I turned 62 last month.
Birthdays used to send me into fixing mode. The list of what to improve. What I’d finally get serious about.
This year I took off for the woods with my first cup of coffee. Bare feet on the cold ground, the mug warm in both hands.
I stood there reflecting.
Instead of what’s wrong with me, or what goals I should set, I asked myself what was still possible.
I was determined to get under the small stuff. The next income stream. The same old five pounds.
I wanted to go somewhere bigger. The place that makes me sweat. The idea I keep hidden.
And I found it. My chest tightened. My breath quickened. That’s what happens when I get close to the truth.
So I stayed with it.
I kept asking. I let my imagination go wild.
What is possible for me at 62.
The answers came through softly.
Different now than at 52 or 42.
Quieter and deeper.
Fiercer than I expected.
And they are mine.
You have answers like that too.
Maybe it’s been a while since you asked.
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