Latesummer musings on the advantage of growing mellow with age and of one’s potentiality to enrich humankind’s patrimony…
by: Matias Travieso-Diaz
Mellow
“It is not all bad, this getting old, ripening. After the fruit has got its growth it should juice up and mellow. — Josh Billings
The dictionary defines mellow as something “well-matured from age or experience; not impetuous or impulsive; calm, dignified, gentle.” Those are positive, desirable traits, which are seldom innate and are difficult to develop. Our senses associate “mellow” with rare and beautiful things such as stalks of irises and gladioli in soft tones of pink, mauve, and turquoise. Or the subtle smells of gardenias, the taste of an aged Margaux, the caressing sound of a Fauré melody. In nature, mellow-tempered creatures are seldom found: capybaras, sloths, sea cows, giraffes, are notable exceptions rather than the rule in the cut-throat environment of the wild.
Human societies also rarely qualify for the description of “mellow.” Some primitive groups have established themselves in isolated environments such as the Amazon River basin and have managed to avoid conflicts with others, leading gentle, peaceful lives. By the same token, a handful of small modern nations (Iceland, New Zealand, Denmark, Costa Rica) have achieved a high degree of political and social maturity coupled with a lack of territorial ambitions, and this combination has imparted a mellow quality to their social order.
The current state of the rest of the world, mired in protracted wars driven by ambition and pride, is a textbook example of human’s lack of mellowness leading to disastrous consequences. Most wars could be avoided by the mutual sharing of assets and capabilities. In this day and age, when the world’s natural resources are dwindling, a mellow approach to relations between nations would avoid the destruction and waste of human life that we are witnessing every day.
For individuals, mellowness is a quality of character that only develops slowly (if at all) as a result of a life in which the blows and bumps of existence have dulled the sharp edges of one’s personality, whittling away anger, ambition, and antagonism. Most times, mellowness of character is only achieved in the last decades of a person’s life — perhaps when he or she becomes too feeble to be overly assertive.
I think I have reached the mellowness stage this summer. I am certainly too weak to get into a physical fight, and most verbal conflicts require the expenditure of a lot of energy and for that reason alone it is not worthwhile for me to engage in them. Also, perhaps I am content with my current status in life: retired, neither rich nor too poor, in passable health, with no social obligations and no expectations of future fame or fortune. I do not need or desire controversy; uncharitable souls could describe my condition as one of stasis and declare me uninteresting, unimportant, and dull.
They may be right, at least in part. With the exception of a handful of paramount figures in history (Alexander the Great, Beethoven, Einstein…) we are all doomed to obscurity after death. Becoming unremarkable while alive is just making a down payment on eternity. And yet, I submit that not being impetuous or impulsive does not mean that one is lacking ideas or points of view that may prove valuable. An advantage of becoming mellow is that one has gained a broader view of human experience and can pose calm, unemotional reflections on topics like mortality and the long-term durability of human institutions. These may prove beneficial to others upon whom one’s views are imparted.
Human faculties tend to deteriorate with age. These days, I live in fear that the mellowness I have reached will decrease or disappear as my mind weakens and I become cantankerous or lose contact with reality. To meet this fear, I have developed four mechanisms to keep me alert and retain mental flexibility as long as possible.
First, every afternoon I sit on my porch and, while enjoying looking at the woods and watching wild birds raid the feeder on the deck, I listen to some engaging piece of classical music (piano pieces by Chopin, Schubert or Liszt are my preferred program) and meditate on various things: my health and financial affairs, my daughter’s artistic and personal life, the topic of my next short story, the news of the day. This meditation clears my mind and provides inspiration for the rest of the day’s activities.
Second, I engage in mind-flexing activities such as playing scrabble and sudoku and doing Times crossword puzzles and mental games. These activities are both pleasant and educational, and I sprinkle them throughout my day.
Third, I listen to audiobooks, particularly those of works by highly praised contemporary authors. I recently finished The Buried Giant, by Kazuo Ishiguro, a singular fable about old age, in which love conquers all. I try to avoid copying ideas from the authors whose work I listen to, but if perchance some of them filter through, at least I am stealing from the best.
