Staying Home

I recently took a short trip not too far from home. It was mostly a familiar landscape with a few new additions. I was eager to get out of the house, and even familiar trips can offer a different experience: landscapes seen in a new light, conversations with strangers who I briefly bond with; dining at new and familiar restaurants, where I can try new meals; and staying at an old-fashioned motel where our room faced softball fields and an osprey nest on a tall light pole.

It was fun and not too adventurous for an old woman, but I found myself longing to just sit in one place: maybe at the lake with the startling view of the high peaks; or the river where I heard bird songs that were new to me and could watch joggers, mothers pushing baby strollers, fishers, and young and old couples.

Instead my friend and I ended up driving for hours trying to get to the next place, and missing dinner in our need to get home before it got dark. We drove past towering red cliffs and along a wide river; through a lush meadow like I’ve never seen in my home state; and through an old mining town—but it all went by too fast.

When I got home, I was happy to just settle down, sit in the backyard and listen to the birds, continue decluttering the house, and sit at my desk and work on my computer while I paused to stare out at a familiar landscape—the field behind my house and the mountains in the distance. Though I saw many spectacular places on the road, I’m happy to enjoy this one, which is so beautifully familiar.

Is this something that happens as we age? I’ve always loved seeing new places, and I still do, but I’m more content now to enjoy the place where I’ve lived for more than five decades. I know our brains slow down (at least mine has), so it takes longer to absorb the world, especially this fast-paced one.

My friend Elaine, who is 92, is in a memory care place. When I visit her, she’s either lying on the bed or sitting in a chair next to an iPad where photos of her family scroll by. She seems content to be doing nothing or very little. Maybe it’s enough that our brains are filled with all the people we’ve known, the places we’ve lived and our work life (even if we don’t remember them all), and we don’t need anything else. Maybe we just need to sit with our life experiences and absorb them.

My friend John used to climb the highest mountains in the national park, and now he’s not interested even in driving through the park, sitting at their bases and looking up with wonder at the summits. At age 88 he’s got a different routine: reading the night away; meeting friends for lunch in town; taking his recyclables to the sorting station where he enjoys his conversations with the man who staffs it; and, of course, endless doctor appointments. His life has slowed down enough that, he told me recently, he just started noticing clouds.

There’s a pleasure in routines: seeing the first light in the east as I make my breakfast, watching my cat enjoy his first meal of the day; my daily meditation; my afternoon walks on my favorite trails; even trips to the grocery store. I look forward to my weekly Silver Sneakers class and getting together with old friends at our favorite happy hour spots.

When I stop trying to get ahead and rush to the next place, I find a deep contentment of where I am in my life now, a willingness to settle down with the person I’ve become.