A couple of months ago, I had one of those restless nights.

I woke up again and again. Five or six times at least. Each time, I checked the time on my watch. 1:40. Then 2:25. Then 3:10. And on.  Every glance started the same quiet calculation. How much time was left before morning? How tired would I be tomorrow?

What surprised me most was not how often I woke up. I am of an age where waking up at night is fairly common.  What made me think was how hard it had been to fall back asleep. The more I checked the time, the more awake I felt.

I counted sheep.  I counted breaths. I tossed and turned.

By morning, I was not just tired. I was frustrated. It seemed I had spent as much energy worrying about sleep as I had actually sleeping.

That clock-watching thing had happened to me many times before, so it made me think.

Years ago, I had already made one change. I removed clocks from the bedroom after learning they could disrupt sleep. But I still wore a watch at night. First a Fitbit for many years, and now a Garmin. The time was always there, easy to see with a small movement.

The next night, I tried something different. I turned off the night light on my watch so I would have to make a conscious effort to see the time. Then I decided not to look at it at all. If I woke up, I would simply turn over and settle back in.

It felt like a small thing. Almost insignificant.

But it changed the night.

Without the clock, there was no calculation. No quiet countdown. The night no longer felt like something slipping away. It just was. And mostly, I just drifted back to sleep.

Over the past month, I have stayed with that simple practice. I still wake up some nights. They say it is an age thing.. That has not changed. But it is easier to rest again. The edge of frustration is gone.

After a bit of research, I learned there is actually a name for what I had been doing. Sleep experts call it “clock watching anxiety.” When we check the time, our minds engage. We start thinking, estimating, even worrying. That mental activity works against sleep rather than with it. In fact, one of the basic recommendations in treating insomnia is to avoid watching the clock.

It turns out a minor change I stumbled into by chance aligns with what science already knows.

There is something here that reaches beyond sleep. We often think improvement comes from adding more. More effort. More control. More awareness. But sometimes it comes from letting go. From removing a small habit that quietly works against us.

For me, it was not a clock on the wall, but a glance at my wrist.

I still wake up at night now and then. I just do not check the time. And more often than not, I fall back asleep easily.

A small change. A better result.  I’m grateful for adopting it into my daily routine.  Isn’t that part of what aging gratefully is all about?

As always, be well, and age gratefully,

Chris

I didn’t fall hard, but I was lucky.

My son and I were recently in Peru, working our way toward Machu Picchu, one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. After stops in Lima, Cusco, and Ollantaytambo (the Sacred Valley), we arrived at the base of the site.

One thing became clear before we ever got to the site.  There is very little level ground here in Peru, at least that we found, except, occasionally, in Lima.

The streets, paths, and steps are uneven. Stones are worn and irregular. Elevations change constantly. You have to pay attention to every step. This is not forgiving terrain.

I arrived at Machu Picchu already aware that my flatlander balance was not what it should be. Even so, I was not prepared for what we encountered.

My son and I had a guide and started on Circuit 2A. It begins with a steep climb, maybe three hundred feet on rocky, uneven stairs. With few exceptions, there were no handrails.

I have to admit, it was intimidating before I took the first step.

I was close to telling my son to go on without me. Instead, he handed me the walking sticks that my wife, Carol, had “made” me buy before the trip.

That changed things.

The start was wobbly, but I found a rhythm. Step by step, I managed the climb. In total, we covered more than four thousand steps. No falls. No trips. But by the end, I was tired and sore, and I knew I had been working at the edge of my balance the entire time.

Then came the final lesson.

One more obstacle. There was a transition from high, uneven stone steps to a set of stairs with a handrail. As I reached for the rail, I lost my balance.

In that instant, I had a choice. Try to grab the rail and risk a worse fall or let myself go down.  Muscle memory from Airborne Jump School many years ago kicked in. A rolling fall is usually better than a hard one.

I chose to go down.

It was a controlled fall with a soft landing. The only casualty was a broken walking stick. With some help, I got back up, grateful that it ended the way it did, at the last steps, not the first.

