The Wisdom of Aging

"That thing needs a fresh coat of paint," he said, indicating the set of shelves that serves as the pantry in my tiny kitchen.

My gaze followed his gesture, and I started to agree. I had intended to paint those shelves ever since the day I dragged them home from the curb on trash day, but somehow I'd never gotten around to it. I'd knocked off the loose paint and scrubbed it clean, but that's as far as I got before I put the shelves to use holding my canned goods in the basement. Now it was four years later. I'd moved into an apartment that was sorely lacking pantry space, but the kitchen had an empty space seemingly tailor-made for my beat-up shelves. Once again, I was too busy to paint them, but the shelves graciously took on the task of storing my groceries anyway.

As I opened my mouth to murmur my agreement, I looked more closely at the shelves. It's a small set, not more than three feet high and two and a half feet wide, and of simple construction, plainly a utilitarian piece. The ivory paint has peeled off, baring patches of the dark brown underneath, which itself has cracked and chipped to reveal the dull pink undercoat, resulting in an appearance not unlike my calico cat who eats her dinner on the bottom shelf.

I saw that beyond the blemished exterior was a solid structure. It was a sturdy little piece, and well built of solid wood, not flimsy pressed-fiber board like modern furniture. How old was it? What had it held throughout its lifetime? Books? Toys? Paint cans? What stories would it tell if it could? I'll never know the answers to those questions, but I know it has seen many years of useful service, and it has earned its dings and scratches.

Why, I wondered, do we insist that everything look new and young? We try to deny the years of history and experience by forever glossing over the exterior appearance, whether it is a set of shelves or a human being. Our obsession with "new" equals our obsession with "young." We cover up evidence of use with a new coat of paint, and when a new version of a product becomes available, we quickly discard the old, even though it is still perfectly serviceable. We buy all sorts of lotions and potions to hide the signs of aging, and when we find that we can't turn the elderly into young and modern, we discard them, too.

But just as my old shelves have plenty of useful service left in them, there is plenty of value in our older people, too. The gray hair, wrinkles, and stooped stature are less a measure of age than evidence of a full life. Ask yourself, where have they been in their lifetimes? What changes have they witnessed? What wisdom have they acquired? Better yet, ask them, and listen, and your life is sure to be enhanced by the interaction. The outward signs of the years don't diminish a person's worth.

He was speaking again, and I realized my mouth still hung open, full of unspoken thoughts. "So, do you want me to pick up some paint when I'm in town?" he asked.

I closed my mouth finally and shook my head. Aware that I am at that stage of life when my own paint is starting to crack, I was beginning to identify with the shelves. "No," I replied. "I've decided to honor the age of those shelves by allowing their wrinkles to show."

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