Seasons of Life

The Seasons of a Human Life

Growing, Building, Understanding and Returning

To my descendants,

As I grow older, I increasingly realise that human life should not be understood as one straight continuous line. We are not simply born, become larger, become older, and then die. There are different stages. Different periods. Different responsibilities. Different forms of growth. And perhaps most importantly:

what constitutes growth at one stage of life may be completely different from what constitutes growth at another.

A child grows physically. A young person grows through learning. An adult grows through responsibility. A mature person grows through understanding. And perhaps an older person grows partly through letting go. So ageing is not simply a process of gaining and then losing. It may be better understood as a series of transformations. Each stage asks something different of us. 

A Life Has Seasons

I like to think of life as having seasons. Spring is not summer. Summer is not autumn. Autumn is not winter. Yet we would never say: “Autumn has failed because it does not behave like spring.” That would make no sense. Each season has its own nature. Spring grows. Summer expands. Autumn ripens and releases. Winter becomes quiet. Human beings may also have seasons.

The mistake is to judge every season by the standards of only one. Modern society often values the summer of life most highly. Productivity. Strength. Income. Achievement. Status. Expansion. But perhaps this is only one season. What if the later seasons have another purpose? 

The Indian Tradition — Four Stages of Life

The Indian tradition gives us one of the clearest models. It is usually called the āśrama system. Strictly speaking, this belongs to the broader Hindu philosophical and social tradition rather than being a four-stage theory created by Patañjali.

In its later classical form it describes four phases: Brahmacharya — the student. Gṛhastha — the householder. Vānaprastha — gradually withdrawing from worldly responsibility. Sannyāsa — renunciation.

Oxford's discussion of āśrama describes these precisely as studentship, household life, forest-dwelling or retirement, and renunciation. Historically, the system developed over time and was not always understood as four strictly sequential age compartments, so we should treat it as an ideal philosophical model rather than a universal biography.

Nevertheless, I find the logic very beautiful. In the first stage: learn. Acquire discipline. Understand the world. Prepare yourself. Then enter society. Work. Build. Marry if that is your path. Raise a family. Accept responsibilities. Contribute. This is the householder stage. The Indian tradition does not regard family responsibility as an interruption to spiritual life. It is itself a stage of life.

Then something changes. As one becomes older, the task is no longer merely to accumulate more worldly responsibility. One begins to loosen the grip. The literal older idea of vānaprastha evokes withdrawing towards the forest. In modern life, we need not literally walk into a forest. Perhaps it means: give younger people more responsibility. Stop controlling everything. Mentor. Reflect. Withdraw from some competitions. Create time for contemplation.

Then eventually: sannyāsa. Letting go. This is a very different philosophy from: “Continue accumulating until the day you die.” 

Different Stages Require Different Measures of Success

This is something I find very important. Imagine evaluating an eighty-year-old using exactly the same criteria used for a thirty-year-old: How much does he earn? How rapidly is his career progressing? How much is he expanding? How many promotions? It may be the wrong measurement.

Perhaps at eighty the more important questions are: What does he understand? What has he reconciled? What can he teach? What has he passed onwards? What can he finally release? The measuring instrument must change with the stage. 

Confucius — A Life of Gradual Maturation

Confucius gives perhaps my favourite description of human maturation. He says: 「吾十有五而志于學，三十而立，四十而不惑，五十而知天命，六十而耳順，七十而從心所欲，不踰矩。」 At fifteen, he set his heart upon learning. At thirty, he stood firm. At forty, he was no longer confused. At fifty, he understood the Mandate of Heaven. At sixty, his ear became receptive. At seventy, he could follow his heart without crossing the proper bounds. This is extraordinary. Confucius does not simply describe gaining more knowledge. The quality of the person changes. 

Fifteen — 志於學

At fifteen: 志於學 — set the heart upon learning. I find this extremely appropriate. Youth should contain curiosity. Learn. Read. Practise. Ask questions. Develop skills. You do not yet need to possess all the answers. At that age, direction may be more important than completion. 

Thirty — 而立

At thirty: 三十而立 — stand. To stand means more than physically standing. One begins establishing oneself. Work. Family. Character. Responsibility. One can no longer always say: “My parents will decide.” “My teacher will solve it.” “The school will tell me what to do.” You begin carrying your own weight. 

