“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow—this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”

—Elizabeth Gilbert, b. 1969. Author of Eat, Pray, Love (2006),
A modern meditation on love, loss, and the sacredness of being seen.

YOU—MY DEAR READER (WHEREVER YOU ARE)
What Age Can Finally Teach You About Love

You’ve heard it over and over again, so often that no one wants to hear it anymore. But here I go, tossing it out into a yawning world once more:

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

To which I reply—

Balderdash!
Phooey!

You’re not a dog. And you’re not old. Well—not in your mind, at least. You may be 77–just like me–but in your head, you’re somewhere between way back when and right here and now—and on most days–just like me–your way-back-when wins.

All right. Fine. I confess. I’m into time travel. Say what? You are, too? Excellent! You might also be a lifelong learner who loves staying on top of things—especially new things, just like me. I have been learning forever, but I won’t bore you with details about my past adventures. I don’t have time to rehash the past, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to.

These days, I’m too excited about something new that I’m learning. I’m sharing it with you right here, right now, hoping that it will help you learn something new, too. It’s quiet, but it’s rad. Really rad.

I’m learning to love in new ways.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe so far. You can’t really learn these lessons when you’re young. You have to reach a certain kind of readiness—the kind that comes with age, with experience, and with edges—softened with heartache and suffering. Only then can you flip the old cliché on its head:

You can teach an old dog new tricks.

When you’re younger, love often begins with the fall—swept up, headlong, into fire and passion. But as you age, as you lean into love again, falling isn’t enough. In the falling, there must also be learning. Sustained, steady learning—about how to love differently.

You discover that love doesn’t always arrive with trumpets and roses. Sometimes, it just quietly walks in—a dimpled smile, a vase of flowers, a gardening trowel, a hammer, a grocery list, a notepad, or even a look of disbelief. No violins, no swelling strings. Just shirts ironed with care. Meals admired with gratitude. The gentle act of sharing space.

You begin to understand that silence isn’t absence—it’s a kind of presence. Two people in the same house, moving at different tempos—one resting, one reorganizing the basement—and somehow, the house hums with harmony.

You no longer expect to always be engaged in the same thing at the same time. You lean into your different skills, your different interests—knowing that when the day ends, you’ll have twice as much accomplished and twice as much worth celebrating.

And when your talents converge on the same plane—when brilliance meets brilliance—you might pull back just enough to let the other person shine a little brighter.

Sometimes, you step back—not to disappear, but to admire. You let the other person lead the dance for a while. And it feels good.

You make room—not just in your heart, but in your home. You move your wardrobe somewhere else to make space for someone else’s dresser. You swap out your kitchen table not because it’s broken but because someone else’s table carries stories too. And now, you’ve got one together.

You learn that your footsteps don’t need to land on top of one another. They can move side by side, on parallel paths, converging when it matters—and that’s most of the time and that’s more than enough.

You watch your partner do something in a way you wouldn’t—folding the towels, arranging the chairs—and instead of correcting, you smile. You let it be. Love grows well in the soil of gentle restraint.

When you notice a difference—how to load the dishwasher, how to water the plants—you ask yourself, Does this matter? Most times, it doesn’t. But the grace in letting it go? That always matters.

And when you catch yourself about to suggest doing something just slightly differently than the perfectly good way your partner is already doing it, you pull back from the familiar impulse to course-correct. You resist the urge to say:

I wonder what would happen if…
Have you considered…
Somewhere or other I saw…

Because you know—truly know—that your partner has likely already been there and done that, maybe even better than you could have imagined. And even if not, you realize: kingdoms and principalities will neither rise nor fall because of how this one thing gets done. But love? Love will continue to grow richly in the kind of soil that lets what wants to rise, rise.

So you build the cake you’re building. And you let your partner put on the proverbial frosting.

And get this—I’m betting you’ll let out a humongous sigh of relief. You no longer have to rely on the old lines:

Honey, I’ve got a headache. Not tonight.

Why not? Chances are good that you both already know whether tonight is the night. There’s no posturing. No pretending. You listen to your body. You honor the rhythm. You know—Yay or Nay—affection is still there.

So take that old cultural script—the one that said you always had to be “on,” always seductive, always dazzling–and toss it. If tonight’s not the night, it’s not the night. No drama. No guilt. The love doesn’t vanish. It simply waits.

This kind of love doesn’t need fireworks. It needs kindling. It’s not performance—it’s patience. It’s not the honeymoon suite—it’s two mugs on the counter beside the coffee maker. A light or three left on for the night even when far too many lights are burning already. A dinner napkin placed next to yours. A drawer cleared to hold the socks and underwear folded far better than you ever knew how to fold them.

