Jan called today. “Ed died Thursday… he is in a better place.” Ed, a retired pediatrician in Jacksonville, was my closest friend for 76 years. Had he lived a few more months, he too would have been 95.
We lived in the same house during our first two years at UVA, sang in the University Baptist Church choir, taught Biology Lab, sat side by side in medical school, and cared deeply for one another. Ed looked after me like an older brother. I often wondered if he was my guardian angel — the epitome of kind gentleness.
The news of his death is not surprising, but it is shocking. It feels like a punch to the abdomen, leaving me breathless. A familiar scripture steadied me:
“…For He Himself has said, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’ So we may boldly say: ‘The LORD is my helper; I will not fear.’” Hebrews 13:5–6.
Ed often reminded me of the importance of spiritual health. Though we seldom saw each other, we were securely attached — always present in each other’s lives, even at a distance. Remembering his mature, devoted faith gives me a sigh of relief I have not felt since Jan’s call. His passing has become a portal into my own adventure of aging poetically. Death ends a life but not a relationship.
What It Means to Age Poetically
Aging poetically is a distinct way of living. It requires intentionally shifting from the urgency of doing to the quieter, more demanding work of being. You do not have to write poetry to age poetically — but you must be willing to become a poem.
“Poetry” comes from the Greek poiesis, meaning “making.” Aging poetically is the art of making a new internal perspective, a spiritual reframing of life. One third of the Bible is poetry; our spiritual ancestors understood its power.
To age poetically is to treat time as a medium for expression. It is to see wrinkles as “lines of wisdom,” memory lapses as “the mind’s soft margins,” and slowing down as an invitation to grace. It is a shift from the loud heroics of youth to the quiet courage of presence.
Practices for a Poetic Life
The Art of Noticing
Learning to see a morning cup of coffee or a creaking knee as symbols of consistency or resilience.
Editing the Excess
Deleting grudges, clutter, and the emotional debris that no longer serve the poem.
The Power of the Pause
Embracing silence as the white space that gives meaning to the lines.
A Weekly Ritual
Choose one small act — writing a letter, sitting in ten minutes of silence — and treat it as sacred.
While we cannot control the length of the poem, we are the masters of its diction and tone.
The Rituals of a Poetic Elderhood
The First Hour
Rather than waking to the prose of news or screens, the poetic elder greets the day with deliberate silence. We are not merely observing the day; we are participating in its creation. It is an ideal time for prayer.
The Slow Walk
What was once a means of transit becomes a spiritual exercise. By slowing our pace, we give the soul a chance to catch up. Cracks in the sidewalk become “earth lines,” mirroring the wisdom etched in our own hands. Walking becomes an act of intimacy with the world.
This slow movement also invites a unique form of social poetry. When we move at a human pace, we become available to our neighbors. We are not just passing through space; we are weaving ourselves back into the tapestry of community.
The Evening Review
Before the light fades, we look back at the day’s interactions — a neighbor’s greeting, a forgotten name, a bird at the feeder — and choose which lines to carry into our dreams. We practice forgiveness, striking out the errors of the rough draft and highlighting moments of grace.
Softening the Sharp Edges
A student nurse recently told me she had been warned that I was “sarcastic.” The irritation I felt was brief — mostly because it was true. Sarcasm has long been my preferred humor, though rarely gentle.
But aging poetically invites revision. Sarcasm is a blade; gentleness is a hearth. The quick jab may win a room, but a warm word can heal a spirit. As the shadows lengthen, we learn to trade cleverness for kindness, speed for sincerity.
This internal editing — replacing the cynical with the sincere — may be the hardest verse we ever write. The most beautiful poems are not those that show how clever the author is, but how deeply he has loved.
The Closing Line
As the sun dips below the horizon, the poetic elder understands that the day’s work was not in what was produced, but in what was perceived. The goal is not perfection, but a heart that is finally learning to speak the language of grace. Learning to age poetically is challenging. It does not come easily, but optimism, faith in a God whose love for us is unbounded, and our love for Him and our neighbors, friends, and family will provide a peace that surpasses human understanding
Robert S. Brown, MD, PHD a retired Psychiatrist, Col (Ret) U.S. Army Medical Corps devoted the last decade of his career to treating soldiers at Fort Lee redeploying from combat. He was a Clinical Professor of Psychiatry and Professor of Education at UVA. His renowned Mental Health course taught the value of exercise for a sound mind.
