I’m 50 years old. A number I can barely fathom, though I’ve lived with it for almost three months now. More than half my life behind and still, inside, I often feel like a child.
The place I live is where I grew up, a small farm in central Maine. Seventy-five acres of field, pasture, orchard and woodland, mostly on the side of a hill, facing southeast. I am close to the earth. Nature is my life. Working fills my day and each day is much like the last: barn chores, farm work, vegetable and flower gardening, caring for animals, doing crafts, writing, and maintaining my online stores. This is a life I love and I’m fortunate to be my own boss. Too many years were spent being run by others.
Age brings much. Wisdom, supposedly. Joint pain. Insight. Changes and failures in a body once taken for granted. Patience. A vantage point to consider the past and the future. And little Lia. The thought of being a grandmother frightened me at first. How could I possibly be old enough? Now, after 16 months, it’s part of who I am.