Last Thursday, I ate breakfast with my retired professor chums. We chomped, chatted, and chuckled.

Later in the day, Rebecca and I attended a lecture by another emeritus professor. She talked about living in the Soviet Union when it collapsed in 1991. What a gift, to hear insights from someone so experienced.

On Friday, we went to my former college’s Christmas party and hung out with other perennials. If you are wondering about the perennial label, I’ve written about it here.

I’m 73 and retired in 2018.

I recall sitting in another restaurant years ago, watching another retired cohort. I was with my 85 year-old mother, half-listening to one of her stories.

And asking myself whether I would join my retirement bunch for breakfast every Thursday morning.

I didn’t.

Not the breakfasts or the monthly lectures. At college gatherings, I gravitated to those still employed.

I was stuck.

Not only that.

One day, while looking in the bathroom mirror as I lathered for a shave, I realized I had started to keep my nighttime t-shirt on during this morning ritual.

I was masking my aging upper torso, from myself.

Stuck and hiding.

I was mourning two losses: my professional life and my imagined youthful body.

The foregrounded tree in the photo helped.

It is what it has become. Nothing hidden.

No pretense.

Nature taking its course. Living and dying.

Like the tree, I’m part of the natural world. Nothing special. No exception.

Today, I’m a proud emeriti breakfaster and lecture attendee. And occasional presenter. And last Friday, at the Christmas party, Rebecca and I caught up with several old friends.

Thankfully, it started at 3 PM.

And in a few hours, I will go to a kettlebell workout and stick-out like that tree.

Older amidst younger.

The large mirror in the front of the room will display my aging limbs.

That I observe with curiosity, acceptance, and pride.