Via the New Yorker

Time to read.
This week's New Yorker, (June 2 & 16, 2014) was mine to mine today. No chores, husband doing the grocery shopping, no yard work to do. This article, about reading, sent me on a journey.
The Critics. Ghosts in the Stacks
Through it, I came across this meditation by Penelope Lively, on growing old.
So this is old age
If you have time, and you will need a half-hour or so, read it through. Her ruminations on aging are poignant, timeless, heart-breaking and life affirming
I am close to the "high C" of 60 (though I am likely to see 90, given my genes) and looking back on my life, my choices and examining the person I have become. We all have many varieties of who we are, as Sir Thomas Browne so eloquently explained.
What I thought about after a while was that it is so human to consider aging. The other creatures we share the planet with do not ponder this. They don't think, or perhaps aren't aware, of how quickly time passes.
When you are young, being old is a distant reality. When you are old, your youthful self is a faint shadow, and a layer, too, one of the many that make present you, you.
One thing I came away with, after reading Penelope Liveley's essay, was that it is a good thing to leave go of envious striving. I don't know about anybody else, but, that has been too much a part of my life.
As the edge of the plank gets closer, it seems to make more sense to appreciate, to enjoy, or maybe just to surrender, to you.