Connect the dots of decades with lines of learning. Ten is joyful, twenty smug, and thirty is simply learning to survive. Forty is a milestone mark of halfway there; turning round to understand the footprints on the trail. Fifty is a settling in, a declaration, last hurrah; fifty’s comfortable and worn with maps and baggage. Sixty is a stepping stone, a practice for the goal. Seventy’s full of comfort in a place and time. Eighty is a grace, a smile of memory, awe of future. Ninety is a waiting at the station for the hallelujah train.
We age because we need to; to replace the ones who leave and move ahead.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Like fine wine.
46, for me, is like realizing I’m 2/3 of the way down the road, and beginning to feel a bit panicky that I haven’t made better use of the last 23 years. The first 23 were another story, but the last 23 … well, I think I’ve let a fe of them slip by without getting the good juice out of them. Perhaps I’ll have some juicy years ahead.