens. It changes. It becomes something you carry rather than something that carries you.

And that is not a betrayal of the person you lost. That is exactly what they would want.

Here is where we get ourselves into trouble.

We let the wrong things define us. Our spouse. Our best friend. Our health. Our ability to drive. Our garden. Our weekly coffee group. All of it precious. All of it dear. And all of it, eventually, subject to change.

The problem is not that we love these things. The problem is that we allow them to become the walls of our identity instead of just the furniture inside.

When your spouse of fifty years dies, you do not just lose a person. You lose the person who knew you best. The one who remembered your stories because they were in them. The one who laughed at your jokes because they heard them first. The one who defined you, in part, simply by being there.

And that loss is real. It is sometimes unbearable. It is the kind of pain that makes you want to crawl into a cave and never come out.

But here is what I want you to hear. You are not just half of a couple. You are not just someone's spouse or someone's parent or someone's friend. You are you. And you are still here.

The love does not disappear. It just changes shape.

Spirit Will Emerge. And So Will Your Wings.

I love that phrase. I am going to say it again.

Let logic stand aside. Have no fear. Spirit will emerge. And so will your wings.

Logic tells you that when your circle grows smaller, you should be sad. Logic tells you that when you lose someone you love, you should grieve forever. Logic tells you that the empty chair will always be empty.

But spirit tells you something else. Spirit tells you that the love you shared is still with you. Spirit tells you that you are allowed to laugh again. Spirit tells you that the best way to honour someone who died is to keep living.

And your wings? Your wings are the things you still have. The friends who are still here. The grandchildren who need your stories. The garden that needs tending. The volunteer shift that needs filling. The coffee that still tastes good in the morning.

You do not need to figure out how to fly. You just need to remember that you already have wings.

I am going to say something that might sound strange. I have started to see Celebrations of Life differently.

Yes, they are sad. Yes, I would rather have the person back. But here is what else they are. They are reunions. They are history lessons. They are the only time you will hear your cousin tell the story about the time your uncle tried to fix the roof and fell into the rose bushes.

They are also a reminder. A reminder that you are still here. That the circle, though smaller, still holds. That the people in that room love you and are glad you came.

So, go. Eat the finger sandwiches. Tell the embarrassing stories. Cry if you need to. Laugh when you can. And when you leave, take a moment to be grateful that you got to be there at all.

Not everyone does.

Here is something the young people in your life do not know yet. They think death is something that happens to other people. They think they have all the time in the world. They think the circle will always be full.

You know better. And you can teach them.

Not by lecturing. By example.

When they see you grieve and keep going, they learn resilience.
When they see you laugh at a funeral, they learn that joy and sorrow can coexist.
When they see you show up, week after week, even when it is hard, they learn what it means to be an adult.

You are not just living your life. You are teaching them how to live theirs.

I know that look. The one you have right now. The one that says, "Royce, this is all very nice, but you do not know how much it hurts."

You are right. I do not know your specific pain. I have my own, and I suspect you have yours.

But here is what I do know. You deserve to be happy. Not someday. Not when the grief passes. Now. Always.

Not because the loss is not real. Because the love is also real. And love, when you let it, has a funny way of outlasting everything else.

So go ahead. Feel sad when you need to. Mope when you must. But do not build a house there.

Because your wings are waiting. And there is still so much to waltz for.

Love that look on your face right now. You deserve to be happy. Always.

Rainbows, Clydesdales, and the Art of Being a Delightfully Unpredictable Senior

Let me tell you something that took me nearly eighty years to figure out.

Life is not a spreadsheet. It is not a carefully calibrated plan that you execute flawlessly until you run out of time. If it were, we would all be bored out of our ever-loving minds.

No, life is a surprise machine. And surprises are life's ultimate way of gently, or sometimes not so gently, tapping you on the shoulder and saying, "Wake up, sleepyhead. You're missing the show."

Here is the trouble with us sensible seniors. We have learned things. We have survived things. We have accumulated wisdom like squirrels accumulate nuts, and we are rightly proud of our stash.

But sometimes that wisdom becomes a cage.

