December 22, 2019
I am still holding to the idea that for many people, including myself, one’s forties are the best time of life. My fifties were... difficult. A real mixed bag. Wonderful moments, terrible moments. They felt weirdly like my twenties in that they were years of confusion, disappointment, a sense of illusions falling away and fears for what stark realities might replace them. And here I am at sixty, trying to recover from a time of distressing emotional turmoil, and failing to recover from a chronic and deteriorating physical problem. I am not hopeful, but that is hardly a new development.