I dreaded turning sixty. I dreaded it so much that I tried out different responses to ward it off—like lipstick colors for the desperate: red renunciation, violet veto, and ruby dark denial. Nothing worked. Sixty just kept on coming. For months before my birthday, I imagined a fire-breathing dragon lurking around the corner, waiting to singe off my eyebrows at the entry way to the inexorable downhill slide into that last third of life—a descent accompanied by smirky demons bearing images of medicine bottles, hearing aids, cataracts, sagging skin, and embarrassing forgetfulness.
But then I had an epiphany. A few days after I passed the dreaded threshold of 60 (eyebrows still intact), I walked along a summery tree-lined walking path in New Mexico—the cool shade blunting the full rays of the intense Southwestern sunshine. Could these lovely old trees, I wondered, offer some comfort or advice for a newly baptized 6-0 human being? After all, they were aged too, and they didn’t seem to mind. . . . .To read on click here 🙂