We know what we like. We know what we do not like. We know what works and what does not work. And somewhere along the way, we stop asking new questions because we already have all the answers.

But here is the thing about answers. They are just old questions that fell asleep.

And when we stop asking new questions, we stop growing. We stop transforming. We become monuments to ourselves, and monuments are lovely to visit, but they do not dance, they do not laugh, and they certainly do not try kale for the first time at age seventy-eight. (I did not like it, but I will try it again in 10 years,)

Let me explain the phrase "Rainbows and Clydesdales."

A rainbow is a surprise. You do not schedule it. You do not earn it. You are just going about your rainy day, feeling a bit glum, and suddenly the sun breaks through and there it is, a ridiculous, glorious, impossible arc of colour painted across the sky. It asks nothing of you except that you look up and say, "Oh."

A Clydesdale, on the other hand, is a different kind of surprise. Have you ever seen one up close? They are enormous. They are magnificent. They are the gentle giants of the horse world. And if you are lucky enough to encounter one, maybe at a fair, maybe pulling a wagon full of tourists, maybe just standing in a field looking impossibly large, you cannot help but feel a little bit smaller and a little bit wonder-full at the same time.

Neither rainbows nor Clydesdales care about your schedule. Neither asks for your opinion. Neither requires a committee meeting.

They just show up. And they make you feel alive.

That is what I mean by thinking outside the box. Not because outside the box is smarter. Because outside the box is where the rainbows and Clydesdales live.

Here is my challenge to you. Starting tomorrow morning, do one thing a day that surprises someone. Especially yourself.

Not big things. You do not need to take up skydiving or learn to play the bagpipes (please do not learn to play the bagpipes unless you live very far from other humans).

Small things.

• Put a rubber chicken on the kitchen table. Leave it there. Say nothing.
• Call your adult child and leave a voicemail that is just you humming the Jeopardy theme song.
• Wear one purple sock and one green sock. Act like you do not notice.
• Put a funny sticker on your walker. A googly eye on your cane. A tiny plastic flamingo in your houseplant.

These are not ridiculous acts. These are acts of rebellion. They are you reminding yourself that you are not a monument. You are a living, breathing, surprising human being who still has the capacity to delight.

And here is the best part. When you do something surprising, you force everyone around you to ask a new question.

Why is there a rubber chicken on the table?
Did Dad just hum the Jeopardy theme song?
Is he really wearing mismatched socks, or is this a test?

Those questions wake people up. They shake them out of their own deep sleep. And before you know it, you are not just a senior. You are a leader. You are a role model. You are the person who reminded everyone that life is allowed to be fun.

A few years ago, I decided to wear a Hawaiian shirt to a formal board meeting. Not aggressively formal, but the kind of meeting where people wear collared shirts and use words like "strategic alignment."

I walked in. People stared. No one said anything.

Halfway through the meeting, the treasurer, a lovely woman, looked at me and said, "Royce, is that a palm tree on your shirt?"

I said, "It is. I am conducting a strategic alignment of tropical vibes."

She laughed. The whole room laughed. And the meeting was better for it. People loosened up. Ideas flowed. We got more done in that hour than in the previous two meetings combined.

All because of a stupid shirt.

That is the power of thinking differently. It is not about being smarter. It is about being looser. It is about giving yourself permission to be a little ridiculous so that the people around you give themselves permission to be a little human.

Here is a truth that might surprise you. The young people in your life are not looking for you to have all the answers. They have Google for that.

What they are looking for is permission. Permission to be uncertain. Permission to try things and fail. Permission to laugh in the middle of hard times. Permission to wear mismatched socks and put rubber chickens on tables.

And you can give them that permission simply by doing it yourself.

When you act like a monument, you tell them that life is serious and mistakes are not allowed and joy is for children.

When you act like a rainbow or a Clydesdale, unexpected, glorious, a little ridiculous, you tell them that life is allowed to be strange and wonderful and that growing older does not mean growing stiff.

Which message do you want to send?

So here is my challenge to you for this week.

Find one rainbow. Real or metaphorical. A splash of unexpected colour in an otherwise grey day.

Find one Clydesdale. Something so unexpectedly magnificent that it makes you feel small and wonder-full at the same time.

