Was I always a punctual, orderly person at heart, who was overwhelmed for a few decades by writing and marketing books and raising children and organizing events? No, I was not. I loved the cheerful chaos. I had an abundance of energy and I liked having lots to do. I was, for much of my life, a champion multitasker.

And then one day when I was about 65, I wasn't anymore. As I rode my bike and talked with a friend riding beside me, I suddenly felt unsafe doing both those things at once. Until that moment, age had imposed its changes bit by tiny bit. Gradually, I needed more time to get to the top of a hill or to read the Metro section. The names of plants and friends and novels eluded my grasp one by one. But the end of multitasking shocked me with the suddenness and certainty of change. That was it. I could not carry on a conversation while biking. I could not understand a radio segment if I was making a grocery list. I could not remember the words to "If I Had a Boat" when any other song was audible.

Clearly, I needed to simplify, and I have dabbled in ways to do that. One that's widely acclaimed is to get rid of stuff. I parted with 12 screwdrivers, three hammers, a glue gun, and a heavy old coal shovel. I let go of personal treasures, including my cross-country skis, children's books my middle-aged sons once loved, and four grades of steel wool for refinishing steamer trunks. I threw away planning folders for arts festivals and political campaigns, permits for block parties, even notes from people who loved me.

I acquired many things in the process of creating myself and now enough is enough. I am who I am and that will have to suffice.

Much of what I part with has life left in it. I rely on churches and secondhand vendors, online listings, and grandchildren setting up apartments. Sometimes I leave things on the sidewalk. I put a "FREE" sign on a desk chair with one jagged tear on the right arm and wheeled it down the driveway. It was gone in two hours. So was a large blue rooster made from steel drums, and a nice wooden swivel chair I refinished decades ago.

Getting rid of stuff does more than protect me from embarrassment at the mess I'd leave behind. It is a kind of hail and farewell that bestows value on what I let go. Reading a note from someone I taught as a high school sophomore brings the gifted, awkward 15-year-old back to life. The well-behaved beige dress I wore to a granddaughter's high school graduation makes me think­ with a surge of pride and love of who that young woman is now.

My primary incentive is not a rage for order. It is mortality. If I don't get the job done, somebody else will have to empty my files and closets and shelves. I'd much rather control my own discovery and disbursement process.

It's easy to describe what is happening in terms of loss. My mind and body can't keep up with who I used to be. I don't have the stamina. And yet, as I have less strength, fewer things, and a shorter future, I've become more aware of what remains. When I do one thing at a time, I focus on that thing. Walking around the pond alone, marveling at the way Merganser ducks rear back before they dive, is very different from using the walk to talk with a friend or listen to "Morning Edition." It's not so much simpler as it is differently complex.

I like that different complexity. For as long as my good health remains, age bestows an attentive calm. I have fewer options, but I am also subject to fewer demands. I am more aware of what is beyond my control and more conscious of the choices that remain. The narrowing of time and competence and possessions seems to bring a deepening of awareness and gratitude and love, as if slowing and simplifying are among the blessings of mortality.