“I ache in the places where I used to play.”

Leonard Cohen wrote that line decades ago, and while I am by no means a huge fan, I have a lot of respect for his art and perseverance.

Even though he was far younger than I am today when he sang it, that particular line drew me into the song. At first, I thought it was mostly about physical pain. Aching knees. Stiff back. Weakening eyes. Shoulders that once carried a load without complaint. There were many risks I took without hesitation. Physical demands I met without resistance. Then one day, I noticed that I was often negotiating with myself.

Can I really deliver this?
Should I take on that project?
Do I still have something to say?
Does anyone even care?

Today, I’m about ten years older than Cohen was when he wrote Tower of Song. But aging doesn’t always begin when you get old. For me, the onset of arthritis invited aging much sooner. Nowadays, I feel debilitating fatigue after a long day, and when I sit uncomfortably, even for just a few minutes, I’m reminded that sciatica never really heals.

And then there’s artistic ache.

The world accelerates. Tools change. AI now generates images, text, and music. I can either complain about it or learn to use it. I can either declare decline or adapt and attempt to evolve. The temptation to romanticize “how it used to be” is sometimes too strong.

Cohen didn’t romanticize.

He didn’t say he owned the Tower of Song. He said he was paying rent inside of it – just like all artists committed to their creative calling. Paying rent means showing up. Continuing. Accepting that being an artist isn’t a title – it’s a responsibility.

You owe it to the gift you have been given to create and to share.

I don’t get to live off yesterday’s work forever. I have to contribute, or see myself drift downward into abysmal obscurity. I choose to work. To revise. To adapt. To endure.

There’s quiet dignity in acceptance. In moving forward. Maybe not as a Shinkansen but as a steam-powered locomotive. Chugging somewhat steadily along, focused more on the here and now than on the past.

As I work on new books, refine writing, curate images, obsess over covers, and experiment with tools that didn’t exist two years ago, I recognize something: my aches haven’t stopped me. Instead, the pain has sharpened me and forced me to focus more on the really important stuff.

If that’s the rent I have to pay with age, I still feel solvent.

The image above is a self-portrait from the book New York City, available for order by clicking here.