As the last note sounded, someone in the audience cried out. Not a bravo mind you, but more the type of shriek one might utter if a stranger had leapt from a closet in the middle of the night. A yelp—combined with a gasp. Yet joyful.

This opened the flood gates for a rush of cheers. The audience rose, clapped their hands above their heads.

Clearly moved, the maestro bowed and covered his eyes, stood erect and clasped his hands over his heart. The musicians turned to him and beamed.

The piece was by Mahler. The conductor, Michael Tilson Thomas (MTT). The musicians, the London Symphony Orchestra. The event, a celebration of MTT’s 80th birthday—a literal celebration of life for a man more than three years past a devastating diagnosis of aggressive brain cancer. And us, in London, specifically to witness it all.

If I knew anything about classical music, I’d say something erudite about the performance, but I know very little. I barely know the word erudite.

As I rose to my feet, the best I could muster was, holy cow, could I possibly wave a baton in the air for 90 consecutive minutes? With my arms burning after a scant minute of clapping, I concluded that I could not. 

Simply put, I stood in awe, but not of the music. Classical music is Pat’s buzz. I was in awe of Michael Tilson Thomas. His passion. His energy. His love of what he does—and the physical stamina needed to do it. And all this, at the age of 80.

By the time we left the hall, a thought had firmly taken root. What do I want my 80th year to look like? …

This may seem premature given I still have some years before I turn 70. But there was a time when London wasn’t all that close to Paris. Until someone dug a big tunnel and devised a train that travels at 200 miles per hour—and suddenly, voilà! We arrived in a bit more than two hours.

My life feels like that train—careening at an unfathomable speed.

So yes, now is the time to ask myself, when 80 comes, what will enthrall me enough to place my hands on my head in sheer joy? And left to my own devices, will I possess the physical stamina to do whatever that is?

Of course, this can’t be predicated on becoming internationally renowned in my field, and fortunately, it doesn’t need to be. Perhaps focusing on MTT feels too big. Maybe I should focus on the nameless stranger. The one who knew the symphony well enough to anticipate precisely when that last note would come—and then simultaneously—and joyfully—erupted.

I’d be content to be the 80-year-old version of that guy.

This is going to take some thought and a bit of time: To assess what really gives me joy—and what doesn’t. To devise a plan that fosters certain things and prunes others. To execute said plan, even the difficult parts.

I’m not talking about a major reinvention, but let’s be real, vibrant 80-year-olds don’t just fall off the vine. Unless genetically gifted, they foster their buzz. Successful aging doesn’t magically happen.

Recently re-retired, I find myself pondering the meaning of theworldinbetween once again. I firmly believe that we shouldn’t drift into old age. There needs to be some bit of thought. Some titch of effort.

With an endless list of options, which do I want to cultivate?

Let the spiraling begin. And with that, I’m off. I have a lot to think about. It doesn’t help that today is my birthday. As I whisk through yet another stop, I am keenly aware that the train keeps barreling on.

Categories: Ruminations

Tags: Expat life, Life in Paris, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween