I grew up in a small town in New Jersey back when close community was the norm and when people became old, they were still very much a part of that community in their own ways. “Old Mr. Barton” was the kindly man with a cane. He’d walk to town slowly two or three times a week, occasionally patting us on the head in passing. “Old Mrs. Wheaton” was the woman down the block who yelled at us when we ran across her lawn, but still invited us in for hot chocolate when we came back from sledding. Both Mr. Barton and Mrs. Wheaton lived alone when I knew them — and both wound down slowly, eventually disappearing from view. And then one day, they simply were no more. That was how it worked then.

But the newer American edict is to “do till you die.” And that seems to apply to everyone. Today Mrs. Wheaton would be jogging to the gym as she yelled and Mr. Barton would have an electric scooter so he could “zoom” to his appointments — without enough time for head patting. Surrounded by an increasingly frenetic pace from the day we’re born, we are urged to participate and activate until we are so frail that we move to a nursing home, hospital or simply breathe our last breath. After all, isn’t “doing” what life is all about?

Maybe not. And maybe the Vineyard is one of the places where we still have the choice of opting out to try something else.

Of course, life on Martha’s Vineyard can be hectic. (Even the thought of summer is exempt from what I write here.) Our vibrant community assures that there are plenty of options for staying active if we choose. But what still exists here at times has become an increasing rarity elsewhere: The opportunity to be quiet and stay slow.

At sixty, I am getting closer to old. And lately, I’ve found myself “opting out” of activities that I would have eagerly attended even five years ago. Choosing to stay home quietly and happily in my own nest. The opting out is not about fatigue or inability, it is about choice. I sometimes find myself happier to simply be with and by myself. I am still very involved in community but also realizing that I have had a full, active and, thankfully, very interesting life and that “doing” is no longer all I need to do. Perhaps it is time to consider the next part. And while I can sense what that might be, I am trying to define it consciously.

There used to be elders among us in all traditions, best known in this country in the Native-American tradition. The tradition still exists among the Wampanoag — when referring to certain Aquinnah residents some people will add “Elder” to those names. Elders are unashamedly old people who have lived full lives and know what they have learned from them. One honored position is that of the elders who have realized it is time to sit still, so as to better digest their lives, assemble their considerable emotional knowledge — what can be called wisdom — and perhaps, if asked, help the next generation to make wiser decisions.

Aspiring to that kind of elderhood isn’t for everyone. And sitting still in a culture where we are constantly urged to act is in itself an act that takes some doing. But I am finding that at my age, and on this Island, it is getting easier to do. Not having the standard American temptations of a nearby mall, highway, and the easy opportunity to escape my environment, becomes a blessing of sort. At the same time, the beauty of our Island environment is a natural tool of contemplation.

And so, instead of going to an “event,” I choose to stay home. Instead of adding another cause to my existing list, I sometimes decide to sit and I digest. Make no mistake, I love this community, but I am also growing to love just being, growing to love the solitude — a prerogative of the elderly that was once allowed and respected. (I can also tell that balancing community and my new found desire for solitude will take some effort. Solitude without awareness is isolation — ­another epidemic of our times and a well-known one among the elderly.)

And what am I ‘digesting’ in this solitude? It seems a whole new world awaits. I’ve heard people say that one of the blessings of getting old is not caring what others think about you. That it becomes easier to recognize, accept, and express who you really are. What do I truly like? Dislike? What is the difference between what I say I believe and what I do? How authentic am I — with myself and others?

What is the difference between my being authentic and being wise? When I am in a difficult situation, where does wisdom lie and how would a wise person act? I have lifetimes to go before I can call myself wise, but I am finding that the examined life now has even more to offer. And our small community provides lots of chances to practice, where my chosen pursuit of fewer distractions gives me more opportunity to consider my actions, and re-actions. Best of all, as I grow old, it becomes more acceptable to me to create the time and space for doing that work. The work of “being” before “doing.”

As I finished this piece I found myself watching someone who had already figured this out and seconded my conclusions. I recently brought a new kitten into my home. She tears around the house, races up and down the stairs and greets me each morning in energetic and eager anticipation of the infinite span of life before her. My other cat, an increasingly sedate 13-year-old, and until now the sole feline resident, has learned from her presence that his time is moving on and hers is just beginning. She pounces and tries to tussle with him. He stands quietly and has grown to tolerate affectionately. Occasionally when he sees her yearning is strong enough he swings a paw gently enough for it to seem like play in her eyes. He is a large, imposing cat; I watch him gauge how far back he should pull so as not to do her damage. When she is too rough, he hisses once — the old man saying “Enough! Stop now! I’m tired.” But I see neither desire nor anger in his eyes or actions, just the knowledge that she is young and wants nothing more than to engage life. And he, the wise elder, past his years of play, has no need to do anything but sit still and gently guide her.

Niki Patton of West Tisbury, is a contributor to Martha’s Vineyard Magazine. She has lived on the Vineyard for 17 years.