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Until I turned forty-six, it was easy to imagine that growing old was something that happened to others, that death was a long way off. While I hope death is a long way off, I’m coming to accept that it will happen to me, that none of us—no matter how healthy or fit—will escape it and that, much as we might wish, we won’t be able to choose our departure.

When I turned forty-six, I lost my mother to Alzheimer’s disease. She’d always been in good physical shape, practiced yoga before anyone else I knew, and even when she was in her sixties still loved to bike, swim, and hike. She kept her mind active, too, going back to college to learn French and study philosophy after her four daughters moved away from home. As is often the case with this terrible disease, her death was a slow process of subtraction; we lost her cell by cell, synapse by synapse, over ten years. Because we lost her slowly, her death was a kind of relief for us, and, I hope, for her. When she died, she returned to us as our mother—even if only in memory—no longer the stranger she’d become.

Knowing her experience, I began to consider both death and life differently. Her last gift was the reminder to live in the present. Because she could no longer remember her past or imagine a future, she lived fully in the moment, delighting in the red cardinals at the feeder, in the squirrel sneaking up to steal birdseed. The clear evidence, not just of mortality but of the possibility I will be afflicted by a similar disease, made me think more deeply about my own actions. While I’d tried to remind myself to live in the present, I tended to do so only when it was easy, like at a meditation retreat. Now, my mother’s voice followed me everywhere, reminding me not just to live in the present but to appreciate every robin I see, to exclaim over every sunset as she would.

Ten years later, I’m still grateful to my mother for this last reminder—and to others who continue to remind me. This week, my former journalism teacher and friend Rags is visiting. Rags has lived and traveled all over the world—he shipped out on a freighter for South America at seventeen—so perhaps it’s not so surprising that he’s still game for adventure at ninety-seven. (Several years ago, he traveled alone to Mozambique to visit his daughter and son-in-law.) He had a stroke two years ago that affected his balance, so his gait, which used to be lithe and quick is now slow and shuffling, though he still moves with great dignity. On this visit, I promised him we’ll have dinner with friends, visit Port Gamble, go to the Rose Theater, and eat at the Silverwater Cafe in Port Townsend. “Oh, a vacation!” he said.

As we spend these days together, I marvel at the patience and acceptance he needs now: patience for how long it takes to move across a room, acceptance that he can no longer read. But his memory is as sharp as ever, and as we sit together in the flickering light of the fire, he remembers the blackouts in London, where he was stationed as a foreign correspondent during World War II, recalls how the war was an elixir, how it made him—and everyone—grateful to be alive. Those who know him intimately know he’s never lost that spirit, know how it’s served him well over all the years of his very full life.

Even now, he insists on living in his own home, alone, despite offers from his three daughters to come live with them. When I try to help with the small tasks that consume much of his day, he gently refuses: “If I am to keep living at home, I must be able to do these things myself.” We all know that his independent spirit is what keeps him here with us, alive and still vital at ninety-seven.

Years ago, when Rags and I were driving to his cabin on Harstene Island, we hit a deer. It was a dark night, rain pelting down, when we came around the curve to face the deer standing on the road. There were no other cars on the road, so Rags swerved and almost missed him—just struck a glancing blow—and the deer leapt off into the woods. We pulled over, parked, and stumbled into the dark, wet woods, trying to find its trail, wanting to know the deer wasn’t suffering. After tramping through the woods for an hour without finding it, we hoped that meant the deer had survived uninjured. We drove more slowly then, chastened.

As much as we try to avoid these brushes with death—and for good reason—in other cultures death is not sequestered so neatly from life. As part of training his monks, the Buddha used to take them to the graveyard so they could practice being with death. And these graveyards were less antiseptic than ours; there, the monks would find bones, tangible reminders that this life is fleeting. How would we live if that knowledge informed every moment?

When I look up, Rags is dozing, halfway in the spirit world, and I’m filled with gratitude for his wise presence. By delighting in each small detail of the world going about its business (this lesson I’ve learned many times over the years from Rags), I hope to find acceptance of my body slowing down, my own inevitable mortality. May we have the courage and wisdom that Rags embodies.

From The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World by Brenda Miller and Holly J. Hughes. Published by Skinner House in 2012, this book is available from the UUA bookstore  or 617-723-4805.

There is an interactive website for The Pen and the Bell at www.penandbell.com.

By Holly Hughes