I don’t feel my age. Some are kind enough to say that I don’t look my age. I certainly try not to act my age. And yet I have friends and relatives who appear to have aspired to get older quicker at each stage in their lives. To be more mature earlier, to accept old age sooner. This seems a shame.
The passage of time is a very subjective experience – thanks Einstein – a fact of which I am increasingly aware. The me that experiences life now feels like the same me that was there when I was a child and yet none of that original me exists in terms of the cells and material “reality” of my being.
In fact, in terms of thoughts and emotions, the me that exists now didn’t exist moments ago and won’t exist in the next moment, and yet something carries on despite all of this. That me is reassuringly constant and unperturbed by the coming and going of the more ephemeral aspects of my being.
Spending more time in the company of that resilient, persistent me, feels good.