When do we lose our capacity for joy in the sun on our face, the feel of cool water on our bodies in summer, the wind shifting through the trees? What do we gain with age? Wisdom is something I suppose but wouldn't we all trade it in an instant for: joy in the sun on our face, happiness with the feel of cool water on our bodies in summer, fascination with the wind shifting through the trees?
I think of The Smiths: "You're older now, and you're a clever swine..."
I have been an arse most of my life. Overly romantic, overly idealistic, prone to bouts of depression, a lover of booze, opera and language. Eleanor is teaching me. I am a willing pupil.
