My dear dad turned 66 today. It got me to thinking about my roots and I got a little homesick. I called him up and he was on his lunch break at work. It is always nice to hear him. We didn't have a lot to talk about, but I let him go as I got a business call I couldn't put off. It was abrupt, but I felt good.
It also made me think about growing older. I know, middle age man concern, right? Well, there it was: a son going off to college, a Dad officially retirement age, my youngest staring puberty in the face; I didn't know what else to think. I mean, I still feel young, mostly. I certainly still act like a teenager from time-to-time. But I find myself more cynical, easier to irritate, less tolerant of others, my energy lacking, my interest waning. And there is that nagging feeling I am letting things slip by--time, opportunities, finances, health, my soul, etc. But, mostly, I know that my creative time clock is ticking. I know that most writers can write well into their seventies. I haven't even become established yet. Ahh. I can tell now I am just being a sucky-baby.
I will stop for now. And I will start doing something about it. What better day than today to make a change, right? Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.