It seems to follow me around from my mirror to my bath: the signs of seniority (but not senility yet, I hope). I am the cranky, uncooperative victim of the march of time. I keep thinking I should follow Dylan Thomas’s advice: Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Today (October 3) marks another milestone on that dreadful march: the marking of 82 years. Tomorrow begins the third year of my ninth decade. How does one make sense of having survived more than half of the twentieth century and almost one quarter of the twenty-first?

I started this post two weeks ago, but left it unfinished. I post it now just to put it out there. My thanks to all of you who sent me birthday greetings. And I’ll try to address my own question (above) later on.