There is an art to gracious aging. The mastery involves deciding to make the most of life no matter the glitches, choosing to be pleasant no matter the terrain, and fostering the highest possible physical and spiritual health. This all looks good on paper, but it’s not so easy when health issues rear their ugly heads.

I saw this firsthand when I worked in a hospital wellness program. A variety of folks with various health problems and differing personalities participated in our exercise agenda, which included educational classes, aerobic exercise, light weight training, and brief relaxation sessions.

It was a Wednesday afternoon and my class had just finished their exercise. It was time for a few minutes of relaxation. “Let’s head into our quiet room,” I said. The regular folks happily moved toward the space reserved for chilling out. The burly, crotchety new guy dealing with a diagnosis of heart disease didn’t. “I’m not doing any yoga stuff or chanting mumbo jumbo,” he shouted. “If we’re not doing weights, I’m going home.”

The others in the class were a little on edge but encouraged him to participate. “Just come and sit with us, that’s all you have to do.” Everyone got comfortable, including our blustery dude. One of the men who had been in the program for a while spoke up: “Maybe we can get our trainer to tell us a story. That way we won’t have to do anything but listen.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, dimmed the lights, and suggested they close their eyes. I hoped the new fellow would stay in his seat and absorb a short relaxation that was a class favorite. I began slowly, softly.

“In the middle of each day, a few moments of attention to regular occurrences in nature can refresh and rejuvenate. When we clear our minds of outside turmoil and connect with nature, life’s ups and downs are put into perspective. It’s all about relaxing into the ordinary.

“Take in a cleansing breath, release slowly. You are on a beach. You’re the only one there, sitting on a large piece of driftwood, cool bare feet resting in warm sand. The gentle ocean breeze brushes your face, carrying the sea aroma to your nostrils. You take time to notice, to breathe in slowly, exhale gently. One by one the waves roll. Listen as they rumble ashore, swishing back to sea. Hear them clapping over rocks and shells. Notice the seagulls bobbing rhythmically.

“Your seat of driftwood is rough, notched and crevassed with the buffeting of a thousand days, and you run your hands along the knobs and depressions. Feel the coarse ridges on your palms. Toasty grains of sand sift through your toes. You inhale the moment and slowly exhale into the beauty and peace of the ordinary.”

The room was calm. We sat quietly for a few moments and then I wished them all a lovely evening. Grumpy guy didn’t say a word. A few weeks later, my curmudgeon asked to speak with me.

Although still a bit ornery, he was doing well in class. I wasn’t sure where the conversation was going to go. “I hate being weak,” he began. “Since my heart attack I can’t do any of the exercise stuff I once did. I hate getting old.”

“I know for you a workout once meant pushing to the max,” I replied.  “Bettering your personal best far outweighed the pain of screaming muscles. Exercising through head colds and snowstorms was the norm, but this is a different ballgame. You need to adjust to a new program when combining exercise with chronic illness.”

“Yeah, I know all that,” he mumbled, “but what I want to tell you is that I really liked your story that first day of class. I’ve started to look at things differently, you know, appreciating the ordinary stuff. Still hate getting old, but I’m getting better.”

Our mellowing guy had learned something I realized a long time ago. There is a wiser, simpler, saner truth, an honesty idling in the soul, waiting with compassion and patience for recognition.

Our mellowing guy had learned something I realized a long time ago. There is a wiser, simpler, saner truth, an honesty idling in the soul, waiting with compassion and patience for recognition.

Good aging spirits.

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. Her stories are published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and she has written two novels and one fitness book. She is Mom, Grandma, and Great-Grandma to some spectacular kiddos.