HAPPY CHRISTMAS

 

Opening my mouth

 I feel my life has grown small since Rob's death. I have not published many words as I don't want to share my grief, my anger, my confusion. 

Marlene, dear friend, mentor invited me into her wild women writing circle. I wanted to join and yet I was frightened. Sometimes what comes out of my pen onto the page is too raw, too childlike, and I'm embarrassed. And I feel ridiculous that I am embarrassed. I have regressed and donned my solid coat of armour. 

The writing circle - women from around the world - excites me, inspires me, calms me. I am beginning to feel that I belong. Several weeks ago, the topic was poetry. I am not a poet. I chose the easiest form, the Elfchen or Elevensie. First line has one word, second has two, third thas three, fourth has four, and fifth has one. 

Mouth

Grows rusty

Fear robs voice

Leading a small life

Sob

Mouth

Rust forming

Frog croaking angrily

Is escape even possible

Hell

Mouth 

Sweet lips

Refusing to open

Fear has frozen words

Help

Frog

In throat

Refuses to leave

Mouth slowly forced open

Escape

Rust

Corrodes jaw

Jaw needs oil

Oil squirted between lips

Freedom

Mouth 

Grows rusty

Silent too long

Life becomes more difficult

Speak

I am not impressed by the above but when we split into pairs and I read, the other woman laughed and said you have to read these. "They're funny."  (I wasn't trying for humour but I was the first to read - otherwise I might have chickened out.  

Towards the end of the session, one sweet woman said that this is what she's here for - to hear other women's voices. 

Paris for Spring 2026

I wrote a summary of Paris for the store and posted on FB

 I returned to Paris first week in October with my sister Gael, photographer extraordinaire, to explore what's new and exciting for next spring and summer. As tiring as it is, Fashion Week is also pure pleasure, especially as LeslieJane believes in slow fashion and insists on filling the store with original creations from small ateliers. 

We visited the Palais  Brongniart and Tuileries Garden - beautiful spaces in their own right but for one week, they house an exclusive number of new designers.  We also walked the streets to storefronts and showrooms of those designers we have come to trust.

Be prepared for colour, vibrant colour, from such designers as Barbara Lang, Manuelle Guibal, La Fee Parisienne, and Epice. If you love orange like I love orange or rich green in its many variants, or blue too from baby to navy, they're the premiere colours for spring. 

Our Japanese designers - Vlas Bloome and Guptiha - offer a softer subtler range of colour in linen, cotton, and silk fabrics - so meticulously woven and constructed I consider them works of art.

My personal desire is to be a wilder and bolder. I want to mix and match and clash colour and pattern and designer.

I loved the film "Midnight in Paris" where many of the literary and artistic figures of bygone days came to life. I love how today's Parisienne woman tie a scarve and swing a bag, looking so put-together and confident.

I would like to say a special thanks to my sister who lent her eyes and enthusiasm to yet another Paris adventure.

Happy Birthday, Gill

 

Gilly, born 40 years plus 3 days after her papa, is a beauty who loves to dress up or down (sometimes to her father's chagrin) but she is unashamed, fierce and proud. Most important - to me - she is super smart, loyal, generous and loves with her whole heart. She loves me with a love that I sometimes think that I don't deserve but, perhaps I do. Like me, she is vulnerably human with an equal measure of sassiness. Thank the heavens, she has her father's sense of humour, his love of music and cooking, travel and so much more. She is my sunshine.

Happy Birthday, my precious daughter

The Wild Zone

 I am waiting for myself. I am waiting for something, some place to reveal itself where I can be me, a singular me, brave and free, wild - how I love this word - untamed, feminine, a woman of a certain age. I will not claim wisdom or experience. 

I have had my bursts of wildness and they have been exhilarating and terrifying. I felt as if I was jumping into a void, not knowing where I would land. I want another burst. Will I land on soft or hard ground, into light or dark? I wish for some beautiful place, an Oz of sorts - bright flowers, gold and gold dust, diamonds and pearls, emeralds and rubies everywhere - a walk down the yellow brick road. Fanciful. I do not want to think of a cold, dark, horrible space with growls and roars where I might be some beast's dinner. The only beast that I want to hear roar is me, without reserve, I'd like to do a little dance, without inhibition because at my age, I don't want to give a fuck. Yet, I don't want to offend anyone (or so I think at this moment). 

I want another wild person to mirror me, encourage me, challenge me. I want to soar, fly without measuring distance. I do not want to be careful. I do not want to feel obligated. I want to be kind. I want those I love to know that I love them. I want to be original, not a copycat. I want to love what I am doing, no holding back, no embarassment, just a wonderful acceptance of self, a permission to be.

