At every stage of life, we face a choice. Do we soften and grow luminous, or do we harden and grow embittered? The choice is ours to make.
The path is never fixed. A disappointment in youth, a betrayal in adulthood, a physical loss in later years—each becomes a turning point, a fork in the road. Life does not ask us if we will face difficulty, but rather how we will meet it.
Ram Dass spoke of adversity as “grist for the mill.” Grief, loss, and challenge grind us down—but not aimlessly. They create cracks, and in those cracks lies an opening, a space where light can enter. The breaking is not the end of us; it is the chance to reach beyond the surface and touch something more enduring, more whole.
Buddhist teaching echoes this truth: impermanence is the nature of all things. We spend much of our energy resisting this, clinging to the illusion of permanence, of certainty. But when suffering knocks, it exposes what was always true: nothing stays, everything flows. The body shifts, the mind shifts, relationships shift. If we cling, bitterness grows. If we bow, luminosity awakens.
And yet—we do not stand in this crucible alone. Others have walked through fire and survived. Their stories, their compassion, their presence become a reminder: we are companions on this journey. In the depths of loss, another’s hand steadies us. In the silence of grief, another’s listening heart reminds us that we still belong. Even in solitude, we are not solitary; the great web of life holds us all.
This is not a lesson only for the elder years. Life presents these openings again and again. A teenager’s heartbreak, a middle-aged career loss, a parent’s grief, an elder’s failing body—all are invitations of the same kind. The process intensifies with age, not because life is harsher at the end, but because the teachings become clearer. The illusions grow thinner. The cracks widen, and so too does the chance for light.
To choose luminosity is to turn our gaze outward, to allow difficulty to soften us rather than harden us. It is to become a presence of service, radiating warmth, compassion, and quiet strength. To choose bitterness is to fold inward, to resist, to calcify around wounds.
Each day, we stand at this threshold. The invitation is constant. And in our final years, as we prepare to release this physical form, the invitation is perhaps at its most urgent: become light, or become shadow.
May we choose light. May we choose to let every fracture be a passageway, every sorrow a teacher, every ending a seed. May we remember that even in the fire, we are not alone. And may we grow luminous in our service, luminous in our presence, luminous in our departure—so that in leaving, we leave behind not bitterness, but light.