Tuesday, April 7, 2015


Early yesterday morning, as I walked outside with Prudy, I was greeted by a trio of birds enthusiastically singing a birthday greeting. Only a few hours before I had become sixty years old.

Like most people who make the turn into this new decade I cannot believe it's so.  How did we get so old?  My friends and I laugh and commiserate over the rapid passage of time, shaking our heads and insisting there must be some mistake.

But amidst the celebrations, cards, gifts and even jokes, I have noticed something lurking deep inside. It took me awhile to figure it out- I really wasn't feeling over-the-hill, in fact I feel pretty darn good, so why a bit of darkness, of anxiety?

The answer is that I sense, for the first time, the finiteness of life. Yes, of course we all know that we will die, but something about turning sixty has convinced me that my life really is finite. That's the idea that is causing me some problems, not the gray hair or occasional memory slips.  There's going to be an end.

My choices of how to make the most of my years are beckoning and weighing my heart down.  And now I must dig deeply into the accumulated wisdom from sixty years of my wonderful life.