Forty — 不惑

At forty: 四十而不惑 — no longer fundamentally perplexed. I do not think Confucius means a forty-year-old knows everything. That would be ridiculous. Perhaps it means one's central direction has become clearer. At twenty, there may be a thousand possibilities. At forty, experience has eliminated some illusions. You begin knowing: what you can do, what you cannot do, what matters, what does not matter so much, which battles are worth fighting, and perhaps which ambitions belonged merely to youth. 

Fifty — 知天命

At fifty: 五十而知天命 — understand Heaven's mandate. This is especially interesting to me. I do not read 天命 simply as supernatural fate. Perhaps by fifty one understands more clearly the relationship between: choice, ability, circumstance, history, luck, limitation, opportunity, and time. You begin to see that your life was never created by personal will alone. You were born into a particular era. A particular society. A particular family. A particular technology. A particular economy. This is exactly what we discussed under: 天時 · 地利 · 人和. At fifty perhaps one begins seeing the larger forces within one's biography. 

Sixty — 耳順

At sixty: 六十而耳順. This phrase fascinates me. One's ear becomes receptive. Perhaps one learns to hear things that youth resisted. When we are young, we often want to speak. We want to demonstrate. Correct. Argue. Establish ourselves. Later, perhaps listening becomes more important. Can I hear criticism without immediately becoming defensive? Can I hear the younger generation? Can I hear ideas formed in a world very different from mine? Can I hear somebody with whom I disagree? This connects directly with our discussion of perspective. Perhaps maturity enlarges the number of perspectives we are capable of hearing. 

Seventy — Freedom Without Disorder

Then at seventy: 從心所欲，不踰矩. Follow the desires of the heart without transgressing the proper limits. I think this is very beautiful. At the beginning, discipline feels external. “Do this.” “Don't do that.” Later, perhaps the values become internalised. You do not have to fight yourself constantly. 

The trained musician no longer consciously calculates every movement. The calligrapher does not consciously reconstruct every rule with every stroke. The disciplined person gradually becomes natural. This is similar to our discussion of flow. At first: rules. Then: practice. Then: internalisation. Finally: freedom. 

Daoism Does Not Give Us an Age Ladder

Laozi is different. He does not say: “At thirty this, at forty that.” Daoism is much less interested in fixed age categories. It watches nature. Cycles. Growth. Fullness. Decline. Return.

Laozi says: 「反者道之動。」 Return, or reversal, is the movement of the Dao. Life is not simply a straight climb upwards. Things expand. Reach fullness. Then change. Return. Another cycle begins. That is a very different model from modern endless growth.

Growth Cannot Mean “More” Forever

This is one of the central Daoist lessons I would like you to remember. Human beings often assume that improvement means: more. More money. More influence. More possessions. More recognition. More knowledge. More achievement. But can “more” continue forever?

Eventually a different kind of development may be necessary. Laozi writes: 「為學日益，為道日損。」 In pursuing learning, one adds daily. In pursuing the Dao, one diminishes daily. I find this an extraordinary way of thinking about the two halves of a life.  The First Half Adds

During much of our younger life, we add. Knowledge. Degrees. Skills. Experience. Money. Objects. Relationships. Responsibilities. Titles. Identity. “I am this.” “I am that.” “I know this.” “I own that.” “I have achieved this.” Perhaps this accumulation is necessary. We are constructing the person.

The Second Half May Need Subtraction

But perhaps later life increasingly asks us to subtract. Less need to prove. Less resentment. Less competition. Less concern about what everybody thinks. Less unnecessary possession. Less attachment to title. Less insistence upon always being correct. Less fear. Less control. This does not mean becoming empty in a negative sense. Perhaps it means becoming lighter. So ageing may not simply mean: having less because life took things away. It might also mean: carrying less because wisdom taught us what no longer needed to be carried. That is very different. 

The Daoist Return to the Child

Laozi repeatedly uses the infant as an image. Not because the sage should become childish. But because the infant represents: softness, openness, naturalness, absence of pretence. This creates an interesting cycle. We begin with innocence. Then life becomes complicated. We build knowledge. Identity. Career. Defences. Opinions. Then perhaps the mature person gradually returns towards simplicity. But this is not the child's simplicity. The child is simple because he has not yet encountered complexity. The sage may be simple because he has passed through complexity. 

