Elderly people have a lot in common – matters beyond their health and the weather.  Lately – within my confined orbit of association – everything is about change and movement. It is a topic of perpetual animation and exploration. One cannot disregard the latest frequency of moves by acquaintances and friends in and out of the apartment building, to and from local towns. Nor is it possible to escape the insinuation of repeated conversation about travel both locally and abroad. The gusto of this binary contemplation does however force the premiere question, “Do you wish to move?”

Movement in this context is both functional and poetic; that is, the intention to change venue is both practical and artistic. It can be as direct as altering one’s domicile (one’s permanent or established home) or as whimsical as a train ride across Canada or a jaunt to the Esmeralda coast of Sardegna. For our part we’ve agreed that we’re happy in our digs. We do not wish to move. The collateral inquiry into travel is not so easily resolved.

The most immediate hurdle to our reconciliation of the travel debate is that curiously we do not wish to travel. This seemingly abrupt contortion of inclination has arisen primarily from two ingredients: 1) the  change of face of America (galvanized by their president); and, 2) old age (provoked by recalcitrance and fatigue). For the moment we do not see a ready solution to the impediments.

Part of the curmudgeonly vapour – apart from obstinacy – is the equally inherent laxity (specifically contrasted with the vibrancy of youth). Nonetheless there is an ameliorating element which is the confession of change within. I align confession with the particular of change within because apart from that confession there is no readily evident reason for the limitation (and that’s the character of what’s happening within – namely, reservation, incapacity, exhaustion of appetites both corporeal and incorporeal). When faced with this emissive curtain, the recollections of one’s formative years become irrelevant and inconsequential (except in a diminutive way). The answer to the overall question of happiness is not getting on one’s horse and riding off in all directions.  There comes a time when merely watching the world go by is satisfactory and sufficient amusement. To feel that one must succumb to enlargement of the universe borders on superfluity at a certain age. And – speaking for myself – the matter is complicated by the historic necessity of relocation, not merely skipping through an environment while expecting a constant highlight. Ours has been a more prolonged vernacular of travel, contrary to ephemeral holidays, cruises or vacations. As much as we are titillated by the prospect of Caribbean and Mediterranean ventures, the admission of disinterest at a certain point in life is not entirely unforeseen.

The thrust of the analysis is this: In the interest of uncertainty – and having no more persuasive framework in mind – we have opted to stay the course. I like the feature of caution. It is besides an invitation to absorb the scope of our present circumstances with the continuing possibility of discovery. So while our colleagues remark about cruising, rail riding, cottaging and South America, we’ve controlled ourselves to deliberate more extensively before jumping on board whatever ship, train, kayak or continent may be at hand.

We need to be in the mood before we’re on the move!

Hal:

On the Move…

Elderly people share much more than the usual talk of health and weather. Of late—within the limits of my modest social orbit—the prevailing topic is change and movement. It animates every conversation, whether through the coming and going of neighbours in the apartment building or the perennial discussion of travel, near or far. These musings inevitably stir the premier question: “Do you wish to move?”

Movement, in this context, is both functional and poetic. It can be as pragmatic as relocating one’s home—or as romantic as a train ride across the country or a Mediterranean jaunt to the Esmeralda coast of Sardegna. For our part, we are content where we are. We have no wish to move. The question of travel, however, remains unsettled.

Curiously, and somewhat abruptly, we find we no longer wish to travel. This reversal of inclination stems from two principal causes: first, the altered character of America, galvanized by its president; and second, the inescapable accretions of old age—resistance, fatigue, and a certain contraction of appetite, both bodily and spiritual. At present, no solution readily presents itself.

Of course, part of this curmudgeonly haze—apart from stubbornness—is a kind of inherent slackness, particularly when contrasted with the vitality of youth. Yet there is something redemptive in acknowledging the change within. That confession matters. For it is not outward barriers that most deter us, but inward ones: hesitation, incapacity, and a fatigue that reaches beyond the limbs into the very appetite for experience. When that invisible curtain descends, one’s youthful recollections become less guideposts than gentle murmurs—faint, quaint, and largely irrelevant.

At a certain age, contentment ceases to demand motion. Watching the world go by can become not only sufficient, but delightful. To insist upon expanding one’s universe feels, increasingly, like a conceit. Especially when one’s earlier life was marked not by passing holidays but by the deeper displacements of necessity—relocations that were neither whimsical nor optional. The concept of travel, for us, was once a vernacular of survival, not leisure.

We may still flirt with the allure of Caribbean or Mediterranean shores, but truthfully, disinterest has crept in—quietly, predictably, and not without its own dignity.

The crux of it all is this: in the face of uncertainty—and lacking any more persuasive argument—we have opted to stay the course. I favour caution. It invites us to engage more fully with our present circumstances and leaves room for quiet discoveries. While others set sail, ride rails, or escape to the cottage, we hold ourselves in reserve—not out of fear, but from a deliberate, extended consideration of what still calls to us.

We need to be in the mood before we’re on the move.