Today, I have pleasantly occupied myself with a series of diversions; first, an invigorating early morning ride on my tricycle; then, the always stimulating Essays of Michel de Montaigne (1877), whose author, incidentally, was born on February 28, 1533. Later, I indulged in a restful snooze overlooking Braddock Cove before revisiting Coligny Beach and Dune Lane, cherished haunts from our time on Hilton Head Island.
Often I remark (mostly to myself) what a singular privilege it is to enjoy such delightfully idle preoccupations. Indeed, I have no hesitation in declaring that this ease surpasses any other advantage I might imagine. It transcends celebrity, fortune, fame or beauty, each an undeniable stroke of luck in its own right, yet none rivalling the profound contentment I derive from my own good fortune. At times, I even consider my ability to relish this luck to be, in itself, a fortunate gift.
Nor do I mistake my serendipity for something as weighty or deliberate as intelligence, wisdom or brilliance of any kind. More often than I care to admit, I have confirmed for myself the wry truth of Phyllis Diller’s salty adage, “The harder I work, the luckier I get!” A reminder, perhaps, that entitlement comes either by merit or by chance – and in my case, I seem to have benefited from a bit of both. Yet, I do not deny the supremacy of luck. Having already survived two catastrophic medical ordeals, I can only wonder what the third shall be.
A natural product of aging is the much-acclaimed result of distillation—whether in fine wine, single malt whisky or the essence of one’s personal inclinations. As I so often remark, in my case, much of what passes for refinement is merely the slow march of progressive decomposition and increasing immobility. Lately, however, I have been struck by the pressing need to adapt to the evolving environment that aging brings. You might assume that acknowledging this necessity would come without hesitation, and indeed, on a physical level, it does. The true challenge, however, lies not in recognizing the changes but in mentally reconciling myself to their unfolding reality.
As with all matters of truth, the foundation lies in admission. In this instance, that includes recognizing the elements of distillation shaped by aging – understanding what one truly enjoys, freed from the constraints of necessity, employment or obligation. This privilege may be as simple as building a train set, crafting a clipper ship in a glass bottle, or, in my case, cycling, photography, music and writing. And, of course, the pleasures of the table—where I take particular delight in the endlessly nutritious and delicious creations of His Lordship, whose seemingly boundless culinary ingenuity has, perhaps unwittingly, drawn me away from the once-cherished custom of dining out.
There is one more acknowledgment I feel deserves mention: the remarkable evolution of technology. While this may seem either self-evident or even redundant—given the widespread adoption of technological advancements over the years—its impact on someone of my generation is both undeniable and profound.
If I were to single out the most transformative aspect of my life, beyond all material changes, it would undoubtedly be technology. My introduction to it came in the mid-1980s when, after much deliberation, I convinced myself to purchase a computer. What followed was nothing short of a nightmare – an unparalleled struggle. Yet, I persisted, eventually advancing from the brilliance of the IBM Selectric typewriter to the silence and speed of the laser printer. From there, an annual cycle of upgrades ensued, each iteration bringing me closer to the cutting edge of innovation. This journey ultimately culminated in my embrace of the iPhone, iPad and MacBook Pro. And Apple Music, for which I can never offer higher praise.
Among the many unexpected benefits of this technological ascent was a complete transformation in photography. I had never anticipated this shift, yet it wasn’t long before I willingly passed my beloved Canon camera to my niece, a professional photographer, and fully embraced the convenience of smartphone photography.
Reflecting on this journey, I marvel at how far I’ve come—from my mother’s old portable Smith Corona typewriter, on which I taught myself to type one summer in the backyard garden of my parents’ home in Djursholm, Stockholm, at the age of fifteen, to the boundless digital world at my fingertips today.