The Bristlecone Paradox
As I lay there, watching one of only a few breezy clouds in the azure-blue sky skitter away, I felt the coolness of the ground through my canvas jacket. The bystanders, all of whom were related to me in some way, maintained a semblance of composure, leaning, depending on the person, somewhere between mild concern, head-shaking pity, and half-hidden hysterical laughter. The ATV sat idling twenty feet away, my oldest son aboard, craning his neck 180 degrees to see if the fun was really over for the day, or if maybe I'd pull myself together for another go.
The rope, having failed in its job of keeping me upright, now snaked loosely across the ground, the far end attached to the rusting hitch of the ATV. The other end, somehow, was still in my hand. I noticed it as I gathered my senses enough to roll over, and then rise to one knee.
Skateboarding was never really my thing. I grew up before the age of wide boards and skate parks, but even so, still had a few friends who could ramp the lip of an empty swimming pool. Having crashed skateboards a hundred times on flat pavement, every unseen crack in the sidewalk spelling more lost skin on my elbows and knees, I knew the swimming pool tricks were better left to the experts, or at least the more talented.
Maybe it was the 30-year gap since my last experience, or my memories of narrow and tippy skateboards, or possibly that there was currently no pavement to be seen - only six inches of newly-fallen snow - that made the snowboard seem so spacious and inviting. But whatever the reason, on that day, at 42 years old, I made the decision that the wide board, with straps holding boots in place, appeared to be a decently-stable platform to test my balance once more.
From one knee, I was slowly gasping back in the oxygen that had been knocked from me at impact, and my synapses began firing with just enough organization to tell me, through a vague fog, that my attempt, after a decades-long lapse, had been a mistake. When my son hit the throttle on the four-wheeler, and the rope attached to the hitch came tight, I remember only making a slight move to stiffen my knees, before the board shot forward, and I accidentally performed what my younger son referred to as an "awesome pancake".
Why I remember that day with such clarity; remember rising from one knee to begin a slow walk over to my son to hand him the snowboard, and then over to my truck to sit down, I don't really know. But I suspect it's because it was the first day I remember feeling old. There had been plenty of moments of feeling a little more winded, or a little less strong, or with a few more slight aches and pains in the morning. But until then, no defining consciousness that some things in the world were passing me by, and that the young were finding easy some tasks at which I would never even be competent.
And that realization, more than the pain in my back, more than my lost pride, bothered me.
There were still things I wanted to do. Things that, in my mind, were done by young people. I wanted to get better at playing the guitar. Wanted to maybe start a business, though I didn't have any specifics ironed out. I wanted to travel, and write a book, and get into phenomenal shape, and ride my bicycle some incredible distance, just to say I did. Even though I was aware that all of these things were done every day, by people much older than 42, I couldn't help but feel a bit sad, thinking about all the years that had unwound from the spool, and that I still had yet to accomplish much from a very long list.
If you've been to a dentist's office, or a hotel elevator, or on Facebook, you've likely seen the posters, usually picturing the ocean, or the stars, or horses, along with the phrase: "You're never too old". And you've likely heard the usual variations: ...To dream a new dream. ...To set a new goal. ...To see a new horizon. I'm now old enough to think 42 is young, which is also old enough to realize that those encouraging phrases aren't entirely true. If my goal is to make it to the NFL, for instance, or to be a zillionaire by 30, or to run a four minute mile, or to look good in the most cutting-edge clothes, it's probably time to let it go.
But life, among the many hardships, also offers many kindnesses. One of them is the fact that from experience, from wisdom, from learning and confidence and understanding - from age - spring entirely new goals, and with their appearance comes a falling-away of the old ones.
And to have a goal with any depth of meaning, we need to feel that the goal needs us. That in attaining it, we are contributing something we gained through the sacrifices required of us, the effort expended, the resilience developed in living through the stresses and strain of years of life. And the intersection of desires and experience can only occur after much time passes. Which means that the things you would like to accomplish today, couldn't have been done until now. Not in a way that would've been fulfilling to you, and beneficial to others.
In the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, outside of Bishop, California, stand trees that are thousands of years old. One, the Methuselah, is over five thousand, which places it as the oldest individually-living tree on Earth. At the visitor's station is a sign that reads, in part:
"Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity"
When Shakespeare penned these words, the trees around you were already over 1000 years old. Since that time, more than 400 harsh winters have come and gone. Adversity actually helps these trees achieve great age. But how can this be? Why would severe winters, dry summers, and the rigors of a high altitude environment actually help a tree attain longevity?
The short, dry growing season causes bristlecone pines to produce very small amounts of extremely dense and resinous wood. This wood resists insects and animal pests, infection, heart rot and fire. Bristlecones also grow where other species cannot - in nutrient-poor soil.
When I, not long ago, had the opportunity to visit those trees and read that sign, my thoughts immediately went to how much resistance I have toward adversity. To how much time I spend wishing I had done something differently in the past, that would've made my present easier. All the while, ignoring what I have gained. What I can do now, that I could not have done ten years ago. That what little I've lost in physical strength, I have gained tenfold in strength of spirit. That we, who have experienced struggle and distress and the passing of time can grow where others cannot.
The phrase "You are never too old...", as I said, is not entirely true. But changing it so that it becomes entirely true, requires only a different ending: "...to do the thing you are here for, that only you can do". Don't be so tied up with the endless worry and frenetic stress of the idea that today is too late.
Rest instead in the assurance that yesterday was too early.