I would call this: first innocence → complexity → second simplicity. That may be one of the finest descriptions of a complete human life.

The Western Tradition — Life as a Stage

The Western tradition also contains powerful models of life's stages. One of the most famous comes from Shakespeare. In As You Like It, Jaques says: “All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.”

Then: “one man in his time plays many parts.” Shakespeare proceeds to describe seven ages: infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, justice, old age, and finally extreme dependency. This is literature, not scientific developmental psychology. But the metaphor is magnificent. One person plays many parts. That is important. 

Do Not Mistake One Role for Your Entire Self

At one stage I am: a child. Then: student. Worker. Husband. Father. Manager. Teacher. Mentor. Older person. These roles change. Perhaps part of the suffering of transition occurs because we become too attached to one role.

Someone retires and thinks: “If I am no longer the managing director, who am I?” But Shakespeare might remind him: That was one part. The play continues. Another part begins. The difficulty is knowing when one role has ended. 

Shakespeare's Soldier and the Search for Reputation

Shakespeare's “soldier” is particularly interesting. He describes a man seeking what he calls the “bubble reputation”, even at great danger. That is a remarkably sharp observation about youth and ambition. We want recognition. Achievement. Status. To establish that: I exist. I matter. I can do something. Perhaps this is psychologically necessary to some degree.

But Shakespeare calls reputation a bubble. Eventually we begin understanding how temporary it can be. Titles vanish. Companies disappear. Awards become forgotten. The stage changes. Another actor enters. So perhaps later life should not remain entirely devoted to preserving the applause from an earlier act. 

Erik Erikson — Different Psychological Tasks

In the twentieth century, psychologist Erik Erikson developed another Western model. Instead of four stages or seven literary ages, Erikson proposed eight psychosocial stages across the lifespan.

The American Psychological Association summarises them as: trust versus mistrust, autonomy versus shame and doubt, initiative versus guilt, industry versus inferiority, identity versus confusion, intimacy versus isolation, generativity versus stagnation, and integrity versus despair. Again, we should not treat this as a mechanical timetable. Later research has questioned overly rigid interpretations of the stages, and Erikson himself saw these themes as continuing to matter across life. But the model gives us something very useful: each stage poses a different psychological question. 

Childhood — Can I Trust the World?

For the infant: Can I trust? Am I safe? Will someone respond? Then the small child: Can I act independently? Can I choose? Can I do things? Then school: Can I become competent? Can I learn? Can I make something? These early questions may stay with us much longer than childhood. 

Youth — Who Am I?

Adolescence asks perhaps the question everyone recognises: Who am I? Identity versus confusion. What do I believe? What am I capable of? Where do I belong? What kind of person will I become? This relates strongly to Confucius' 志於學. One begins setting direction. 

Young Adulthood — Can I Share a Life?

Then Erikson shifts towards: intimacy versus isolation. Can I form close relationships without completely losing myself? Can I love? Trust? Commit? Cooperate? Again, the developmental task changes. The self is no longer sufficient. Another person enters the structure. 

Middle Age — Generativity

But the stage I find most interesting for our purposes is Erikson's generativity versus stagnation. Generativity means concern for what comes after oneself. Parenting. Teaching. Mentoring. Creating. Building institutions. Producing ideas or works that may benefit people beyond oneself.

The APA describes generativity not merely as having children, but as creativity and fulfilling responsibility towards the next generation. This is extremely close to what I am attempting here. At some point the question changes from: What can I become? to: What can I give? That is a major transition. 

From Success to Transmission

When young, I may ask: How do I become successful? Later: How can what I learnt become useful to somebody else? That is generativity. A teacher. A book. A building. A photograph. A business. A family culture. An idea. An apprenticeship. A story told to grandchildren. All of these can be generative. The self produces something that continues beyond the self. 

