Self at Forty-Two

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My life has a small orbit, but a sweet one. At forty-two I feel more centered and calm than I used to. My wife says that one of the great benefits of aging is the mellowing out of our emotional storms, and I have to agree with her there. I still have plenty of rough edges, blind spots, and places on the map marked "Beyond Here Be Dragons," but for the most part I'm doing well. I got a good job, a house, money in the bank. Better, I have someone to share it all with. The central fact of my life, the core of it, is my marriage and parenthood. Everything fits together nicely now, though, nothing is in conflict with itself.

Ah, but I still sit in the little puddle and make my own waves.

Still crazy enough to do that.

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I got art in my eyes and fingertips and sparks flying across the synapses in my dark brain. I got writing and reading. I got a strong back and hard hands and two legs to stand on. I got a sweet spot. I got a bitter one.


I have more than I ever dreamed I'd have.




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I am dumbfounded by the munificence of this universe,
and humbled, and grateful.


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