On Aging, Doubt, and Returning to Trust
These past few days, I found myself drifting — neglecting practice, meeting life only with the restless mind, and reacting more with emotions than wisdom. Doubts and uncertainties crept in, especially in relationships and in my art. Where once the brush flowed freely, I began worrying about correctness, fearing mistakes, losing confidence in the very fluidity that had carried me for years.
One particular obsession that surfaced was the thought: I am old, and therefore I should not be doing what I am doing. Old, therefore, perhaps I should not drive as much. Old, therefore perhaps I should not admire beauty in others — even when free of sensual attachment. Old, therefore, perhaps my prime days are behind me.
It seems small, but such thoughts carry weight. They drain vitality and block the natural current of creativity.
Yet age is not only a limitation — it is also a gift. It carries memory, patience, and depth of seeing. What I lack in speed or daring, I gain in steadiness and a clearer eye for truth. The mind may tell me I am past my prime, but the present moment says otherwise: I am still here, still breathing, still creating.
When these doubts arise, I practice a simple pause:
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Notice the thought, name it — “There is the ‘I am old’ thought.”
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Remember balance — “I am aging, yes, but I also carry wisdom and experience that younger days did not have.”
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Return to intention — “Today I will move with presence.”
In art, I remind myself to play again — to sketch with the “wrong” hand, to paint quickly without caring for correctness, to make small works that value movement over perfection. These simple acts return me to curiosity and process, not fear.
And when I notice beauty — in a face, in a form — I practice seeing without clinging: just noting, “There is beauty.” Then I breathe, allow the appreciation to rest quietly in the heart, and let it go.
Perhaps this is the real teaching of aging: to meet each moment with honesty, to bow to limitations without surrendering joy, and to keep creating as long as life gives breath.
As Hokusai once said:
“All I have done before the age of seventy is not worth bothering with.”
His words remind me that what feels like decline can in fact be the beginning of a deeper flowering.
Tonight, as I write this, I recognize: even drifting away from practice can become part of practice. Seeing the drift clearly is already the return. The witness has not left. The shore is never far.
If Hokusai could see himself just beginning at seventy, then surely I, too, can keep beginning, again and again, no matter my age.
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