Old Age — Integrity or Despair

Erikson's final major conflict is: integrity versus despair. Can I look at the life I actually lived and accept it as my life? Not an imaginary perfect life. My actual one. Success. Mistakes. Good decisions. Poor decisions. People I loved. Things I lost. Opportunities taken. Opportunities missed. Can I integrate all of this? Or do I look backwards only with bitterness: “If only…” “If only…” “If only…”

Modern summaries of Erikson describe this final stage as integrating and accepting one's life in the face of mortality. I find the word integrity very appropriate. Not perfection. Integration. The parts become one life. 

Jung — The First and Second Halves of Life

Carl Jung adds another idea which I find extremely powerful. Jung believed that the tasks of the second half of life are not the same as those of youth. A review of Jung's thinking describes youth as oriented outward — building a place in life — while maturity increasingly requires integration of conscious and unconscious parts of the personality.

The C. G. Jung Institute of Chicago describes the first half as involving adulthood's social tasks: independence, work, family, responsibility, and participation in society.

The second half turns more strongly towards what Jung called individuation — becoming a more integrated and complete individual rather than simply a successful social role. This fits our discussion extraordinarily well. 

The Tragedy of Living the Second Half Like the First

Perhaps one of the mistakes of ageing is continuing to pursue exactly the same psychological project. At twenty: prove yourself. At thirty: establish yourself. At forty: build. Fine. But if at seventy the only remaining objective is still: more status, more recognition, more proof that I matter, perhaps the psychological clock has not moved.

Jungian writing warns specifically about people clinging to the values of youth when the second half of life is asking for new meaning. I think this is extremely important. Ageing should not simply mean: young adulthood with weaker knees. It may require another orientation. 

The Second Half Turns Inward

This does not mean abandoning society. Nor becoming selfishly introspective. It means asking questions which earlier achievement cannot answer: Who am I when my title disappears? Who am I when my children no longer need me in the same way? What parts of myself did I neglect while building a career?

What have I avoided? What was genuinely mine, and what did I do merely because society expected it? What does my life mean as a whole? These are second-half questions. 

Jung and the Spiral

Interestingly, Jungian descriptions of individuation often use the image of a spiral rather than a straight line. One repeatedly encounters oneself, but at different levels of understanding. That connects directly with what we discussed earlier. Life does not necessarily solve one problem forever and move neatly to the next. We return. To fear. To love. To identity. To family. To mortality. But perhaps each return can be deeper. 

The Biblical Tradition — A Time for Everything

There is also another Western idea worth remembering. The biblical book of Ecclesiastes begins its famous meditation with the idea that there is a season for things: a time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant, a time to uproot, a time to weep, a time to laugh.

The larger point is not that life follows a perfectly predictable schedule. It is that different moments call for different responses. This is remarkably close to our discussion of time and 天時. There is not one action that is correct for every season. There is a time to hold. And a time to release. 

East and West Are Asking Similar Questions

When I put these traditions beside one another, I do not want to pretend they are saying exactly the same thing. They are not. But I see an interesting convergence. The Indian tradition asks: What responsibilities belong to this stage of life?

Confucius asks: How does the moral and cultivated person mature? Laozi asks: How do growth, fullness, decline and return belong to the natural order? Shakespeare asks: What roles does one person play as life carries him from infancy to old age?

Erikson asks: What psychological challenge becomes prominent at each stage? Jung asks: What if the second half of life requires a different psychological direction from the first? These are different lamps illuminating the same object: a human lifetime. 

Perhaps We Can Combine Them

If I were to make my own provisional map, it might look something like this. From birth to roughly fifteen: Receiving. We receive: language, family, culture, habits, beliefs, place. Then perhaps fifteen to thirty: Acquiring. Knowledge. Skill. Education. Independence. Identity. Then thirty to forty-five: Building. Career. Family. Work. Responsibility. Reputation.

Then forty-five to sixty: Integrating. What did all this mean? What am I really good at? What was mistaken? What should continue? What should change? Then perhaps sixty to seventy-five: Transmitting. Teach. Mentor. Write. Pass experience onwards.

Let younger people take responsibility. Then perhaps later: Distilling. What was essential? What can I let go? What do I no longer need to prove? These ages are not laws. Life is much too complicated for that. They are only a drawing. And remember our chapter on perspective: one drawing never contains the whole building. 

