Some thoughts about 50

Being 50 means having a granddaughter!

Being 50 means having a granddaughter!

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.


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