Gifts of Age

Several years ago I visited a dermatologist to ask about some odd spots on my torso. She took a look and laughed. 

"Gifts of age," she said. "Nothing to worry about."

I think about this a lot these days. Growing deafness and wobbliness, along with the fact that it takes me so long to accomplish any physical task because my back reacts to any prolonged standing. Some gifts! I growl inwardly.

But on the other hand, there are some real gifts of age. The gift of time is one--time to read or paint or sit on the porch in the sun. 

And memory--a long life has given me an abundance of wonderful memories, and new ones continue to surface every day. If I'm wakeful at night, as occasionally happens, I revisit happy times gone by (if, of course, I can keep my mind off the monster and his enablers in DC.  You have voted, I hope.)

There are so many little joys to discover every day--a still-blooming rose, the elegant curve of a fallen leaf, a fire in the evening as the dark closes in, the cup of coffee John brings me . . .

 When I was writing the Elizabeth Goodweather books and going to conventions (Chicago! San Francisco! Baltimore!) and lots of book-related events, I had a lot of fun, met a lot of interesting folks, and enjoyed my brief time in the (moderate) spotlight. 

But here's the thing. I don't miss it at all. Aside from the fact that I'm no longer physically able to travel comfortably or (due to the deafness) do book events, the isolation of COVID (just when CROWS came out) showed me that there was life beyond writing and pushing books. 

And it's a good life.