The older I get the more I have to say, and the less I tend to speak. More often, I conjure. I soak in the situation and I digest it. I think plenty and form opinions based on years of living, but usually find myself just taking it in, my verbal switch muted. This is my experience, not easily understood by others perhaps, and why would they care? Why should I care? But I do, I assure you. My heart is full. I feel more than ever. I care more than ever. I just say less, and paint more.
My thoughts these days, and my actions, are not based on an urgency to succeed. They are based on living life with quality and purpose. I am diligent, perhaps selfish, in assuring that for myself, because I want to be. I have little patience for the things that detract from that goal, as any human being should. Suffering abounds in any demographic, socioeconomic, or logistic pocket you happen to be in. So does happiness. So does hope. Sometimes it escapes us, and sometimes it is scarce. Still, we choose it. There are influences everywhere. Some scream louder than others. These days, I listen more than I speak, and I hear more than I say.
My easel lures me every day, and my soul follows. My words seem lost as of late, but it is not for a lack of feeling and contemplation. I long for poetry and beauty, and all things passionate. I see them more easily, and I absorb them more fully. The process of expression seems slower, and the outcome is sometimes just a bit sweeter.
Slower, softer, and sweetness more refined. Perhaps this is 50. Happy birthday to me. Lucky duck.