Many of us are sad when we perceive the world changing.

Sure, the world in general is supposed to move, and that does not necessarily mean evolution.

There are historical cycles in which our society devolves at a rate that reminds me of a heavy raindrop on a rose petal. Suddenly, the droplet exists. Then it doesn’t.

Marcus Aurelius wrote in Meditations –

“If you pay close attention to each existing thing, you’ll see that it’s already in the process of disintegrating – that is, experiencing change and a kind of decay or dispersal – and that by its nature everything is born to die.”

Emperor Aurelius wasn’t only referring to sticks and stones, but work with me here because brick and mortar is more than such. It’s memories that embed in the walls, settle into the foundational thoughts as your time on the planet runs out.

One day, we’re civilized. Next, we’re attempting to kill a government official yet again. New York City, the one I hustled through and worked in daily three decades ago, was somewhat safe and clean. Today, it’s a Marxist, crime-laden cesspool. And you see, that bothers me on a deeper level because I can more easily relate to that world.

But the world has been here before, even if you haven’t.

Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t wish any president or official, regardless of party, to be harmed. It’s just relatable for me to go back to the smells, the weather, the sounds of a metropolis waking up in the wee hours of the morning as I hustled on foot every day from Penn Station to 200 Park Avenue, that’s all.

I lament over the death of my hometown on a regular basis. In weeks, I’ll give a fleeting thought to what happened at the White House correspondent dinner. Again, not because I advocate violence against any member of government. It’s just that my blood, sweat, and blisters take me back to the imperfect concrete arteries through which my spirit flows. Or flew, I guess.

It was a daily morning walk in a broken world. But it was MY world. The world as a kid where I’d wait anxiously for the ice cream truck, purchase a GI Joe from the local toy store, listen to music on 77 WABC, and deliver the Daily News to sleepy apartment complexes in the pre-dawn hours of Gravesend, Brooklyn.

When our personal worlds shift, especially the environs that shaped our childhoods, we tend to feel the sting of our own mortality. So, when the Good Humor truck has long rusted away, the toy store is dead, and Tony’s Pizza has long been replaced by some soulless facade for an Asian massage parlor, you begin to realize you’ll inevitably cease to exist, too, and there is indeed no happy ending.

In a minute we’re here. Then we’re not. And these changes to the world that thrive behind our eyes or in front of them as we go about our day, affect us in ways that national events don’t.

But then I got to thinking again, which is always trouble.

What if, as we age, we see things through a different lens?

Is the sky different now that you’re 50 vs. when you were 20?

What about the grass? The trees?

Look up.

What’s changed?

Perhaps you need to adjust your internal lens.

When I examine a building from my childhood, I shift my focus from the storefront to the infrastructure itself. The bricks. They’re the same. The windows pretty much what I recall. Even the doorways haven’t changed much. And that’s enough now to take me back to a time when my expectations for the future were high, clear, and much more idealistic.

Next time, when you focus on a blue sky and the white clouds, understand they haven’t changed at all. They just appear different to you because of the life experiences you’ve had so far, which have altered or warped your lens.

And there’s a sense of relief to what you’ll feel when you realize you’re just passing through. So enjoy the ride…

Call it a realignment.

An attitude adjustment.

An epiphany.

However you define it, it’ll be much easier to understand: You change with the world. Or against it. Sometimes there’s friction in the flow. Other times, you glide.

Regardless, enjoy the ride and be grateful you’re still the conductor on the train called life.

It’s never too late.