That said, even in the midst of uncomfortable, not easy things at the moment, I’m finding a contentment and gratitude within me. Simply being alive sparks gratitude within me more days than not. At the risk of sounding morbid, I often think about the length of years I have left. I’m not the kind of person who looks for happiness in the big things of life, but rather in the minutiae. One of my favourite words is quotidian.
Yesterday I told my grandson how the sky in winter is a shade of deep cerulean blue not found in summer. Spotting a tiny leaf or stone brings me joy. Sometimes, as I’m washing dishes, and through the open window the breeze floats across my sink, the smell of the dish soap convinces me for a moment that I’m washing dishes on a picnic table in a campground. It’s a visceral and not at all unpleasant thing.
Do we bloom only late in life? Or is it that we bloom again and again without realizing it?
~ Hope
2 comments:
I'm hoping we bloom more late in life... after years of feeling younger than my age, I suddenly, as I approach 50, feel older, tired, wrinkled, gray, unmotivated to try something new, even though I'm feeling stuck where I am. But this post is encouraging. I like the word quotidian too - more so since reading Kathleen Norris's Quotidian Mysteries long ago.
I enjoyed that book, too. It seems my bent is to enjoy the small things in life although I wonder if trauma has shaped that. Dreaming bigger seemed so futile.
If it’s of any encouragement, my life between 50 and 60 has been the most fruitful.
I’m taking a knitting class next month. Itching to do something creative. Hoping I don’t just gather wool and that’s it.
I’m working on accepting all that ageing brings physically. I wish my mouth hadn’t brought an upside down smile line on either side.
I don’t mind my grey hair although I didn’t experience ageism until I stopped dyeing my hair.
Maybe because my outer shell is not much in the looks department, I’m more aware of my inner beauty. That seems to be growing.
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