Sometimes... it seems like I'm feeling my way into *old age*... slowly, cautiously, but with optimistic trepidation?
This particular blog I've decided to concentrate wholly on things pertaining to old age and retirement - my old age and retirement. I decided to call it "my mulberry days" - a peaceful serene bittersweet time of life - similar to the old BBC Series that you can still find on PBS.
I also thought of calling it, "my days of wine and roses" - but decided that wasn't really appropriate since I can't drink wine due to my migraines and although I like roses (especially the very light pink old world ones), roses aren't my favorite flower (daisies and sunflowers are).
And don't get me wrong, I do like Texas... a lot... but there's something about the peace that comes living by the water (unless there's a storm - but even that has a majesty about it.)
On another subject entirely - do you dream? I dream a lot - always have. But lately my dreams are less serene and more confrontational? And I don't know why. Maybe because my actual life in not confrontational, that my dreams are - possibly to find some sort of balance? None of them ever relate (to my knowledge) to anything actually going on - except possibly TV episodes that almost all involve conflict (Sensible solution: stop watching TV at night?). Does age make one more susceptible to emotion?
I think age tends to make us more sentimental... family and friends more dear. There's a poem about this...
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer;
The headstones thicken along the way;
And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger
For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower;
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower,
And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world are truer,
And the better things of earth seem best,
And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer,
And love is all as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
And let us speak softly in low sweet tone,
For no man knows on the morrow whether
we two pass on - or but one alone.
- Ella Wheeler Wilcox