WHAT A WEEK!

Aging, anniversaries, and the words that won’t leave me alone

Some words don’t leave you. They keep showing up again and again, sometimes like a pebble of sand in your shoe, irritating but persistent; sometimes like driftwood, bobbing gently to the surface when the tide of life shifts.

Sometimes, a week arrives that quietly demands reflection. For me, this is such a week. It brought back two declarations, one humorous, one profound.  I have pondered them before, but they have come knocking again.

The first is from Woody Allen, who quipped: “I’m not afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

It’s vintage Woody: wry, evasive, perfectly human. And I get it. I don’t fear death, exactly. I’ve faced storms, surgeries, war zones, death-inducing bee stings, and situations far from shore that were scary to say the least. I’ve lived long enough to know life is fragile, and long enough to cherish its mystery. But I still find myself hoping that when my number’s called, maybe I’ll be out to lunch.

The second quote is from Malcolm Muggeridge. I can’t recall where I heard it, but it lodged itself in my psyche decades ago. I never met him, but we had a mutual friend, and perhaps it was a personal anecdote that was shared with me. However they came to me, they have never left. His words were: “I am preparing to die.”

At the time, I found the statement jarring. He was still writing and full of his usual caustic brilliance. What did he mean by "preparing to die"?

Only now, at this age, do I begin to understand. It’s not about surrender or sadness. It’s about awareness. Muggeridge, I suspect, was speaking of a profound inner shift. A mental and spiritual housekeeping. A clearing of emotional clutter. A choosing of what to carry forward and what to let go.

And perhaps, paradoxically, preparing to die is also preparing to live, fully, wisely, with both eyes open.

Now, I think I know.

Muggeridge, a former spy, satirist, and spiritual seeker, had the intellectual integrity to evolve. His views shifted as life shaped him. That, to me, is the mark of a wise elder: someone brave enough to let their beliefs be re-formed by experience, observation, and time.

And now, I feel a similar shift. Not a decline, more like a reordering. A quiet internal sorting. Less drama, more discernment. I’m beginning to understand what to carry forward and what to lay down.

I’m not dying. I’m not even unwell. But something has shifted.

Turning seventy isn`t my first pivot. There were earlier triggers.

A monumental one came 39 years ago this week (June 26th, 1986), when Luke William Arthur Sheppard entered our family at Wordsley Hospital in the UK. What joy. What wonder. What exuberance. And then, just three days later, he was gone. Silence.

Unexpectedly. Unfathomably. Darkness swirled, and something inside me broke open. That event changed me forever. It loosened my grip on certainty and dogma. It introduced me to mystery, to unanswerable questions, and to the sacredness of not knowing.

Three sons followed: Ryan James Douglas Sheppard in 1987, Mackenzie Lowell Sheppard in 1990, and our grandson Eli-Luke Pepito Sheppard (Ryan and Maria's son) in 2011. In a few weeks, Mackenzie and Hitomi will welcome their first child. The family is excited.

The ache of loss never leaves, but nor does the wonder of new life.

Another turning point came 13 years ago when, in just six months, I nearly died. More than once. Three separate life-threatening health scares. ICU twice. Close enough to glimpse the other side, not cross it. Oddly, that was when I lost my fear of death. It didn’t feel morbid. It felt like freedom.

These experiences didn’t make me more certain. They made me more open. More curious. They changed me not just physically, but spiritually.

These days, I live on the water, but not adrift. Wahine is moored in a quiet bay off Buren, a remote village. I’m 500 meters offshore, yet feel more grounded than ever.

Here, life is slower. I watch the weather roll through. I connect with the small community on shore. I listen. I notice. This place, this stage of life, is shaping the book I’m writing in unexpected ways.

Because I’ve come to believe the real fear isn’t death, it’s the long grey zone before it. That gap between lifespan and healthy life span. The slow erosion of independence, memory, movement, and curiosity. That’s the space I’m exploring now. That’s what A Journey Beyond the Blue Zone is about. Not adding years to life, but adding life to years.

So yes, like Muggeridge, I’m preparing. But not for an end, for a deepening. For a season when everything I’ve seen and suffered, celebrated and surrendered, can bear fruit.

Maybe preparing to die means choosing, every day, to live with more grace, more wisdom, and more joy.

A few days ago, my family flew in to celebrate my 70th birthday belatedly, as well as Father’s Day. The three days were filled with sea swims, waterfall plunges, and laughter echoing across the bay. We also sent a video greeting to my sister Faith, whose birthday is also this week. ( June is a big month in our family, also two wedding anniversaries too: My Brother Brent and Tracy, and my Nephew Jordan and Jenn. )

Now they’ve flown home. I remain here, anchored just offshore, surrounded by silence and a surprising swell of gratitude.

So yes, this week has stirred something. Not melancholy exactly, more like a deep sorting, a quiet reckoning. And two quotes, spoken by others long ago, have risen once again, like old companions returning at just the right time.

So here I am: not afraid to die, but still keen to keep living, preparing not for an ending, but for a deepening.

Maybe that’s the work of this next decade: to live well enough that, when the moment comes, I won’t mind being there after all.

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