Singapore and My Own Life

Now I want to place these philosophical stages against something very concrete: Singapore itself. I was born in 1964. That means my personal life grew almost alongside independent Singapore. This is extraordinarily interesting because I did not merely age.

The entire physical, economic, technological and social environment around me was transforming at extraordinary speed. So when I think about my life stages, I must also think about the life stages of the country itself. 

Childhood — Singapore Was Also Young

When I was a very small child, Singapore itself had only just become independent. Singapore separated from Malaysia and became an independent state on 9 August 1965. The early nation faced urgent concerns involving housing, employment, infrastructure and social cohesion.

The city I entered was not today's Singapore. Kampungs still existed in many parts of the island. Common standpipes were within living experience. HDB itself had only been established in 1960 and was undertaking a massive housing programme. The early Queenstown blocks were among the first HDB flats completed around that period. So while I was learning to walk, Singapore was also learning to stand. I find that parallel remarkable. 

A Child and a Nation Were Both Building Foundations

A child needs: shelter, food, health, education, security. The young country needed almost the same things at a collective scale. Housing. Water. Schools. Jobs. Transport. Public health. Institutions. The 1960s and early 1970s were periods of urgent urban renewal and housing provision; much of central Singapore was overcrowded and in poor condition. So the physical world itself communicated: build. This was not yet an age of luxury. It was a period of foundations. 

The 1970s — Learning

Then came the 1970s. I entered school. Singapore also entered another phase of development. The 1971 Concept Plan laid down the broad structure for new towns, industrial areas, transport infrastructure and recreation around the island. Jurong industrialisation was transforming economic possibilities. New HDB towns expanded. Roads appeared. Schools developed. Families moved from kampungs and older urban housing into planned estates.

The whole environment was teaching us: Study. Learn. Become useful. Find a profession. Work hard. This corresponds beautifully with Confucius:

十五而志於學.

At fifteen, set the heart upon learning. 

Around Fifteen — Singapore Was Teaching a Generation to Learn

For me, fifteen was around 1979. Singapore was still very much an achievement-oriented society. Education mattered enormously. Technical skills mattered. A qualification could transform the prospects of a family. The country itself was learning very quickly. Industrialising. Training. Building technical capability. So personal growth and national development reinforced one another. The message was clear: Acquire competence. 

The 1980s — Entering Adult Life

Then came the 1980s. A generation moved into universities, polytechnics, National Service, careers and adult responsibilities. Singapore's basic physical infrastructure was increasingly established, and planning shifted towards transportation, a stronger commercial centre and eventually the MRT system.

Now the question was no longer merely: Can Singapore survive? Increasingly: What kind of modern city can Singapore become? The same happens to a person leaving youth. The question shifts from: Can I learn? to: What shall I do with what I have learnt? 

Thirty — Establishing Myself

Confucius says: 三十而立. At thirty, stand. For someone born in 1964, thirty arrives around 1994. What was Singapore doing around this time? It had also moved into another stage. The 1991 Concept Plan was no longer merely about meeting basic national needs. URA describes it as moving towards an island city balancing work and play, culture and commerce, and developing higher-technology economic corridors.

Again, the correspondence is fascinating. The young nation had survived. Now it was establishing what kind of city it wanted to become. At thirty, the individual also asks: What kind of person am I establishing? Career. Family. Professional identity. Place in society. This is 而立. 

Forty — No Longer Merely Expanding

Around forty, the questions begin changing. One has already worked. Succeeded in some things. Failed in others. Encountered organisations. People. Politics. Family responsibilities. Perhaps by then the world becomes less theoretical. Confucius says: 四十而不惑. Not because every question disappears. But perhaps some illusions disappear.

Singapore too, by the 2000s, was no longer simply the developing city of the 1960s. The question had changed. Basic survival had given way to: global positioning, urban quality, identity, heritage, environment, and the character of the city. Even national growth began becoming more complicated. 

A Mature City Begins Asking What to Preserve

This is very interesting. In youth, development often means: remove the old, build the new. Later, another question appears: What should not be destroyed? Singapore's conservation programme took formal shape from 1989 onwards, and today thousands of buildings across many conservation areas are protected.

This is almost a national version of maturity. The young person wants novelty. The mature person begins understanding memory. Perhaps cities also develop in stages. 

