How to walk when winter has arrived

How to walk when winter has arrived

Posted on December 22nd, 2009 by Frank Wilson

Live long enough and you will start to grow old. As someone who has crossed that threshold I can say that, so far, it isn’t exactly turning out as expected. Not that I expected much, mind you, just what I took to be the usual. I figured I’d put on a bit of weight, get a little paunchy, and have some more aches to put up with. That’s all come to pass, but what I didn’t expect is how, at some point, it all seems to come together into some sort of critical mass, and it’s no longer something that’s happening, but something that has happened. It’s a bit like when you notice that all the leaves are off the trees and realize it’s not really autumn anymore.

There’s another surprise, too, one that Doris Lessing has noted: “The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven’t changed in seventy or eighty years. Your body changes, but you don’t change at all. And that, of course, causes great confusion.”

This is largely true. I would guess that my personality coalesced when I was between 15 and 19. The person I became then is the one I’ve been carrying around ever since. He knows more now than he did then and has changed some views and adopted some others, but fundamentally, he’s pretty much the same fellow.

Growing older is no problem as long as it’s slow and gradual. But over time a gradual this here and a gradual that there add up. One day, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a storefront window and don’t immediately recognize the reflection as your own, and when you do, you experience something akin to the aforementioned winter-has-arrived moment.

Think about it. Having a limp when you’re young is one thing. People are likely to assume it’s an injury, sustained — possibly — in an act of derring-do. Having a limp when you’re older could well be a sign that you’re decrepit, signaling that you’re vulnerable, an easy hit.

Remember those nomadic tribes that, when they pulled up stakes, left their sick and elderly behind to die of exposure? That custom used to be referred to with a measure of disapproval. Now it’s probably regarded as one more stern, but colorful folk custom.

I hear tell of people nowadays who, I gather, think those tribes might have been on to something. After all, seniors who die make a contribution, often sizeable, to government revenues (thanks to the estate tax) and they help cut costs (by no longer needing either Medicare or Social Security). They even cut down on carbon emissions. What’s not to like about that? And what’s there to lose — other than those tedious holiday dinners with the folks? In other words, giving seniors as much help as possible in shuffling off their mortal coils can bring about a great social benefit. There are no retirement homes in nature.

But I digress, as the patron saint of this column, Michel de Montaigne, was wont to do. In fact, someone has suggested that his essays are nothing but digression. But to ponder that would entail digressing even more.

So back to getting old. There is a sense in which what Lessing says is not quite correct. We ourselves, and not just our bodies, can grow old, in the sense that we can start thinking of ourselves as old, making age and its infirmities the essential note of our being. I recently noticed that I was beginning to move a little differently, a little more cautiously. I had long ago slowed down my walking pace to a saunter, but now it seemed to be settling ever so slightly into a shuffle. I also noticed that I was more deferential to my aches than I ever had been before.

This bothered me because it violated one of my rules of living: Posture affects disposition. Walk like a sad sack and you’ll feel like one. Put a little spirit in your step and your mood is bound to perk up. I got this idea years ago from a book by J.-M Dèchanet, a Benedictine monk, called Christian Yoga. Dèchanet wrote that, when he got up on a cold winter morning before daybreak to say Mass, he was not filled with pious fervor. But if he made sure to bow and genuflect with reverence, he found he began to feel reverent.

So I have lately made a point of reminding myself to straighten up and fly right. Years ago, I fractured my right knee cap, which means there’s more than a twinge when I walk upstairs. But I’ve gone back to what I used to do about that: I ignore it and bound up the stairs, twinge or no. Know what? The knee feels better.

I also take a few seconds to make sure I’m standing straight and looking presentable before I walk out the door. Lo and behold, I find myself weaving my way among the slackers on the sidewalk I’m still on the road to being an old coot, but I’m strolling along with a bounce in my step, if not a song in my heart. And while the vehicle may be vintage, it’s the usual self going along for the ride.