Crossing The Wild Water

Age gets a bad name generally, but I’ve found it’s only with seventy years behind me that life finally starts making sense.

The fog lifts, the patterns settle, and I can look back without flinching or guessing.

I’ve crossed enough rivers now,  the calm ones, the furious ones, the ones with cracked bridges hanging over white water and hard rocks waiting beneath.

Now I begin to understand their currents, and I realise those rivers weren’t there to stop me. They were there to teach me how to keep going.