five-five

Ho-ly-shit. I am fifty-five years old.

Fif-ty-five.

A month ago my best friend from high school posted a photo on Facebook of her birthday cake with two #5 candles burning on top.

I thought, “Is she older than I am?”

Fifty-five seems impossible. And yet, here I am.

The fact that my brother is looking down the pike at 60 makes 55 seems really old.

I don’t really feel my age – certainly not in my head. My brain actually seems to be regressing. I do feel old in my body. Ancient. I find myself groaning more often than not with any sort of movement like rolling over in bed or crossing one leg over the other.

My soul has a better sense of quietude at this age than ever before.

As I sit in the hammock, looking out over the greening pastures towards the Sleeping Ute, listening to the red-winged blackbirds and watching meadowlark sex, I think, “I wouldn’t wish to be at any other point in my life than this moment, right here, right now.

 

 

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