49.5

Normally, I would round up; but in this case, I just don't feel like it.

Forty-nine years and six months is not equal to fifty years. Mathematically, there is no doubt about that. Physically, emotionally, and psychologically, I'm going to be hard-pressed to maintain the distinction, but I simply don't want the things that are generally true of fifty-year-olds to be true of me. Not yet. If I can delay their arrival six more months, I will. But I fear it is already too late for that.

Aging is a continuous process, despite our best efforts to measure and report it in discrete intervals and groupings. One's "age group" has become a ubiquitous involuntary identifier, to which are attached numerous calculated presumptions, from preferred investment strategies and pharmaceutical aids to frequency of bathroom breaks and of certain uncomfortable medical examinations. We age one day, one moment, at a time, but we contemplate and appropriate age in bigger chunks -- at first years, then decades. The biological observation that we have ten fingers and ten toes seems anthropologically connected to the fact that birthdays with zeroes in them hit us harder that the ones that don't.

Okay, so I'm not ready to be "in my fifties" yet, and I am indulging in a bit of anticipatory obsession over the event. Ignoring the fact that my best friend died shortly after his fiftieth birthday (i guess it's obvious that I'm not actually ignoring it), there is something about being "almost done" with my forties that leaves me feeling, well, restless. I find myself remembering the ticking urgency of a timed test, when the number of remaining questions unanswered was disproportional to the remaining minutes available. But that's not quite the same feeling. This is more like putting down a good book, half-way through a pivotal chapter, pulled away by more pressing concerns, not sure when (or even if) the next opportunity to read will come. Or its like needing to leave the much-enjoyed company of a good but distant friend, because there is a plane to catch, with no clear idea whether this meeting will be followed by a next one. I understand the inaccuracies of these metaphors, the implicit deception in such weak analogies. I know that I will not be significantly less able to answer a question or finish a book or meet with an old friend six months from now than I am today; but I also understand finite mathematics: six months from now -- six moments from now -- I will have fewer remaining opportunities to do such things than I currently have.

The realization of diminishing opportunity (and capacity) is not new, not surprising, not even depressing (unless obsessed over). What is disconcerting, however, in an ironic sort of way, is that my desire for such opportunities seems to be moving in the opposite direction. There are more questions that I want to answer now than there were when I was twenty, partly because new questions have been asked, partly because I have new answers, but mostly because there are questions that interest me now that did not interest me before. There are more books that I want to read now than there were when I was thirty, partly because new ones have been written, partly because I have discovered old ones I didn't know about before, but mostly because my curiosity has grown, and I now want to read books I did not want to read before. There are more friends I want to spend time with now that there were when I was forty, partly because I have made new friends, partly because I have reconnected with old friends, but mostly because I value friendship more now than I did before.

Perhaps this points me to the ancient truth, that God "has set eternity in the hearts of men." (Ecclesiastes 3:11) It is simply true that my longing, my desire, my curiosity, and my thirst exceed the likely limitations of this mortal lifetime. Straight linear extrapolation persuades me that I shall not be fully satisfied with the opportunities and diminishing capacities of this finite life, but this is neither a concession to sadness, nor a resignation to disappointment. I fully intend to fully enjoy every opportunity that comes my way, to the limits of my capacity and beyond. My cup has been overflowing for some time now, and I fully expect that it shall continue to overflow, as my supersaturated spirit absorbs God's superabundant blessings. I also intend to seek the infinite within and among the finite. Just as there are an infinite number of real numbers between 1 and 2, so there are an infinite number of opportunities to live, love, and enjoy between this moment and the next, between today and tomorrow, between 49.5 and 50. I intend to seek them out and celebrate them, much as Katsumoto sought the perfect cherry blossom. ("A perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one. And it would not be a wasted life." -- from The Last Samurai)

But I know without doubt that my search shall always surpass my discovery, that my curiosity shall consistently dwarf my comprehension, that my reach shall inevitably exceed my grasp. For this I am thankful, for it leads me to search beyond myself, beyond the limitations of my own life expectancy, into the boundless realm of the eternal, to the infinitely present and everlasting God.

"For Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee."
-- St. Augustine