I’m trying to see the upside of aging, but sometimes it’s hard. Last fall I was jogging along the Hudson River, near my apartment building in Hoboken, when I tripped and fell. I needed stitches in my forehead, which bounced off a metal railing on my way down, and in the back of my head, which whacked the pavement.
I’m still not sure why I stumbled. I was probably glancing over my left shoulder to see if a speedier runner was passing me. That might have been the proximate cause. The ultimate cause is that I’m 69, and my balance isn’t what it was. If I run forward while glancing backward, I’m liable to fall on my face.
Even before this episode, I was worried about my balance. For decades, I have played hockey on ponds in the Hudson Highlands, and for the last year or two I have felt less sure-footed on the ice. Also, if I get up in the middle of the night (as old guys are wont to do), I might wobble as I navigate the darkness.
A recent Washington Post article on balance problems among older adults notes that balance depends on three systems: 1, proprioceptors, which are neurons that lace our muscles and joints, telling them how to move to perform a given task; 2, the vestibular system, consisting of labyrinthine inner-ear structures that orient us in space; 3, vision.
Although there is lots of redundancy built into these systems, it’s a wonder, given their fantastical intricacy, that we can stand upright! The Washington Post author recommends exercising your balance systems by challenging or “perturbing” them. One exercise involves standing on one leg with your eyes closed. Easy, right? But when I try it, after a few seconds I feel disoriented and sway like a drunk.
As you age, it turns out, you rely more on vision to maintain your balance. Ah, so that’s why I wobble when going to the bathroom at night or standing on one leg with eyes closed. When I’m losing my balance while standing on one leg, I hop and flail my arms to stay upright. This reaction seems counter-intuitive; you’d think that staying upright while flailing and hopping would be much harder than standing still, but of course standing still requires finer motor control. Meditation provides an analogy; the more I try to still my mind, the more it hops and flails.
So what’s the upside of my age-related troubles? Normally, I take my mind-body capacities for granted. I sleepwalk through life without being conscious of what I’m doing. I’m guilty of what philosopher Daniel Dennett calls “competence without comprehension.” Dennett is making the point that consciousness is overrated; most of the skills that get us through a typical day require little or no conscious supervision. In fact, we usually perform better when we do so unthinkingly.
Aging is forcing me to pay closer attention to my mind and body. How do I move through the world without falling on my face? Forget jogging or playing hockey. How do I do anything? How do I eat my morning yogurt without sticking the spoon in my eye, or walk from my apartment building to my office without getting lost or run over by a truck? How do I type this sentence on my laptop?
Aging has heightened my awareness of my mind-body capacities. I certainly don’t comprehend how my visual, vestibular and proprioceptor systems work, at the neurocomputational level, but I no longer take the systems for granted. With increased awareness comes increased anxiety; I avoid glancing backward while moving forward now, because I fear falling on my face again. But I’m also thinking, as I descend into a subway station, say, or pace back and forth in a classroom talking to my students about the mind-body problem, How cool that I can do this!
The perturbations of old age eventually overwhelm us. My father, who died in 2020, was disabled by strokes for the last few years of his life. He needed a walker to move about, and he became increasingly confused. I often wondered, as he descended into dementia, if he had any sense of what he was losing: his ability to read The New York Times, to follow the plot of Homeland, to make small talk with his wife and grandchildren.
I’m determined, as my mind-body systems decline, to cherish them before they’re gone. I don’t want to rage, rage against the dying of the light. Rather, I want to pay attention to the dying of the light, even to delight in it, as if it were a lovely sunset. I do what I can to delay the inevitable. I try, at least once a day, to stand on one leg with my eyes closed, perhaps while chanting my favorite mantra: D’oh. My goal is not stillness; that’s too hard, and I’ll achieve it soon enough. My goal is to flail with style before my final fall.
John Horgan directs the Stevens Center for Science Writings. This article is adapted from one he published in “Cross-Check,” his free online journal.
