Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

The common agenda.

September 15, 2017

 

I hate that term, 'late bloomer.' Gah--it just implies that there's this set time by which we're all supposed to have flourished and, if not, then no worries, poor pet! We've still got time!

 

Lucky us. 

 

Please. Early springs happen. Late frosts. Early frosts. January thaw. 'Indian' summers. Blizzards that cancel Halloween. Nor'easters in April. This is all normal in the humongous, timeless grand scheme of things. Do you know how many 40, 50, 60, 70, 80+ year-olds I know who are, for the first time, happy? Or, their words, in the best shape of their lives? I hear it all the time in my work, and it's such a surprise to the individual; they'd thought themselves beyond happiness, too old to begin, too old to end.

 

I get that. I do. It's why I've removed myself from all pop culture, all television, all celebrity news, and anything not found on NPR, PBS, or a library book. I just don't have the energy for it. I'm older than I look. I'm determined to be okay with that. It takes more willpower to accept this journey than it does to begin something new, to return to something once loved and put aside. 

 

What makes you think there's an expiration date on happiness?

 

 

 

 

 

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