Fifty — Understanding the Times Into Which I Was Born

At fifty, Confucius speaks of: 知天命. For me this corresponds to the 2010s. By then, looking backwards becomes possible. You begin seeing something that youth could not see: how much your life depended upon timing. Being born in one period rather than another changes: education, technology, career, property, mobility, communication, expectation. One begins seeing biography inside history. This is 天時. 

My Life Could Not Have Happened in Exactly the Same Way in Another Era

This is very important for you to understand. Do not judge one generation as though it lived under another generation's conditions. The Singapore of my childhood was different. The Singapore of your childhood will be different. The technologies are different. The educational competition is different. Housing conditions are different. The labour market is different. Information is different.

So when an older person says: “In my time, I did this, therefore you should do exactly the same,” be careful. The principle may remain useful. The method may no longer fit the historical terrain. Remember: hold principles firmly; methods more lightly.

Sixty — Learning to Hear Again

Then comes sixty. Confucius says: 耳順. This may be particularly appropriate today. Someone of my generation has lived through extraordinary technological change. A childhood of analogue life. Film. Radio. Television. Then computers. Digital photography. Internet. Mobile phones. Smartphones. Social media. And now artificial intelligence.

It feels almost as though several civilisations have passed within one lifetime. This creates a danger for an older generation. We can say: “This new thing is wrong because it is not the thing I grew up with.” But perhaps 耳順 means: listen first. Understand. The younger generation is standing under different illumination. 

The Singapore My Descendants See Is Not the Singapore I First Saw

You may grow up surrounded by things I once regarded as extraordinary. Air-conditioning. Rapid transport. Smartphones. Immediate access to information. AI. International travel. Highly developed infrastructure. These may appear ordinary to you because they were already present when you arrived. 

That is perspective again. What one generation experiences as revolution, the next experiences as furniture. This is why generational understanding requires history. 

Singapore Itself Has Entered Another Life Stage

The young Singapore asked: How do we house people? How do we create jobs? How do we build roads? How do we survive? A more mature Singapore increasingly asks: What should we conserve? How do we care for an ageing population? How do we maintain social cohesion? What kind of density creates a good life? How much redevelopment is enough? How should technology be used? What memories should remain? These are qualitatively different questions. 

Perhaps a city, like a human being, moves from: survival to: achievement and eventually towards: meaning. 

Growth Changes Form

This may be the central principle of the chapter. A young tree grows rapidly upwards. Later, its annual increase in height slows. If we measure only height, we might say: “The tree has stopped growing.” But look more carefully. The trunk thickens. Roots deepen. The crown spreads. It flowers. Fruits. Creates shade. Supports birds. Holds soil. The form of growth changed. Human beings are similar. 

At Twenty — Grow Outward

Perhaps at twenty: learn. Explore. Take risks. Acquire skills. Meet people. Travel. Build capacity. There is nothing wrong with ambition here. The tree should grow. 

At Forty — Grow Through Capability

At forty: perhaps growth becomes competence. Judgement. Responsibility. Can you actually do what you claim? Can people rely upon you? Can you raise a family? Can you manage difficulty? Can you make good decisions? The growth is becoming deeper. 

At Sixty — Grow Through Integration

Perhaps at sixty: growth becomes integration. You possess many fragments. Experience. Work. Failures. Relationships. Ideas. Books. Journeys. Now: Can you put them together? Can you see patterns? Can you explain what you have learnt? Can you discard what is no longer useful? This is another kind of growth. 

Later — Grow Through Giving Away

And perhaps later: growth becomes transmission. This is Erikson's generativity. Knowledge becomes more valuable when it can flow towards someone else. Teach. Write. Mentor. Preserve. Pass down. If you know something useful, do not let everything die with you. This is partly why I am writing these pages. 

Eventually — Grow Through Letting Go

And finally, perhaps some of the deepest growth is subtraction. Laozi: 「為道日損。」 Reduce. Reduce again. What do I no longer need? Not only objects. But: anger, old competition, the need for applause, resentment, the insistence on controlling the next generation. Perhaps old age becomes lighter when we stop carrying every former identity. 

