When I was 40, and 45, and even 50, I used to think about life as ending at 60. Beyond 60 was a kind of hinterland that I had no thought to consider. Living beyond was a blank.
But now, just two and a half years away from 60, I’m peering into a distance that is no more far flung. I stand at a frontier and I’m watchful.
In this navigation-less journey, I have no way of assessing how far I’ve come, nor how far I’m meant to go. Go where?
Of late, I’ve been mesmerised and appalled, watching myself in a continual rush. Rushing to get to the office in the morning, rushing to deal with stuff required to meet deadlines, steeling myself against the onslaught of every day dramas that arise because they do. Rushing home at night, tired, sometimes drained, not to relax and rejuvenate, but simply to feed and wash and sleep. Where am I rushing to?
I stand at the frontier, and I’m watchful.