On Turning Seventy

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If some sublime words of wisdom are on cue here, they're not forthcoming. I'm bewildered by this number, and how I got here, because year by year doesn't seem possible. But, as my teenager at home said, "there's no other way, dad. You got to seventy the same way everyone does, it's cool!"

My son cannot know this almost vaporous feeling of decades passing, years dissolving like honey in my coffee, and the deceptive pace of daily life in all its sundry detail, time goes both fast and slow, endless days, weeks that flip by like stray afterthoughts, and months tearing pages off the calendar almost as a casual, forgotten gesture.

My gratitude, I must find it again each day, to recall and resume a journey that never reveals the path too soon, never a clue about direction, only some unnamed but determined force that holds the faith of tomorrow's fate.

Time is an invisible fabric of thought, much like a quilt, patched from event to event, milestones sewn into the pattern, as if a mighty Creator designs it all.

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