Last but not least, I keep trying to write short stories or other prose. Performing the required research to make the work credible can be taxing but stimulating; finding the right words to put down on paper is a great mental exercise. Sometimes inspiration eludes me and I come up with a subpar product, but the effort is always worthwhile, both from the viewpoint of fostering mental sanity and giving me a sense of artistic accomplishment. So far, I have been lucky to find some publisher willing to bring to the light of day each piece I have written, but expect my luck will run out eventually.
Through these means I keep my frame of mind mellow and my mental faculties in working order. I wish I could come up with a similar routine for my increasingly failing body. Well, there is always tomorrow or the day after to try something about that.
Wednesday Afternoon Doldrums
On Wednesday afternoons I could be practically anything. — Kit Williams
There I was, sitting on my wicker armchair, trying to meditate but not doing much of anything except watching the wild birds launch raids at the feeder and noticing how the forest leaves appeared to be hanging limp. It was a very warm afternoon in late June and everything seemed affected by the heat, even the music I was listening to this day, Nocturnes of John Field for piano, seemed to glide along, pretty but inconsequential, leaving no trace of its passing in my mind. I felt too lethargic to take any action that required much effort.
I must have dozed off. Then, suddenly, I emerged from my torpor, chiding myself for my laziness and going through the catalogue of useful things I should have been doing instead of enjoying the afternoon air. The week was halfway over and I had achieved nothing of any consequence. I had made no progress on the outline of my next novel, or attempted to market half a dozen short stories that remained unpublished. My productivity so far this week had been almost nil.
Even at a mundane level, I had nothing to show for the week. The yard needed watering and the garage was a junk-cluttered mess. The big holiday weekend was coming up soon and I had made no preparations or formulated any travel or entertainment plans. All kinds of endeavors and chores, real and imaginary, remained undone.
Then reality set back in. I was resting on my porch in the middle of the afternoon of a work day because I had gone on retirement. I had completed four decades of reasonably successful if unremarkable legal practice, had saved enough money to live comfortably, had no major outstanding obligations or debts (other than the mortgage on my home), and my writing hobby had yielded some successes here and there but no real fame. I lived in relatively pleasant obscurity, a condition that with some luck would remain unchanged until my final decline some time down the road.
So, why the recriminations about being idle?
After some soul searching, I arrived at what should have been obvious from the start. I always endeavored to achieve measurable success, leave a mark that society would recognize and acknowledge after I was gone. I did not covet wealth or power, or even the ephemeral fame that manifests itself in newspaper articles or short biographies, but did wish to achieve some confirmation that my life had been worthwhile and not a waste of the resources of the planet. Any time that was spent in idle pursuits, particularly at this late stage in my life, was potentially lost.
Was this vanity? Yes, there was at least some of that. But there was also the realization that, when I died, my total contribution to mankind would be extant, be added to the yields of a myriad others: my predecessors, contemporaries, and successors;. It would become part of mankind’s endowment, a patrimony that would continue to grow and hopefully endure for many centuries. I would be gone, but whatever output I generated could inspire others and theoretically last as long as the species itself continued to thrive. For that reason, I had the obligation of making my input as large and valuable as possible.
Of course, other people have different ways to enrich mankind’s patrimony. They may leave behind progeny, wealth, historical accomplishments, material or intellectual landmarks. To each his own. There is no way to compare the merits of each person’s gift to the species. But for me, the parameters of what remained to be done were simple: live frugally but with a minimum of pain, support the creative efforts of my daughter, promote order and progress in my community and the world at large, and continue to generate and disseminate words that, if surviving, could provide inspiration or other value to others.
Those being the marching orders, it was time to stop daydreaming. I must return to work and make the rest of this week more productive than its first half. One may be allowed some doldrums but these should not extend past the first (or last) half of a week. Life is short and duty calls.
Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man. He became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. After retirement, he took up creative writing. Over two hundred and seventy of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books, and podcasts. One of his four novels, an autobiography entitled “Cuban Transplant,” and four anthologies of his stories have also been published.
