Lately I’ve been thinking about time, not in a grim, counting-down way, but with a quiet sense of wonder. Each additional year now feels like a bonus round, an unexpected gift. I love living, and I find myself glorying in how super-rich these years have become. I share my days with a loving partner, a beautiful family, and good friends. I’m healthy. I volunteer with organizations filled with generous, caring people. I still do fun things, laugh often, and wake up curious about what the day might hold.
Every day, I pause to give thanks for this quite extraordinary experience we call living. How lucky we are to be able to do that at all, and to do it in a place that feels, in so many ways, like paradise.
At the same time, there’s no pretending that the circle is thinning. Many of my oldest friends are already gone. More recent friends are beginning to struggle with the realities of aging, memory loss, neurological challenges, and bodies that no longer cooperate. Lately, it feels as if departures are coming in a rush. I’m not counting years exactly, but I’m very aware that I’m sliding farther along the curve of life expectancy.
I find myself hoping for five or six more good, healthy years. Maybe that’s optimistic. Maybe four is more likely. Either way, I’ve made my peace with not knowing. I’ve always liked uncertainty, the right amount of it. For me, uncertainty has never felt frightening; it’s felt fascinating. Even as a child, I carried a quiet confidence that whatever I did, I’d land safely. That belief hasn’t left me.
Most of my life still looks much the same: family gatherings, friendships, meaningful work, shared meals, small routines that anchor the days. Yet I also sense I’m in an in-between place, no longer fully where I was, not quite where I’m going next. And oddly enough, that feels less like loss and more like anticipation. I’m still expecting good times.
My wife helps me navigate this season. She listens, reflects, steadies me when my thoughts wander too far ahead. She’s a wonderful sounding board, and her presence makes these transitions gentler, warmer, more human.
I’ve noticed something else, too. I catch myself reading obituaries and noting ages. As if there’s a formula hidden there. Of course, there isn’t. None of us knows whether we’ll live longer or shorter than “normal,” whatever that means. Time doesn’t negotiate. But knowing that doesn’t drain the color from my days, it sharpens it.
These years feel precious not because they are numbered, but because they are full. And as long as I’m here, I plan to keep noticing, contributing, loving, laughing, and saying thank you. Right to the end.