I am fifty-two.
All the clichés are true. Time changes everything.
That’s hardly a revelation to anyone older than me, and those of a similar vintage are probably nodding along with all the wisdom we’ve collated. We like to tell ourselves we’re ageing like fine wine, and I think there’s a little truth in that. I mean, we are ageing.
One of the biggest changes I’ve noticed recently is something that hasn’t happened all at once. I realise now it’s been creeping up on me for years. Hindsight brings older posts into a new, stark focus.
Here’s the thing: I no longer care about a surprising number of things.
This is a good thing, as it’s left me with much more room to care about the things that matter.
It’s not that I’ve become cynical. I have not given up. Quite the opposite, in fact. If anything, I care just as deeply as I always have about many things.
The change is that I’ve just become much more selective about what deserves my attention.
All the small things
When you’re younger it feels as though time stretches endlessly ahead of you. You assume you’ll eventually get around to everything you want in life. Your life will be full and complete; you’ll own the latest gadget, you’ll master the perfect cup of coffee, you’ll read every book you’ve bought, learn every hobby that catches your eye and visit every place you’ve pinned on a map.
So you set out on this path and start to accumulate.
You gather, you collect, you collate.
The things range widely — possessions, opinions, hobbies, or ambitions — and they all seem so so important. They become crucial to your sense of self. You convince yourself that the more you collect, the richer your life will become.
Without realising it, the collecting quietly becomes the focus, and the things start to lose importance.
More is better.
More of anything.
More.
Then, at some point, as you get older and possibly wiser, that desire changes. It’s not a sudden change, at least it wasn’t for me, more a realisation that you are asking yourself a different question about all those things you’ve collected.
Instead of asking myself, What else can I add?, I started asking, What can I happily let go?
For me, that list has become surprisingly long.
I no longer care about having the latest gadgets. I don’t need the best car or the biggest house in the nicest neighbourhood. I don’t need to understand every new way of making coffee, or seek out artisan cheeses and craft beers simply because someone tells me they’re better.
I no longer care about having the smartest opinion in the room. I don’t feel the need to win every argument, especially with strangers on the internet. I care far less about my job title than I once did, and even less about how impressive it might sound to someone else.
A younger version of me would probably be shocked. How had I fallen so far from what my life should be?!
Young Gordon might wonder why I’ve decided to just settle for a lesser life.
But vintage Gordon — hmmm, not sure I’m keen on that phrase — sees it differently.
Because there’s something else I’ve realised, all those things you’ve collected require something from you.
A new gadget needs setting up, needs maintaining, configured and eventually replacing. A hobby takes time. An opinion sometimes needs defending. A social media account needs feeding. A career demands your time and energy.
Everything wants a little piece of you.
And that’s fine when you think you have an endless supply of time —ahhh the folly of youth— but one of the things that changes as you get older is that you start to understand that you don’t.
Freedom to care
Right now, when I look at my life, I think it’s far, far freer than it has ever been.
Not because I have more time than I used to, if anything the opposite is true, but because I’m much more careful about where I spend my attention.
Time is obviously finite, but attention might be the more valuable capacity. I can have an hour spare and still waste it entirely. I can spend that hour scrolling, arguing with a stranger on the internet, researching something I’ll never buy or worrying about something that won’t matter next year.
And that hour isn’t just gone, it’s lost me the opportunity to pay attention to something else.
Every hour I don’t spend chasing the next thing is an hour I can spend doing something that genuinely matters to me. Every argument I choose not to have leaves me with more energy for conversations worth having. Every trend I ignore creates space for interests that have lasted decades rather than weeks.
Getting older hasn’t made my world smaller.
It has made me more careful about what I let into it.
And not caring about all those things has helped me find something far more valuable.
Time.
Time for things that matter.
Time to spend on things I care about.
I care about spending time with my family, especially while Jack still wants to hang out with me. He is turning into a kind, funny, smart boy, and I love that we are building childhood memories together. I don’t want to miss them.
I care about getting out on my bike, not because it has the latest components but because I always come home feeling better than when I left. Our recent trip to Nethybridge, with the quiet roads and trails, only proves that to me.
I care about writing. Not because it grows an audience or generates views, but because I’ve been doing it for over twenty-five years and I still enjoy the process of turning my thoughts into words. Whether it’s posts for my blog, entries in my journal, or that novel I’m still plugging away at, the process is what I enjoy.
I care about quiet mornings. Long walks. Good conversations. Books that stay with me after I’ve finished them. Friends who don’t require performance. Movies that whisk me into their world with beauty and thought.
Getting older hasn’t made me indifferent. There are many things I remain passionate about, but it has made me much more intentional about where I spend my time and where I focus my care.
Intention is attention
I guess, somewhere along the line, I’ve realised that attention is probably the most valuable thing I own.
And having Jack has taught me something else.
Attention is love.
He doesn’t care what phone I own, what car we drive or what my job title is. He wants me to get down on the floor and build Lego. He wants me to kick a football around the garden. He wants me to listen while he tells me about Bluey or his favourite dinosaur or whatever has captured his imagination this week.
He doesn’t need the best version of me, he just needs me to be there.
In his world, my attention is enough, and he’s helped me realise it should be enough for me too and that realisation has changed how I think about a lot of things. Attention isn’t just something we give to the things we care about, but I think it helps us decide what we care about, and what we repeatedly pay attention to becomes our life.
So these days I find I’m no longer interested in impressing strangers, keeping up with trends or collecting things that won’t matter to me next year. I’d much rather collect afternoons with Jack, kilometres on my bike, words for this blog, and conversations with people I love.
It turns out the richest life isn’t the one with the most things in it, It’s one where my attention is spent on the right things.
It may have taken me a while, but at fifty-two I’ve realised I don’t have less passion for life than I did at twenty-two.
I just spend it more carefully.
What are your thoughts?