And then find one small, surprising thing that you can do to wake someone else up.

Not because you have to. Because you get to.

Because you are a senior. You have earned the right to be eccentric. You have earned the right to be surprising. You have earned the right to put a rubber chicken on the table and dare anyone to say a word about it.

Now go forth and be delightfully unpredictable.

The world needs more rainbows. And Clydesdales. And seniors in Hawaiian shirts.

That is your legacy. Not what you accumulated. What you awakened.

The Artist in All of Us: Why This Time Is Not Our Undoing

I know it is easy to look around right now and feel the world coming apart. The news is relentless. The arguments never end. The ground that felt solid yesterday seems to shift beneath us today. And if you are over sixty, you have seen versions of this before, different details, same unease.

But here is what I want you to hear, especially if cynicism has become your blanket or depression your unwanted companion.

You are not a sinking ship. You are a swimming rat.

Let me explain.

Chaos Is Not the End. It Is the Beginning of Something New.

Think about ice. Solid. Predictable. You know exactly what it will do.

Now add heat. The ice cracks. It softens. It becomes something else entirely. For a moment, it looks like it is falling apart. But that chaos is not destruction. It is transformation. The ice is becoming water, and water can flow where ice never could.

We are living in that messy middle. The old ways are melting. The new ways have not fully arrived. And yes, it is uncomfortable. But here is the truth the cynics forget: every stable thing you have ever loved was once chaos being shaped into order.

The peace you enjoy. The rights you hold. The community you cherish. None of it appeared fully formed. It was built by people who refused to believe that the mess was the end of the story.

When the world feels unstable, we tend to look for engineers people who will bolt things down and make them rigid again. But that is not what holds a civilization together.

What holds us together is the creative spirit.

The artist. The storyteller. The gardener who plants seeds in broken soil. The grandparent who tells a child, "I have seen worse, and we got through it." The volunteer who notices an empty chair and makes a phone call. The neighbour who bakes bread and shares it.

These are artists too. They are making something where nothing was. They are imposing order on chaos with the simplest tools: attention, care, and the stubborn belief that beauty still matters.

Toni Morrison once said that this is precisely the time when artists go to work. Not when things are calm. When they are falling apart. Because art clarifies. Art nourishes. Art reminds us that we are still here, still thinking, still feeling, still capable of imagining something better.

Here is what the depressed mind forgets. You cannot control the news. You cannot control the economy or the politicians or the algorithms. But you can control:

·         Whether you get out of bed this morning

·         Whether you call someone who might be lonely

·         Whether you write down one thought that matters to you

·         Whether you plant something, fix something, or simply show up somewhere

Those small acts are not trivial. They are the bubbles being blown in the chaos. They are the webs being spun. They are the lighthouses sweeping the thankless seas.

And they matter more than you know.

Younger people are looking at this moment with fresh eyes. Many of them have never seen instability like this. They are frightened. They are angry. They are looking for someone who has been through a hard season and come out the other side.

That someone is you.

You have lived through recessions. You have lived through wars and threats of war. You have lost people you loved. You have rebuilt. You have adapted. You have learned that the sun rises even after the darkest night.

You do not need to be a professional artist to be an artist of living. Every time you choose hope over despair, you are creating something. Every time you refuse to pass your cynicism to a younger person, you are legislating a better future. Every time you show up to a coffee, to a board meeting, to a grandchild's recital you are building a vantage ground in the chaos.

The writer E.M. Forster once said that when the ships are sinking, he would rather be a swimming rat than a sinking ship. It is not dignified, perhaps. But you can look around longer. You can see things the officials missed. And you can find other rats swimming beside you, hearing each other's calls through the impenetrable wood.

That is what we are. Not dignified. Not certain. Not in control of the whole storm.

But swimming. Looking. Calling out to one another.

And that is enough. That has always been enough.

So, this week, make something. A meal. A phone call. A garden. A joke. A quiet hour of sitting still and breathing. It does not have to be grand. It just has to be yours.

Because the world does not need more cynics. It has plenty.

It needs the artist in you.

And that artist is still very much alive.