THE GRACE OF ELDERHOOD

Time is kidding, of course; I'm not 65, except in mere years, or maybe when caught by surprise in the mirror, but then only in the morning or when I try to look serious about being my age, as in a passport photo. Tilt that head, crook that brow.

Otherwise I look just as I please and do just as I please, only more wisely, more richly now in every respect (excepting all-out gymnastics, which are more considerately done) than when I was a mere stripling unfamiliar with the wide, deep world I was racing through on my way to the life-richness I am presently savoring (sort of as fine wine in contrast to cherry coke).

At my new age it's a miracle to me that I am being afforded this grand perspective of life's shoreless ocean, while no longer needing to expend any of the outrageous physical costs I wantonly spent in the rush to get here. So impetuous an expenditure it was, in fact, that at this far retrospect I stand amazed by all that has carried me this far without a creaking joint to my name.

But then youth, in the nature of vigorous haste, always underlooks the full extent of life; the grace of elderhood is to perceive at last the full breadth and depth of life becoming.