Living Well Without Conclusions

I started this series with a snowflake, a sunlit mountain, and a memory of skiing, desires that my body can no longer chase as it once could. Along the way, I have looked at knees that ache, choices that ask us to accept limits, burnout that teaches patience, and quieter adventures, such as writing a poem for Valentines Day, but no less meaningful. And yet, here I am, still asking questions.

Maybe that’s the point. Life doesn’t hand out final answers, and perhaps it never did. The tension between what we imagine and what we can do, between fear and curiosity, between caution and joy, these aren’t problems to solve. They are companions, guiding us to pay attention, to notice, and to act thoughtfully in the spaces we occupy.

Living well doesn’t require resolution. It asks for presence, discernment, and a willingness to embrace uncertainty with grace. It’s in the noticing of a snowflake, the warmth of the sun, the laughter shared with friends, or the quiet satisfaction of a day lived deliberately.

So, maybe the best way forward is to live with questions, not chase conclusions. To step into the world thoughtfully, with curiosity as our guide, and to let the journey itself teach us what matters most. After all, it’s in the living, not the solving, that we find the richness of our days.

A Different Kind of Adventure

Not long after we start asking whether life gets smaller when we “get it right,” another question sneaks in, usually unannounced: who decides what right even looks like now? Is it our doctors, our families, the well-meaning commercials, or the quiet voice in our own head that has learned to speak in warnings instead of possibilities?

Aging has a way of putting us in a room full of advice. Some of it is wise. Some of it is fear dressed up as concern. And somewhere in the middle, we are left to sort out what still gives us energy, what quietly drains it, and what we are doing simply because it seems expected. I meet people every week who are quietly negotiating this terrain.

One of them is a 92-year-old woman I serve with on a board. Some days she has more energy than I do, and yet she worries she isn’t doing enough. She’s become a quiet role model for me. Many people her age might be sitting at home, but she’s dancing the Maypole, walking in the May Day parade, sitting in the hot sun at our booth during the car show, encouraging other seniors to stay engaged, or advocating for our latest project supporting caregivers of people living with dementia.

She doesn’t overreach. When she’s tired, she rests. There’s no inner argument between caution and curiosity for her. She has learned something many of us are still working toward: excitement doesn’t have to be loud, fast, or risky to be real. For her, adventure has shifted from adrenaline to purpose, from speed to depth. Discernment, not fear, has become the skill that keeps her moving forward.

And as we reflect on our own lives, perhaps the most daring adventures now aren’t measured in miles run, slopes skied, or ladders climbed. They are measured in connection, nurturing relationships, exploring new ideas, trying creative projects, or simply being present in ways that matter. The bravest risks later in life are often quiet, emotional, or relational, and they can bring more meaning than any physical feat ever could.

So, I invite you to pause for a moment and ask yourself: Where has your adventure evolved? What risks now feel worth taking, and what joys are waiting just beyond your comfort zone? The answers may surprise you—and they may just lead to the richest, most unexpected adventures of all.

Adventure in later life doesn’t have to be loud or risky—it can be found in laughter, new ideas, and small acts of courage. What might happen if you tried something just because it sparks your curiosity? Step lightly, step boldly, and see where joy finds you next.

Life’s later chapters invite a different kind of daring, one that blends curiosity with care, connection with creativity. Ask yourself: what risks are worth taking now, and which joys are waiting just beyond your comfort zone? Step forward, the next adventure is yours to discover

If I Get This Right, Will Life Get Smaller?

As we age, we’re often reminded, sometimes gently, sometimes loudly, of the risks we face: falling, cognitive decline, chronic health conditions. Cautious, “prudent” behaviour is presented as the responsible response. Sensible advice, yes, but it can also raise an unspoken question: if I get this right, will life get smaller?

At lunch the other day, one of the guys announced he’d done a full “nose plant.” When I asked what happened, he said he was walking from his car into a store during heavy rain, misjudged the height of the curb, caught his foot, and went down. A few bruises, nothing serious, but, as he put it, a much larger bruise to his ego.

My wife and I often laugh at a local TV commercial for stair lifts. After a sobering montage about falls, the ad closes with the line, “We have a solution for that. Just don’t fall.”  We laugh, even though the message underneath is serious. It suggests that the safest life is the smallest one.

A friend told me his doctor advised that anyone over 65 should never climb a ladder. In theory, it’s good advice. In practice, it’s unworkable. A more realistic approach is using ladders wisely: have someone steady it, climb slowly, avoid the top rung, don’t overreach. Prudence doesn’t have to mean withdrawal.

By that same logic, someone might tell my friend who tripped at the curb, “Just don’t catch your toes,” or better yet, “Don’t go out in the rain.” But if we followed every fear-based instruction, we’d soon be living very carefully, and very quietly.

That’s the real worry behind being sensible. Not the bruises or the risks, but the fear that doing things “right” means doing less, seeing less, trying less. Yet life has never been about eliminating risk. It’s about adjusting how we move through it

Getting it right doesn’t have to mean life gets smaller. It can mean life becomes more intentional, slower, yes, and more deliberate, but still curious, still engaged, still willing to step out into the rain. The real work isn’t avoiding risk; it’s learning which risks are worth taking and which fears are quietly shrinking us without our consent. And that raises the next question: once we stop letting fear set the limits, how do we decide what “enough” looks like, and who gets to define it?

Listening Beyond the Scan

As a group, we meet for lunch once a week. Conversation often drifts to the small aches and pains of aging, and which medications help, or don’t. One of the men who joins us lives with vascular dementia. Each week he tells the same stories, and each week we listen. He works hard to slow the progression of his symptoms and, by any measure that matters to him, he has done a remarkable job.

We also understand the limits of medicine. His medications will not stop the disease, and we know there will come a time when his family must make the difficult judgment to move him into care. Until then, he lives fully. He joins us on outings, at golf games, and at football games. He delights in striking up conversations with strangers, asking them to share stories from their lives. Most people respond warmly, and he thrives on that human connection.

Our role is both joyful and heavy. When we are out together, we watch him closely. He has become lost before, causing real stress for his caregivers, who trust us to bring him home safely. We feel a deep obligation to honour that trust while also protecting his dignity and independence.

He knows his condition is worsening. Some days he speaks about it plainly; other days the subject feels too close, and we let it rest. Over time, we have learned that listening matters more than fixing, and presence more than progress.

Medicine tells part of the story, but not the whole of it. What the scans cannot measure is the value of a shared meal, a familiar laugh, or the simple dignity of being included. Somewhere between clinical outcomes and lived experience lies a quieter wisdom, one that asks us not just how long a life can be extended, but how gently and meaningfully it can be lived.