Turning 65 sucks. A lot. Yes, I know and appreciate all the blessings I have in my life - a loving husband, three great kids, seven perfect grandchildren (their parents just did an eye-roll), life on a land full of wonder and beauty - but none of that prepares you for the day mortality slaps you in the face. That day, for me, is today. I am now a Medicare maven. I know that I will never be on the Voice. I will most likely never walk the road to Santiago. My calves will never again look rockin' in a pair of three-inch heels. The Grim Reaper may not visit me for another 20 years, but there is a reminder on my neck and in my knees that the last 20 years, the 20 before that, and the 20 before that have flown by like snowbirds in RVs on I-75 in November.
I have spent the last few months of winter contemplating this event and, I have to admit, not exactly taking it like a champ, but here's the thing. Today, on the actual day, I am strangely serene, not celebratory, but accepting of this speed bump in my journey as I have made it over every other bump in the road of my life. I have my loved ones, some lovely friends, my garden, and my writing. And even though there is snow on the ground this morning, the sun is shining. It will soon melt; eventually spring will be here, then summer and fall, the earth continuing to turn with comforting surety. It is in our Mother planet that I find the most assurance. After all, look how old she is, and yet how beautiful. There may be some hope for me yet - I have a great teacher.
Photo courtesty of NASA