on getting old

Good morning, ich heiße Tom, I am called Tom. I am NOT Tom, it's simply that at this stage of my life most people call me Tom, or Father Tom, or Father Weller. Mister Weller in a few cases by their choosing, not mine, don't be so formal. Commander Weller by defense-related organizations who may contact me for various reasons and think (it's true) that I appreciate being honored and remembered as a Navy officer, and over my years from 42 backwards, various ranks and my name down to Officer Candidate Weller, sir. Tom, Carroll, Bubba, your call. But again, at 83 mostly Tom. Why is this relevant to Sunday morning?

Because this morning dammit I stubbed my toe. As I picked up my phone, and my empty coffee cup, and my sheaf of papers about Confirmation Class that starts later this morning,

and my handkerchief, and a marking pen and a regular pen, and shed the blanket I had wrapped around me because some of us six (not I) like it cold, and slipped around behind the next chair heading back to the bedroom and bathroom to continue getting ready for the morning, instead of thinking about the path before me as I walked, I was thinking about Confirmation Class, and that I had turned out the dining room light and now needed to turn on my phone flashlight to make my way in the pitch blackness, and dammit I stubbed my toe as unconsciously I swung my foot around the table leg. 

Anymore, it's not uncommon. I have to mind where my hands are and where they are going, because the slightest bump and purple shows up within seconds and lasts weeks. I have to watch my feet, because, although I always have on socks unless I'm in the shower, they can't look out for themselves and I hurt them, their toes. What's the problem?

The problem seems to be that aging is cutting into my ability to multi-task. I can't walk while thinking about something else; I need to think about the walking: what's in front of me, what's beside me, don't trip, don't bump into something, don't let my hand hit an obstacle, careful of the toes. The problem that this brings on, though, is that I may forget where I'm headed, and once I get there I may not remember why I came here. Was it to get my keys? To get another cup of coffee? To take my turn in the bathroom? It's a bother. It shows up when I'm driving, too: I can choose to remember where I'm driving to and stopping at the Post Office as I pass it, or to watch where I'm going. When I was 16 and 28 I had other problems, mostly related to other people. Now, my problem is myself. 

Just wait: your Time is coming.

Tom+

pic from Anglican Communion website page: vested bishops gathering and chatting before a ceremony in which they will process into the church