I am getting older and spending more time by myself, but I don't feel alone - The Globe and Mail

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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick

As we age, we become more conscious of the need for friends. However, to me friendships come in many varieties. Some of them people – friends who’ve been in my life for decades, the friends I’ve made since moving into my condo, and the caregivers who’ve come into my life over the past year – but also others in non-human form. The photographs and objects around my apartment that evoke memories of past events and travels, the music I listen to, the books on my shelves, and even the birds that entertain me from outside my window.

All of these “friends” contribute in their own special way to my emotional well-being, especially as my outside mobility has become more limited.

Many of the people I knew over the years have moved away, and some have died (including my wife), leaving a void in my life to be filled. In many ways, I am lucky: Although I am 84 years old and have many medical issues that quietly creep up with aging, I am not locked down or shut in. I now have two wonderful caregivers who visit me almost every day to help me – and who have come to understand and appreciate my foibles and quirky sense of humour.

I live in a building full of interesting people (many retired, like myself) whom I meet with at in-person or virtual book-club meetings, coffee mornings and wine tastings, or over the occasional dinner. I stay in close contact with friends and family, but I have come to realize that, over and above these human interactions, there are other “friends” that are even closer to home.

So what of my other “friends”? They do not fall within the strict definition of personal friendships, perhaps, but they perform a similar function.

The photographs on the walls and shelves are among the most important of these friends, evoking memories of happy times and stimulating travel. There are photos at various celebrations, of my late wife assisting on a street sandwich project, my elder son taking me on my first visit to New York months after my wife died, my grandson Tristan at various ages and stages, and my son and daughter-in-law on their wedding day.

There are also the photographs I took of Nepalese porters at work in the fields during my two stints working in Nepal. Quite apart from their own intrinsic beauty, the large reproductions of Paul Klee and Raoul Dufy artwork on my walls also remind me of where they were bought, and with whom.

The books that fill the shelves of my apartment are also old friends. Many have been read and forgotten, some are promised to be read, and others are in the process of being read, but they all have a story to tell. Many are signed and dedicated by their authors, thanks to my son who works in publishing. What’s more, I don’t need wallpaper – the book jackets provide more than enough colour!

Other friends are the various objects around the apartment, some acquired, often by chance, during my travels around the world. There are carved wooden heads from Bolivia, a pungent water bottle from Nepal, antique ceramic Rawlings & Co. beer bottles excavated in Reading, England, and a copper jug given to me by a friend in Wales. As I write this, I am sitting on a colourful woven shawl exchanged in the market in Peru. None of these objects are particularly valuable but they are all rich in memories and associations.

My apartment would not be the same without the reminders of my animal friends. Over the course of 40 years, our family always had at least one golden retriever – wonderful friends by any marker. I see them in the photographs on the wall, often with that lovely look of expectation – sometimes waiting expectantly for food but more often asking to be taken to the beach for a swim or for exercise.

I like to listen to music much of the day. In this way, music too has become a friend. CBC on the FM dial provides a wonderful soundtrack to my daily routines, along with my CD collection and music videos on YouTube. Each can evoke memories from the different eras of my life.

Hearing the Beatles takes me back to my student days in Sheffield in the sixties, for example, while I’ll always associate Cat Stevens with memories of the B&O stereo I splurged on in the seventies. My later, more eclectic tastes have their own associations too.

Silence can be just as important. I can often hear birdsong in the garden through the open apartment windows. The finches are back for the summer, residing in the same tree where the raucous crows have built their twiggy nest. I regard these birds as my external friends and hearing them recalls birdsong from my past: the cuckoo, the kookaburra and, more delicately, the lark.

So, my aging is not lonely; how could it possibly be with such a plethora of friends? I am lucky. Not everyone is as fortunate as I am, and many others need help in their loneliness, as COVID-19 demonstrated starkly. It is important to help meet this challenge by whatever means one has available.

Graham Rawlings lives in Vancouver.

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I am getting older and spending more time by myself, but I don't feel alone - The Globe and Mail
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