Last year, I traveled to Poland for an April wedding. What if it had been this year? Would Iceland’s ashes leave me stranded somewhere? Would I mind?
When you inch closer and closer to your sixties (me! I’m inching!), you think more comprehensively about what you did and where you’re heading. None of this piecemeal dissection that skins you of any self worth.
When biking home, I veered off the lake path, because I did not feel like climbing one more hill, I did not give it another thought. I’ll push myself, but only so much.
My mother wrote me a note this week, telling me that these years of mine – the upper fifties – are to be treasured. The glorious years.
I don’t remember them as being necessarily such for her, but I understand that she is writing from a vantage of looking back. That was me then... I was merely setting myself up for where I am now...
As I said, it’s a reflective week for me. A most pleasant week, too. A flowering week.
