In one of my occasional attempts to try to make sense of this strange business of growing older, I am considering the possibility that imagining my future might make just as much sense as reviewing my past. I can’t recall where I hid my magic wand or when I mislaid the wishing ring, but if now, in my 80s, I were to stumble on either one, I’d conjure up some visits with myself at some different – both earlier and later – ages.

As I think about this, I’m struck first by how large a cast of characters I’ve been: the eager, young and somewhat superficial corporate executive; the daring, creative and sometimes foolhardy entrepreneur; the outwardly dutiful but inwardly resentful son; the sometimes devoted husband, at other times the squirrelly, unreliable husband. I was also a patient, loving father of young children and the impatient, self-focused father of teenagers; a doting grandparent; a sometimes-tough boss. I’ve been a patient, attentive lover as well as a person who heedlessly ran over others, ignoring the reality of their feelings.

At times I was a compassionate friend, a public performer, a goofy joke teller, and a concerned teacher and wise counselor. At parties, “a hale fellow, well met,” but on the inside, insecure and doubting my own worth. Sometimes I’ve been a crier at movies or on hearing certain music. I’ve mishandled important relationships, taken unwise risks.

“Me” turns out to be plural: courageous, cowardly, enthusiastic, depressed, innovative, lazy, energetic – the list is endless.

I really find I don’t like a lot of those people. I didn’t like some of them while I was being them. I wish that when I was 19 I could have had a serious conversation with me as I am now – or at least when I was in my 50s. I might have made different, better choices. Looking back, much of my life seems to have been lived in a semiconscious state – unable or unwilling to look at the consequences of my decisions.

While somewhat sobering, this exercise has been useful. In looking back, I’ve found some of those past personae to be quite O.K. I would cross the street to avoid some of the others. While none of us knows how many heartbeats we have left, looking ahead I sense an opportunity to still fashion a bit of the person I would have liked to become.

What would my conversation with myself be like if I could visit with me at 90? The 90-year-old me might remind the 83-year-old me that the ability to forget is as useful as the ability to remember. There is comfort in the fact that there is a whole lot I don’t have to go through anymore. He might congratulate me on realizing that I don’t need to still try to impress anyone, no need to continue trying to be the good guy or the pleaser. He would caution me to judge others less harshly, to let go of preoccupation with the trivial, and to give up the persistent need to try to understand or know everything.

He would probably advise me to deepen the connections with others that I still have left, spend more time with children and grandchildren and friends, and to pursue my true passions: reading, music, theater, and dance. I’m sure he would counsel me to spend more time in cultivating an inner tranquility and prepare myself to accept my death without regret or terror.

Any of us who are conscious of aging must, in some small way, be heroic. I have deep respect and admiration for the courage and bravery of every human who struggles to get through the day, the week, the year – and tries to find meaning in life. Looking both back and ahead is a kind of triangulation, helping us to see where we are, what we still want, what’s in the way, how we might negotiate around any obstacles. Talking with the child I was and the older person I may still become is revealing, instructive and fruitful.

Now, where did I put that wishing ring? I’d love to have those conversations with the other me’s.

Hank Basayne is a San Franciscan who knows better than to spend time hunting for a wand.
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