How do I begin? I have already begun. I don't want to think that I'm at death's door - that's how I've been feeling for the last two years but enough is enough. I don't want to spend the rest of my life preparing for death. I want to move a little quicker. I want to magically be able to sing and not told to shut my mouth. I want to do something, more than one thing, that I've never done before. I want more fresh air, more sunshine, more art. I would like to sweep in front of my house. I would like to cook better meals for myself. I would like to ask more questions.

Am I asking for too much? I will not apologize. 

My life

 “I have been increasingly conscious, for the last 10 years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate — the genetic and neural fate — of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

“I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”—Oliver Sacks.

I am filled with gratitude. I had an operation yesterday for my hernia. It was a little scary - all the protocol at the hospital - but everyone was so kind, especially the male nurse who put the needle in my hand and the anaesthetist who said he was putting the potion in the tube and a mask on my face. Breathe deeply, he instructed. I disappeared on the fourth breath and woke up in the recovery room. Soon after, I was wheeled back to my little room where Brendan was waiting. I faded in and out of consciousness until I was told that I could dress and go home. Voila. I can see the tiny scar above my navel. No bump. It's been tucked back in place. 

I had a restless sleep but am told that it is the result of the anaesthetic. I don't mind. The feared operation is over and now I can get on with my life. Fingers crossed. 

I've fallen in love with PÁDRAIG Ó TUAMA. This poem is called "Facts of Life":

That you were born/ and you will die.

That you will sometimes love enough/ and sometimes not.

That you will lie/ if only to yourself.

That you will get tired.

That you will learn most from the situations/ you did not choose.

That there will be some things that move you/ more than you can say.

That you will live/ that you must be loved.

That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of/ your attention.

That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg/ of two people who once were strangers/ and may well still be.

That life isn’t fair.

That life is sometimes good/ and sometimes better than good.

That life is often not so good.

That life is real/ and if you can survive it, well,/ survive it well

with love/ and art/ and meaning given/ where meaning’s scarce.

That you will learn to live with regret./ That you will learn to live with respect.

That the structures that constrict you/ may not be permanently constraining.

That you will probably be okay.

That you must accept change/ before you die/ but you will die anyway.

So you might as well live

and you might as well love.

You might as well love.

You might as well love.

Experience the Impossible

I must look old as strangers offer to help me with my suitcase and rise to give me their seat on public transportation, but in my mind, I am young. Yes, I tire more easily and don't climb ladders. I cannot lift heavy objects and my fingers, affected slightly by arthritis, cannot open tightly sealed jars. Still, I do not feel decrepit.  

A quote by Albert Camus that I like:

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. Inside this aging body is a heart still as curious, still as hungry, still as full of longing as it was in youth.... Never stop your goals and dreams. Travel to the places you dreamed of. Experience the impossible.

Rob's tragic fall taught me that time should not be taken for granted. It's precious. So precious. 

I watched two TED talks recently that are significant to me - more on this shortly.

https://www.ted.com/talks/alua_arthur_why_thinking_about_death_helps_you_live_a_better_life

https://www.ted.com/talks/katrina_spade_when_i_die_recompose_me

I am scattered, trying to find my way. 

"You must go in quest of yourself, and you will find yourself again only in the simple and forgotten things. Why not go into the forest for a time, literally? Sometimes a tree tells you more than can be read in books… "    —Carl Jung

Yesterday, I took Sebastian to Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park (London) for a forest camp. The park is wild and beautiful albeit eerie - like a scary setting in a Halloween movie - and reminds me once again of my mortality. 

And yet I feel content and so lucky to lead the life I'm leading. I flew from San Francisco to London a few days ago after spending time with my daughter and getting to know my youngest grandson. Six months after my last visit, he talks in complete sentences and we can communicate. He is one smart cookie with a mind of his own, and being two issues an emphatic "no" often. Gill is a gentle mother and only stern with Wilder when it is absolutely necessary. 

I love my daughter and she loves me and cannot imagine the world without me. 

 

I apologize. This once again is a simple blog. I spent a few days with Seb, my middle grandson - another charmer with a mind of his own - and Brendan and Jane who are dear to my heart too, and I have just repacked my suitcase to begin the trek back to France. This time, I am hitching a ride with a friend. We will take an overnight ferry and then drive for hours. 

Seaside, California

 

                                                                                             
 

I am slowly finding the rhythm of Gill's family - at times frantic and how can it not be with a curious two+ year old here, there, and everywhere? He is the apple of his parents' eyes, and is so damn cute that the world is his oyster, gaining smiles wherever he goes. He is also a handful with a mind of his own and when I'm in charge, he needs my full attention to keep him safe.

I observe my daughter. She is a good mother, wife, daughter, wellness coach and business owner. A whirlwind. I would like her to slow down but she cannot so I've been doing what I can to help but it seems like too little and it's making me anxious.