At the same time, I had learned that my wife, Carol, had fallen back home in Daytona Beach. Thankfully, she was not seriously hurt.

Different places. Same issue.

Balance is not just a mountain problem. It is a life problem.

And it is easy to ignore until it gets our attention.

One takeaway from this trip is simple. Balance is not fixed. It is something we either maintain or lose. And if we are intentional, it is something we can improve.

This fits squarely within physical stewardship.

We tend to think about strength and endurance. These matter. But balance is foundational. It supports everything else we do, often quietly, until it doesn’t.

So, I made a personal commitment.

I will work specifically on balance and core strength. Not in a vague way, but with intention. Simple practices. Standing on one foot. Stability exercises. Paying attention to how I move. It can’t hurt my pickleball game!  Carol and I will work on this together.

You might consider doing the same.

When was the last time you tested your balance? Not assumed it, but tested it?

I didn’t need a trip to Peru to find uneven ground. It is already part of daily life. We just do not always notice. Sometimes, until it is too late.

Machu Picchu made it impossible to ignore what I need to work on.

And being in Peru for nine days with my son, seeing things together that neither of us had seen, was simply the icing on the cake.

As always, be well, and age gratefully.

Chris

Many years ago, I was flying back to Memphis through Minneapolis and my inbound to Minneapolis was late.  I had already missed my connection but knew there was a later flight to Memphis that I might catch.

I was worried because I had what then seemed like a particularly important meeting in Memphis the next morning.  And I was very tired.  I don’t recall what the purpose of my trip was, but I do remember that it had been grueling.

We finally landed in Minneapolis and taxied, excruciatingly slowly, to the gate. When I got off the plane, I discovered that my possible connecting flight to Memphis was several concourses away and it was nearly time for the flight to leave.

Hoping for the best, I pulled my folding travel bag over my shoulder, grabbed on to my huge briefcase full of documents, and proceeded to navigate to the distant gate as fast as possible.

As I approached the gate, I saw and heard a passenger yelling at the gate attendant, disparaging her, the airline, and anyone or anything else he could think of.  He raised his voice, arms gesticulating, and continued to yell at the attendant. He then turned to me and did the same thing.

I can’t remember exactly what went through my mind, but it was probably something reflecting my frustration and impatience, like: “Will you just hurry up and do your business? I can’t do anything until you’re gone!”

What he thought I might be able to do to help I’ll never know. I just shrugged. He turned one last time to the attendant, yelling at her again, and then stormed off to wherever he went.

I walked up to the attendant and said hello. I then said something like this, as kindly as I could: “Well, based on what I just saw and heard, I guess I’ll be spending the night in Minneapolis.  I’m sorry you had to endure that guy’s tirade.”

She looked at me, smiled and said, “Let me see your ticket, please.”  I gave her my then paper ticket.  She took it and with her eyes on the keyboard, tapped through the many routines necessary back in those days to do whatever she was up to.  She seemed to be trying to do something, so I just stood there quietly.

She then looked up at me and smiled, reaching for the printer.  She pulled off a new ticket, handed it to me, and said: “Welcome aboard, Mr. Mercer.”

I took the ticket, collected my folding overnight bag, grabbed my heavy briefcase, and said to her: “I don’t know what you just did, but I appreciate it very much!  Thank you!”

Her parting words as I walked by were: “Have a nice flight, Mr. Mercer.”

Sitting down in my seat on that late-night flight to Memphis, I felt a wave of gratitude, appreciation, and relief.

I was going to sleep in my own bed that night. I’d start the next day at least reasonably fresh. And yes, I’d make that important meeting.

But over time, I’ve come to realize that the meeting wasn’t the most important part of that trip. In fact, I don’t even remember what it was about.

What I do remember, and clearly, all these years later, is that brief moment at the gate.

At that stage of my life, I was very much in “building value” mode. Focused. Driven. Moving from one obligation to the next. Like most people in that phase, I was often in a hurry, and likely more transactional than I would have liked to admit.

That night, I had every reason to be frustrated, impatient, even a little short with the person standing between me and getting home.

Instead, I simply chose to be… decent.

