Imbolc Valentine Moon
Over half done with the move. I can feel the new shape already fitting round my shoulders as I work. Volumes ready to hand. Ideas jumping from one to another with just a scan. A good feeling.
A bit achy but that seems to come with the 66th birthday. Talked to grandson Gabe, 4 and 1/2 tonight. He asked Kate how old she was. 68, she said. Wow. That’s really old Grandma. Oh, yeah. From the mouth’s of babes.
(Old Man with Beard, Rembrandt)
How old? So old that we’re going to a meeting tomorrow to talk with a women who is, as her book title says, New at Being Old. Us, too. This is a Woolly Mammoth gathering and we’re all of a certain age. Just which we’re not certain, but a certain age of that we’re sure.
When it comes to life, though, I feel gathered, present, neither old nor young, just here, ready to go, still. Epictetus had a depressing way to think of it: “You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.” Still, the soul or the self continues to grow and mature as the mansion begins to sag at the corners, a window or two popping out, new paint needed on the doors, tuck pointing here and there.
So, I feel as engaged, if not more, with my life and work as I have ever.