The Roles Change, but Something Continues

Shakespeare says we play many parts. That seems true. But perhaps underneath the roles there is also continuity. Student. Architect. Parent. Teacher. Writer. Older person. The costumes change. The stage changes. Other actors enter. But one consciousness has travelled through them all.

Jung's later-life question is therefore profound: Who am I beneath all these roles? Perhaps we spend the first half constructing identity. And some of the second half discovering that we are larger than the identities we constructed. 

Do Not Live Every Stage the Same Way

This may be one of the most important things I want to leave you. Do not assume that a successful life means finding one formula at thirty and repeating it until ninety. Life changes. The body changes. The mind changes. Responsibilities change. Society changes. Children grow. Parents disappear. Technology changes. Another generation arrives. So the intelligent person changes his relationship with life. Not because he has abandoned himself. Because the season has changed. 

Know the Season You Are In

Therefore, occasionally ask yourself: What stage of life am I actually in? What is the proper work of this stage? Should I be acquiring? Building? Integrating? Transmitting? Letting go? Perhaps you will discover that some unhappiness comes from trying to live in the wrong season. A young person may be trying to retire before beginning. An older person may be trying desperately to remain twenty-five. Neither is flowing naturally with time. 

But Do Not Let Age Become a Prison

Again, every principle has limits. Do not say: “I am sixty, therefore I cannot learn.” Nonsense. Or: “I am seventy, therefore I cannot begin something.” No. Confucius' ages are not legal restrictions. Erikson's stages are not cages. The āśramas are not prison cells. People develop differently. Someone may discover painting at seventy. Another may enter university at sixty. A thirty-year-old may already possess remarkable wisdom. An eighty-year-old may remain curious like a child. So use stages to understand life. Do not use them to limit life. 

Perhaps Life Is Both a Line and a Circle

Biologically, life seems linear. Birth. Growth. Age. Death. We do not physically return to childhood. But psychologically and philosophically, there may also be circles. The older person may return towards simplicity. Towards wonder. Towards dependency. Towards contemplation. The Daoist sees return. Jung sees the spiral. Shakespeare sees many acts ending in another kind of childhood. Perhaps all contain part of the truth. 

First Innocence and Second Simplicity

I especially want you to remember this. A child may be simple because he does not know complexity. A sage may become simple because he has understood complexity and no longer needs to display it. These two forms of simplicity look similar from outside. They are not the same. The first precedes experience. The second follows experience. Perhaps that is one of the possibilities of old age. Not stupidity. Not emptiness. But: second simplicity. 

What I Hope You Will Remember

Your life will change form many times. Do not be frightened merely because one stage ends. The student must eventually leave school. The child must become independent. The parent must eventually allow the child to become independent. The professional must eventually understand that title is temporary. The older person must eventually allow younger people to stand where he once stood. This is not failure. It is the movement of life.

Remember the Indian tradition: There is a time to learn. A time to enter society. A time gradually to release responsibility. And a time to let go. Remember Confucius: 十五志於學。 Learn. 三十而立。 Stand. 四十而不惑。 Gain clarity. 五十而知天命。 Understand the larger conditions of your life. 六十而耳順。 Learn to hear. 七十從心所欲，不踰矩。 Allow discipline finally to become natural freedom. 

Remember Laozi: 「為學日益，為道日損。」 There is a time to add. There may also be a time to subtract. Remember Shakespeare: One human being may play many parts upon the stage of life. Remember Erikson: The psychological task changes as life changes — from trust and identity towards intimacy, generativity and finally integration. 

Remember Jung: Do not expect the second half of your life merely to repeat the first. The mature person may have another task — integration, individuation, meaning. And remember Singapore. The Singapore into which I was born was itself young. It had to build. Learn. Stand. Establish. Then mature. 

Today it asks questions that the struggling young country could scarcely afford to ask. A human life can be similar. First survive. Then learn. Then build. Then understand. Then perhaps: give back. And finally: let go gracefully. Do not measure the old tree only by how much taller it grows. Look at the shade. The roots. The fruit. The birds living in its branches. Look at what it gives to the landscape. Perhaps that is how we should understand our own ageing. 

At one stage: grow upward. At another: grow outward. At another: grow inward. And perhaps eventually: allow what you have become to shelter something that comes after you. That too is growth. Perhaps it is one of the finest forms of growth there is.