The moving finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

(From the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, translated by Edward FitzGerald)

Sometimes, I walk past a mirror and glance with a start at the reflection within. Sparse steel gray hairs have blanched to platinum and become an invasive species on my head. Shoulders have rounded, despite motherly echoes of orders to stand erect, the quick pats on the back as reminders. And there are lines—so many lines….

These are the marks of aging, where the body is a constant reminder of an expiration date, a need to fulfill goals, yet less energy to fulfill them. Whatever wisdom we have seems of declining interest and worth to those who would most benefit from it.

We watch cruelty, insanity, and blithe discourtesy and realize we’ve seen them before. We hear “New Ideas” promoted with youthful vigor and think, “Same song, revised lyrics.” We see lies accepted as truths, and a worrisome inability to deal with complexity as people hunger for a world of stark good and evil, identifiable heroes and villains. Technology improves, but people do not—they just become more eager to relinquish their autonomy, critical thinking, for the promise of instant gratification.

***

In my last years of teaching college level Literature and Writing courses, I could count on at least a few students asking bluntly, “What do I have to do to get an A,” as if there were a magic formula to the achievement. Of course, there wasn’t. So, my answer was always the same, “Work.”

One colleague became so frustrated by the question that on the first day of class she announced, “Everyone is getting an A.” When their expressions of shock and disbelief wore off, she continued, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, you can concentrate on the material.”

***

Aging is an inescapable process—one I’ve learned to value even as time shortens. I make lists. Organize. Gather facts. Read. Practice scales and arpeggios. Play technically difficult passages over and over until every movement and note is imprinted on sinew and bone. And I listen. Deeply. And hold my tongue when my lizard brain yearns to hiss and spit. Those platinum hairs, those shoulders, and especially those lines were the products of work. And if some moment of vanity were to inspire me to soften or tighten them, I know the deeper crevices, where the hard lessons and efforts are embedded, will remain.

Process.

Worth embracing.

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