Over time, you start to realize—sometimes slowly, sometimes with the clarity of a lightning bolt—that love at this stage of life teaches different lessons than the ones you were handed in your youth.

It’s not about falling anymore, not really. It’s about forming. Shaping. Inviting.

It’s less about being swept off your feet, and more about standing firmly beside—presence over drama, steadiness over spectacle.

And if you’re lucky, you’re still learning—every single day—that love, like anything worth tending, changes its shape over time.

So, no. You’re not old. You’re ripening.

And if that’s not a new trick worth learning, I don’t know what is.

ME

My Learning Notes for a Work-in-Progress

I can never be civilized—
but I can be reminded that the Romaine probably wasn’t prewashed.
I can be inspired to put things where they belong
the first time.
And I can be organized a little better.

I’m discovering that little by little,
bit by bit,
I might find my way to
An OHIO state of mind.

I’m discovering that when the day ends, and we’re both tired,
and I hear,

“Ruby and I walked down your garden path with the steps that go nowhere,”

I don’t need to explain where the steps once led.
Instead, I can talk about
where they might one day lead.

I’m discovering that falling in love happens faster now—
not because the fire is hotter,
but because the walls are lower,
the noise is quieter,
and I no longer mistake caution for wisdom.

I’m discovering it doesn’t matter what we call it—
Sex.
Making love.
We both know the truth:
if there’s no heart, no heat,
and no brushing teeth first,
it’s not happening.

I’m discovering the contours of a body—
no longer shaped by youth’s smooth muscle,
but by time,
by tenderness,
by all the sharpened, weathered lines
of a well-lived life,
and a well-bloomed love.

I’m discovering that what’s heart-healthy for one
is heart-healthy for the other —
in food, in movement,
and especially in tenderness.

I’m discovering that love, at this stage,
isn’t about recapturing youth or chasing fireworks.
It’s about something quieter.
Stronger.
Truer.
A love that folds laundry and picks out flooring—
but also whispers stay
when the silence gets long.

I’m discovering that a kneeler
protects my knees just as well
in the garden
as it does while tending the soul.

I’m discovering that Ruby’s not the only one who snores.
We do, too, even if we think we don’t.
But when it’s the three of us?
It’s just another rhythm to fall asleep to.

I’m discovering that I only need to be shown some things once.
Like how to fold a grocery store plastic bag into a teeny-weeny triangle for storage.
I nailed it. Once might have been enough.
(“Wait. Wait. Let me do one more, my Love. This is almost like meditation.”)

I’m discovering that the Henkel-Harris bed really does look better
with the bedding tucked inside the side rails.
Gracious me—how could I have lived threescore-and-seventeen years without that life-saver of a bedroom tip?

I’m discovering, anew,
that sharing is 99% of the joy.
The story, the supper, the last bite of dessert—for Ruby, of course.
Even the silence tastes better when it’s passed between two.

I’m discovering—more than anything else—that together isn’t just better.
It’s braver.
It’s kinder.
It’s more us.
More alive.

---

WE

Our Lessons

Clearly, you can teach old dogs new tricks, especially if they’re Tennessee Gary and me. We aren’t just any old dogs. We’re two clever ones, willing to learn together. And in case you’re wondering how people react when we tell them what we’re up to, most folks seem happy. Some, wishful. Others, wistful. Sometimes, some look twice. They blink. They tilt their heads. They ask—sometimes aloud, sometimes with raised eyebrows—

Aren’t you too old for shenanigans like this?

To which we say:

Balderdash!

Phooey!

We are not too old for love.
We are not too late for wonder.
We are not past the season for becoming.

Because when the day is done—
the goodnight kiss planted,
the I-love-you dreamily reaffirmed—we’re not winding down.
We’re bedding down.

And come morning, we rise again—
not just from sleep,
but into this shared, surprising, still-unfolding life.

What keeps us going isn’t mystery or magic.
It’s the anchors that hold love through storms and stillness:

Trust. Fidelity. Respect.
Communication. Collaboration. Compromise.
Intentional love. Intimacy. Empathy.
Acceptance.
And perhaps most vital of all:
Forgiveness.

So, dare we clue you in on what two old dogs are learning about love—maybe better than most, certainly better than our younger selves ever did?

Do you really want to know the bottom line?

Are you sure?

You do? You really do?

Alrighteez, tighty-whities. If you insist…

Lean in and listen carefully.

We’ll tell you once and once only:

Love at our age isn’t the final act.
It’s the encore.