Besides that one time in fourth grade when I decided to be a chemical engineer, I’ve never really asked myself what I want to do in life. But, maybe it doesn’t matter. If 30 years ago I had thought more about the reality of living in that moment, I probably would have been overwhelmed with all the possibilities and would not have focused well, anyway.

Does that diminish where I’ve arrived?

According to what I read, at 50-something years-old my options are much more limited than before. It’s as if nowadays those who write for a living are hemmed into a corner they don’t really like, and unwittingly project their fears on to their readers. No one has problems, so the story must be true, right?

If there is any difficulty in the modern era, it evolves from the need to judge. Everything I read tells me I should accept all things, but with all the available options how do I decide on a direction — isn’t choosing and intentionally excluding a natural part of our experience? That’s how I got here, yet questioning immature motive feels natural.

The only limitations I’m aware of as I get older are socially defined. Yeah, if I chose to enter another profession, I suppose that would be difficult. After all, most things are not under my control. But how are joy, wisdom, or even emptiness left out of the discussion? These all seem like timeless options to me — even at my age — so maybe I should just accept where I am and move on.