Not extraordinary. Not strategic. Just decent.

And in return, I was reminded of something that has stayed with me ever since:

How we treat people, even in small, fleeting moments, has a way of coming back to us in ways we don’t expect and can’t plan for.

That’s a different kind of value. Not the kind you measure on a balance sheet, but the kind you carry with you. The kind that shapes your days, your relationships, and ultimately, how you experience your life.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate that more and more.

We spend so many years focused on building value in our careers, businesses, assets. And those things matter. But at some point, the focus shifts, or at least it should.

Living the value we’ve built often comes down to something much simpler than we expect.

Mom was right, of course.

“Chris, just be nice.”

It turns out that’s not simply good advice for getting through a long day of travel. It’s a surprisingly good way to move through life, and, I think, a meaningful part of aging gratefully.

As always, be well, and age gratefully.

Chris

In the last post, I wrote about how situational awareness can break down—often in familiar situations where we assume we know what’s going to happen.

That risk doesn’t go away with age.

If anything, it increases.

The Margin Narrows

When I was nine years old, my father taught me to see the whole field, not just the ball.

At the time, it helped me become a better baseball player. Over the years, I’ve come to understand it as something more practical—and more important.

It’s a way to move through the world.

In the first two posts in this series on situational awareness, I’ve talked about what it is, and how it can break down, often in familiar situations where we assume we know what’s going to happen.

As we get older, a few things change. Reaction times slow down. Balance becomes less reliable. Recovery takes longer. Margins for error narrow, as we age, experience loss of muscle and balance, and more.  Margins sometimes narrow so slowly over time that we don’t notice it.

A stumble that might have meant nothing years ago can become a fall. Falls can precipitate serious injury and even death.

A pickleball friend says he is trying to avoid or delay as long as possible an adverse progression that goes like this:

• Walking more slowly
• Increasingly stooping over time
• Relying on a walking cane
• Progressing from cane to a walker
• And finally, relying on a wheelchair

That progression happens to many as they age.  And it is accelerated by one or more falls.

Why Awareness Matters More

Situational awareness becomes more valuable as our margins narrow. It’s one of the simplest ways to compensate for changes we can’t entirely control.

The lessons from right field still apply – but they need to be applied more deliberately.

• Don’t just track what you’re focused on.
• Understand where you are in relation to it.
• Be aware of what and who else is part of the situation.
• And think, even briefly, about what could happen next.

That sounds basic. It is. But it’s not automatic.

Where It Shows Up

On a pickleball court, awareness might mean choosing not to chase a difficult shot that requires an awkward movement or puts you in conflict with your partner. No point is worth the risk of a fall or collision.

Walking or driving, awareness might mean slowing down in moments that don’t feel particularly risky – crossing a street, navigating a crowded area, dealing with poor visibility. Those are often the situations where small lapses occur.

At home, where we tend to be most comfortable, awareness might mean paying attention to things we take for granted – lighting, footing, obstacles that weren’t there before. Many falls happen in familiar places.

None of this requires dramatic change. It requires attention.

A Habit of Mind

Situational awareness isn’t a tactic. It’s a habit of mind. And like most habits, it either strengthens with use or weakens when ignored.

There’s a tendency to think that experience alone keeps us safe. Experience helps – but only if it’s paired with continued awareness. Otherwise, it can lead to overconfidence and routine, and that’s when small mistakes slip in.

My father didn’t talk about aging when he was teaching me those lessons. He didn’t need to. The principles hold across time.

• Pay attention to what’s happening.
• Understand where you are within it.
• Don’t assume you’ve seen everything.

Wrapping Up

The first post in this series focused on learning to see.
The second showed how easily that awareness can break down.

This final post brings it back to something practical: as we age, paying attention matters more.

It took me a long time to fully appreciate what my father was teaching.

It wasn’t baseball. It was how to move through the world.

We can’t eliminate risk. We can’t control outcomes. But we can influence both—at the margin—by how well we pay attention.

It’s a simple idea. But over time, it adds up to better luck.

As always, be well – and age gratefully.

Chris