Long before I moved to a senior community, I happily gave advice to older friends and relatives. I seemed to know exactly what they should do. My list of what they needed to plan for, to investigate, to watch out for got longer and longer. Among the highlights: they needed to make sure that there was easily accessible public transportation, or better, that most of what was important in their lives was in walking distance. Definitely, they needed to be able to walk to the library, bank, church, grocery, health club, pharmacy, restaurants. At the time, I had lived in Brookline for over thirty years. When visitors from Virginia commented that I lived in an urban area, I was stunned, offended. Urban? Look at the trees. Boston is urban. Brookline is not.

Shortly after that visit, my friend Judi and I went apple picking in Littleton, and after filling the car with apples and jam and pies, we got lost. Everything looked the same: beautiful homes and properties, and trees, trees, and more trees. I remember saying, “Why would anyone live out here?” There didn’t seem to be enough roads, but there were also too many roads and they all looked the same. It was like being trapped in an episode of “The Twilight Zone.” I had the terrible certainty that I had been on these roads before, had gotten lost, and only found the Wayside Inn because of the kindness of strangers.

When the time came to make decisions in my own life, I was ready; I had my list in hand. Added to the list were names of continuing-care retirement communities Judi and I were interested in and the accompanying research. We visited one place: The Commons in Lincoln. From the first residents we met, to the light-filled living spaces, to the absolute sense of finding that place we belonged — we were home. We never looked at or considered another place to live. My list seemed irrelevant.

I was slow to realize that the little shopping center with a grocery store, an art store (at the time), a series of restaurants that come and go, a general gift store, and a bank and post office were “beautiful downtown Lincoln.” It took even longer for me to realize that public transportation in a small town is very different from what I was used to in Boston and Brookline. The Commons community is like a small perfect island, with highways lapping at its shoreline. Frequently, when telling people where I live, I use a different image and describe it as living in one of Agatha Christie’s charming villages, without the murders.

I happen to like the island image, but it’s not quite accurate. Many residents of The Commons are from this area; they moved from their homes, but they continue to support the activities of the area. Those of us who came from different states or other parts of Massachusetts have quickly adopted Lincoln and the surrounding communities as ours. Some of us volunteer at the food pantry in Acton, we support the St. Vincent de Paul food pantry in Lincoln, and many residents take classes at neighboring senior centers and are active members in the Lexington Art Association or other local groups. Several belong to both The Commons book club and their old neighborhood club. Long-time Lincoln residents like to lord it over the rest of us by pronouncing that things are or are not “the Lincoln way.” We take an odd pleasure in the banner strung across the road announcing tTown Meeting and even more pleasure in the unwieldy meeting itself. Why would I want to live anywhere else, with any other group of people?

I like to walk and look at everything. There was a time when the usual walk started at Boston Harbor and ended a few blocks beyond Coolidge Corner in Brookline. Now my pleasure is walking the bike path across from Codman Farm. I puzzle over what crops have been planted, look across at the alpaca and the chickens, guarded by a dog whose name I always forget.

Judi rhapsodizes about hiking and has walking sticks to prove her interest. I am not there yet. She calls it “forest bathing”; I think of it as mindful walking. Meanwhile, I am working towards the point where I will be able to hike the October Farm loop or the Farrar Pond trail or the Hapgood Wright forest trail (no disrespect to tried and true old favorites Walden Pond and Mount Misery).

If anything gave me an insight into the spirit of this lovely place I persist in calling “the frontier,” it is the Scarecrow 10K race in October, the Turkey Trot in November, and the Fourth of July race on what always seems the hottest day of the summer. Everybody in Lincoln and the surrounding communities seems to show up. They run, walk, push baby carriages and strollers, clutch dog leashes, or hoist a toddler on strong shoulders, and they all have a glorious day. At almost every time of the year there are bikers, roller skaters, snowshoers, hikers, and runners on the roads and on the trails. If they are not on the roads and trails, they’re on the water, canoeing or kayaking the rivers and ponds. Land is respected, conserved, and sacred.

What can I say? I have not abandoned the theater or the symphony or going to restaurants and museums. If anything, my attendance has expanded because I live in a community that arranges my coming and going. How else would I have visited a museum in New Hampshire one week, gone to the theater and dinner in Concord another week, and finished the month with the Gardner Museum in Boston?

I still go into Brookline to buy bread at the Clear Flour Bakery and stop into When Pigs Fly, even though I am torn between Iggy’s baguettes from Watertown and the sourdough rounds of bread at the Nashoba Bakery in West Concord. And I confess I have succumbed to the food snobbery of my new home. I know the name of the corn I buy; I know the fields where it was planted and grown. I also understand why Flint Farm has a table where corn that is a day old is placed to be given away. I know that we rarely buy tomatoes in the supermarket. We drive to Verrill Farm or end up at Idlewilde. Who knew? Finally (almost), who can resist Lincoln Cemetery? Our pastor referred to it as “Lincolnesque.” When we mentioned that we had bought a plot, fellow residents claimed they were our neighbors and their plots were close by. We all ended up going there and sitting on convenient boulders and benches. Talk about forest bathing and mindfulness.

I am a long way from my list. But it is never too late to become wise.

Marie-Therese Marzullo