The final assignment for a recent class on “aging” I attended, was to use our preferred medium (photography, writing, painting, poetry, etc.) to answer this not-so-simple question: “What does this next chapter in your life look like?” For me, the question is loaded. Turning 63 this year, I will be the same age that my oldest brother was when he died in a bicycle accident six years ago. I’m entering that period of time when my mother, in her early to mid-60s, started repeating herself.

This past pandemic year, worrying about the next chapter was the farthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t sure I’d live to see the daffodils bloom. But now that I’m vaccinated and know I won’t die of Covid 19, I can go back to envisioning a healthy future beyond my 60s. For the assignment, maybe I should make a collage instead of writing an essay. That would be so much easier than laying bare the fears that lurk in my mind.

Recently, I heard this piece of wisdom: “You should not be afraid of dying. You should be afraid of not living.” And, there it is. I’ve always worried about the “what ifs” of the future. “What’s the name of that actor in, you know, that movie,” triggers my fear of memory loss. A headache is a fatal brain tumor and during the pandemic a simple cough would land me in the ICU.

My constant fear that I or a family member might end up on a ventilator mercifully didn’t happen – all that stockpiling of zinc supplements and batteries for our pulse oximeter for nothing. While worry has helped me to remain vigilant, not only during the pandemic, but during my entire life, it has prevented me from enjoying life as it unfolds. Maybe much of it has outlived its usefulness. After all, the older I get, the more clarity I gain. I realize life has its own plan, and often, it’s random. If I’ve learned anything during the pandemic, it’s the importance of living in the moment. Forget long-range planning – during Covid 19, long-range planning meant buying two weeks-worth of groceries.

I now have an opportunity to emerge with a new mindset, one that has been shaped by living with daily death tolls this past year. Instead of articulating my future in words, which only keeps me stuck in pointless ruminations, it may be easier to think in images, like a vision board or collage – a patchwork of pictures of my cherished past and hoped-for future. So, what would represent my ideal life going forward?

There would be pictures of high mountain lakes and wooded forest trails, all places Howard and I love to hike. Other photos: a bottle of wine with a couple toasting their long life together, a family, with grandchildren running around, and a picture of the Italian countryside to represent our passion for Italy and Italian food. I’d tack on photos of the Netherlands, Montana, Canada, all places we love. I’d paste a picture of a couple skiing placed next to a photo of hearty winter meal by a warm fire, AARP eligible couples laughing together, an older woman swimming laps, and another picture of a woman writing in a journal or a blog to impart her wisdom gained. There’d be a photo of groups of women, some with gray hair, in a book group and a writing group. In the center, I’d paste a photo of an older couple, celebrating another decade together, content, holding hands.

Post-pandemic with my newly liberated head of salt and pepper hair, my hope and intention is to hold those images closer. I need to remember that worrying can’t forecast disease or accidents. I’ve heard along the way that we worry about the wrong things. We don’t know how much time we have left and if I fret every time the exact right word is on the tip of my tongue, I will drive myself crazy.

I need to remind myself that I’m living a life very different from that of my mom’s. Overweight, devoid of physical activity and sleep-deprived for over 50 years (my father snored), she was set up for dementia. Apparently, persistent lack of sleep is a known risk factor. My constant need for exercise and ample sleep is certainly a reaction to her lifestyle. And, while my mom was unlucky in her later years, there’s a very good chance that I won’t be. I may be more like my great-aunt Beattie who lived to be in her 90s, lucid until the day she died, or my great-uncle Sam who, into his 90s, made his own applesauce and lived to be 100. My great-uncle Alvin swam laps every day until he was 93. If I’ve wasted my time worrying over nine decades, boy would that be a bummer. I’ll have missed much of what life offers, especially in this next unknown chapter.

So, out into the world I’ll go trying to enjoy being in the moment, letting go of the internal baggage of worry that’s bogged me down. No longer reluctant to dream about my future, I want to visualize what’s ahead through a different lens, one of hope and a new peace of mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to round up a pair of scissors, a glue stick and some old stacks of magazines to make my collage.

If you have an essay or poem on aging you'd like to share with others on the blog, click here for submission info. Since I also teach “Writing Through Grief” and “Writing as a Tool to Cope with Anxiety,” if you have an essay related to these topics that you’d like to share, I’d love to read it!