I’ve spent a long time - decades - defining my worth and my self by the work I did.
It seems to me lately that there is so much more to my worth and self than photographs, drawings, words, things people bought that I offered for sale.
If this life of mine has any value at all, it rests in what I have given of my heart.
How well have I loved. Others, and my self.
When you take the time to slow down [or are forced to by circumstance], the things that are unimportant fall away, leaving some sort of beautiful skeleton made of what matters.
What matters is that I can love better.
I can garden more. More often stand in the sunlight of a still day, listening to the sound of the tui in the tree above.
I can have paid more attention to my heart, and others.
I can be kinder to myself. Ride myself far less harshly. Apply far less pressure.
I was 54 two days ago. I figure, if I’m very lucky, that I’m in the second half of my life.
I wonder if I can find the courage to love better.
I’d like to think so.