There’s a phrase, keeping it together, which applies to my life. I have a hard time doing it. Some people seem to be built like walls, brick and mortar, everything in place. I, however, feel like a loose accretion of rocks and gravel. Bits falling off, dust trailing behind, nothing stuck anywhere that will stick for long. It means that when I think I’ve got it all together something is likely to fall off.

Several months ago, I had a small get together at my house. To decorate, I bought cut flowers, put them in a vase, and set them on the island in my kitchen. My guests enjoyed them. Afterwards, I left them out until they started to wilt. Then I decided to replace them. I’ve had cut flowers on my island in my kitchen every day since then.

I wish, in my youth, that someone would have taught me how to do crossword puzzles. I think it might have helped me learn the art of patience and quiet thinking. My late wife did them, but I don’t know how she came to the practice, or what pleasure it brought here. I needed a mentor to make the suggestion then teach me the art.

I watched an ant walk the length of a table the other day. On his way to somewhere to do something, most likely look for food. But there’s no telling what his journey was about. He was just a tiny being, walking in his world, unaware of me or my world. And while I sat in a community of friends listening to music, I wondered about his community of friends. Did they miss him? Would they even know if he never came back?

I did a good thing yesterday. I got peeved and kept it to myself. That feels like progress. Although, since making the decision last November to stop talking about my pet peeves, I’m fairly certain I still talk about them on occasion. I likely unload on my friends and family, without much thought, whenever one of my pets rears its head. I guess old habits die hard.

I spent Saturday in the company of friends. Friends from the old times, the old days. From the time when life was young and tomorrow was an endless stretch of days.

As a young man, pulling on your pants one leg at a time is no big deal. As an older man it’s a test of agility and technique. Several weeks back I thought I’d forgotten how to do it.

Less than a month ago, I said I needed to stop thinking and talking about my age, that it was just a data point. But I’ve decided as data points go, it’s a fairly significant one, and it might be the thing I need to talk about. After all, this blog, through the twelve years of its existence has largely been about my journey, from Houston to the Hill Country, through a life with dementia, and life after dementia. Life and death. Nature. So, aging feels a part of that. It’s a stage in my journey.

Green has never been my color except it’s the color of money and the color of nature and both of those are big pluses. Unfortunately, I’ve had more exposure to the latter than the former, especially now that I never really see a dollar. Who among us actually handles money these days. It’s more of a concept than a real thing. But I can’t say I miss standing in line to deposit a paycheck. It’s nice to have the funds magically appear.

I think finding my way back to books has had a material effect on my sleep. The 3 a.m wake-up still comes but not with a rush that truly wakes me. I simply roll over and go back to sleep, and when I am awake, I look for any excuse to sit down with the book and get on with the story. And if you’re curious as to story, it’s the Dungeon Crawler Carl series. I’m on book three. There are eight books, with more planned. I’m not sure how far I’ll get but we’ll see how it goes.

Movie time. Watched two films recently. The fourth John Wick installment, and One Battle After Another. Mr. Wick has now killed approximately 439 people in those four movies. Someone calculated that’s a kill roughly every 1 minute and 11 seconds on average. I found it less entertaining this time around. Plus, he’s taken an astonishing number of falls to little affect. I guess the Baba Jaga is immune to the laws of physics.

I’m binging on books, the paper kind I can hold in my hand as I try to get the light just so as I read. I want to break my fixation with my phone and digital media. I want to work at getting information into my brain rather than having it pushed at me like an IV. I want to read the back cover, see a paragraph about the author, a summary of the text, and assess its worthiness for consumption. I want to sit when I’m done and consider what I just read.

The world is the world, and these days almost everyone shops online. It’s easy. It’s convenient. It’s mostly cheaper. And there are infinitely more choices. I do it as well. But generally speaking, I like going to stores, picking up the goods, looking at them, getting a feel for the product, and talking to the clerks. Plus, it’s nice to have someone thank you when you check out. Of course, there’s a cost.

A storm blew in last night and I slept right through it. That’s a good sign, I think. Plus, nearly an inch of rain fell, and I know that’s a good sign. Of course, I’m not real sure what to do with all those good signs. I guess just be happy, and seems relatively easy, which is another good sign. So, off we go, happy to have rain and good night’s sleep.

I had a thought. Some people I know run when I say that, but I have them, thoughts, and I can’t stop. Here it is. The thought. I’m spending too much time thinking and talking about my age. Age isn’t a thing. It’s a data point. Granted, I’m approaching eighty and only about three percent of the US is there, but it’s still just a number, and I need to remember that. I always did before and I need to start doing it again.

I had a nice grandpa week. Got to spend time with the newest grandson, barely eight weeks old. He smiled when I held him, but it might have been gas. I think babies and old men have the same constitution. We like to sleep, be fed, and be rocked. And some of us, if we’re unlucky, need our diapers changed. Maybe my time will come. Who knows. A bridge to be crossed.

I mostly feel rootless. Like mosses or liverworts. I drift along on the surface of wherever I am, perfectly content to be there while actually being nowhere. Today I’m in Virginia. And I could live here. Easily. But then again, I could live in Big Bend, or Taos, or London, or New York, or the Black Hills. They’re all places I’ve been and all places where I felt comfortable once there. Of course, being rootless means I’d never stay. But why should that stop me from living somewhere?

I stepped back into my past yesterday. It went better than expected. Most the past was still there visible through the vibrant new schools built on and in the shell of the old. In 1960 I was in the first class of a new minor seminary just outside Richmond Virginia. I lasted two years. I think the seminary lasted about fifteen. These days the grounds are home to two college prep schools.

My first experience with the new assigned seating on Southwest Airlines felt successful. I liked picking my seat in advance and knowing that it would be waiting for me no matter how long it took to board. Although I’m not sure what it bodes for the airline’s future because now they’re just like every other carrier. They’re still the affordable alternative, but it’s going to be hard to keep prices low with fuel costs soaring. I wish them luck.

Spent an evening last Saturday in the company of a group of young musicians. They were contestants in a contest, but it was hard to tell from the laughter and overflowing camaraderie the winners from losers. They were simply musicians. Young. Full of life. Little fountains of potential. There were libations and a good fire, so they sat around and sang to one another late into the night.