There’s a melancholy to the graying years. Not so much regrets as rolling memories of searching time ; misguided “truths”, hedonistic need. With the aches and pains of age comes the awareness of roads that we banged along, breakneck, striving for some unseen goal when the whole time it lay within us.
We needed only get out of the way. I am grateful that even then, at least I could feel the warm sun, hear the roar of the ocean, lean into the wind and know those moments with mindfulness like a soul photograph filed away so that I can gaze at the “album” now.
I feel the presence of my sons and know they are moving through the universe a bit more sight full than did I. I have shown them the “album of life”, time and again. I have sought to explain the scars and revealed my heart to them in the hopes that maybe they could sometimes rest in truth.
Maybe they could pause to see the fabric of the universe and know the thread that weaves it all is love. Maybe they can see that violence is a poor tool that we use trying to repair our fear.