Reminds me of the old Indian/Hindu ordering of life: from birth to 25 is a time of learning and of taking from the world; from 25-50 is a time for expressing yourself/participating fully in life, to benefit yourself and your family (i.e. accumulating) and the world (i.e. producing); from 50-75 is a time for giving back, through sharing your goods and wisdom and experience and passing them on to the next generation; and if you're fortunate enough to live past 75, all your obligations to the world are done, and you can wander off into the woods (metaphorically or literally) to commune with god and with Self, in preparation for the transition to the beyond.
Makes a lot of sense; and it certainly beats wandering around in your late 40s and 50s wishing you were at another stage of life and thereby missing the meaning and value of the one you're actually living. Or as Camus said (I think): The only sin a man can commit is one against his own nature.
Excellent! I've never heard that division of the ages. I'll try to keep it in mind as I make my way through Shakespeare's stages (no pun intended!):
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
It's always hard to live in the present -- isn't it? (It is, for me -- though I'm getting better at it ... perhaps the ONLY thing I'm getting better at! [Every emoticon ever conceived, omitted.])