On August 25, 1938, 82 years ago, I entered this life. Is it really possible I’ve lived this long? Like one of my friends, I look at old photos and think the dates must be wrong; these events recorded on film seem more recent, more like they happened 20 years ago instead of 40. Like my college graduation in 1960. Surely, it was much later than that.
My calculations tell me that I am most fortunate to have been allowed time to meet so many friends, to accomplish so many tasks, to love so many experiences and people. With all that said, I yearn to make the final years, how many they might be, some of the most fulfilling yet. How to do that is the challenge.
One of my ideas is to re-set the clock mentally. Maybe those numbers I focused on in my opening are just that, simply numbers. As such, they feel like limitations. So, what if I pretend I don’t know how many years have passed, that I rise each morning disregarding my existing definitions of time. Wouldn’t this allow me to be less cautious, more adventuresome? What if those heady cautions about acting my age, being careful weren’t there? What if I behaved like I really felt on any given day instead of worrying about what mishap may befall me should I take a spill or put myself in an embarrassing class situation with 30-year-olds? What if it all turned out to be wonderful?
I find myself in an enviable position with few serious limitations, so what am I waiting for? Permission? Okay, I’ve got it!