This week Wilder's schedule changes. He is in daycare four days a week so I should have time to complete what I need to do in regards to my own life and finances. I need help but I think I need to wait until I am in Vancouver and can talk to my accountant and bank people. 

I am weary of travel and yet I catch so many glimpses of beauty that I don't want to stop. I have to glue myself to a chair wherever I am and plan so I am not so scattered and have more interesting thoughts.  

Saatchi Gallery, London

The main exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery is about flowers as they are an integral part of our lives. We have flowers decorate at weddings and funerals. We send them to express love. We use them to beautify our living space, our gardens, our clothes, and our advertising. 

My friend Maureen and I took a stroll through this gallery and admired drawings, paintings, sculptures, Mary Quant fashion, record covers, film clips of flowers awaking and wilting but one installation by Rebecca Louise Law "La Fleur Morte 2025" appealed to me the most:

The artist writes that "La Fleur Morte explores the place between life and death. By memorializing nature, the work invites contemplation of our human connection to this earth through flowers. 

I look at preserved flowers and I see time.

I see survival.

I see life.

And I see death.

But there is a spiritual place.

In-between.

A place we can connect.

A place we can value.

A place we can stop

And think

And be."

Bad Sisters

I had such an endearing time with my three sisters. (The oldest sister was not present because she is difficult and has early Alzheimer's.) I spent time alone with Gael (at the far left on the photo) and then we flew to Regina, met up with Maggie (far right) and surprised our baby sister for her birthday. We all wore horns in keeping with the theme "Bad Sisters". At first I felt a little silly but most people gave us a big smile. One woman asked if we were horny. She also said that we looked as if we were going to have a better time than she was with her boyfriend. That gained a laugh. I think this a good reason to be sillier in public, a little wilder.

Bev has a beautiful cottage on Lake Katepwa, an hour from Regina. (Over thirty years ago, I flew in with Gilly for Bev's wedding. When we arrived, Gill laughed and said wasn't it strange that they call a city after a woman's private parts. Since then, we call the city Vagina. 

There is something free and easy being with siblings. I was always the first one up thus the only one to see the glorious sun rises. I could greet the day with a little Tai Chi and then clean the kitchen (my job) and sit and do a jigsaw or read, waiting for the others to rise. Bev or Gael always made breakfast. I only here pause and wonder what Maggie did. Doesn't matter. We flowed together. Nothing was a big deal. And most important, the birthday girl was overjoyed and overwhelmed that we all flew in for her. 

I love my sisters. 

Two Years Past

I'm a tortoise. 

I was in London on June 11 and Brendan mixed margaritas in Rob's honour, and we drank I have no idea how many. I woke the next morning fuzzy headed and cried.

I am surprised that two years have passed and although I have struggled doing Rob's chores as well as my own, I have coped. I am a little more accepting that our relationship wasn't perfect and underneath the married dialogue, we admired and trusted each other beyond measure. I wish that we could have talked more, made love more and that I had barked less and been kinder. Still I am grateful that our highs were pretty damn spectacular. 

I posted this video on Facebook because I want him to know he is not forgotten and I wanted to publicly acknowledge this. I have watched this slideshow over and over and what I keep seeing is his arms draped round me. His sister said that I was the love of his life. I see now that he was the love of mine.

I will forever be grateful for that last kiss. 

You and me

Sittin' in the back my memory
Like a honey bee
Buzzin' 'round a glass of sweet Chablis
...

Soul to soul

Heart to heart

And cheek to cheek
Come on baby
Give me a kiss
That'll last [a lifetime]

(Long Monday by John Prine)

 

When despair grows in me

 and I wake in the night at the least sound 

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought 

of grief. I come into the presence of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars 

waiting for their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

Wendell Berry

Our house is a very very very fine house

 Since Rob's tragic fall, our house has become my house, and I no longer want to spend all my time here. 

Still, it is a very fine house in a 13th century Bastide town in the south of France, surrounded by sunflower fields and vineyards. 

Years ago, when Marlene agreed to hold workshops here, we called it the writing house and women from around the world came to write. When only we were at home, Rob. and I wrote. It's perfect for ruminating, for wandering around the countryside and for putting pen to paper. There are two offices with desks although I often find myself writing at the long kitchen table or on the outside table on the terrace. 

My house has a resident cat, an arrogant miss called Fauci who we adopted during the pandemic. At first, we thought she was a he and by the time we found out her gender, Fauci liked her name. She only demands to be fed once a day and be stroked when she so desires.

My house has many stairs and to make the ascent more interesting, I painted favourite quotes from family and friends on some of the steps.

I am looking for a good person or a couple to fly to France and care for my house and cat. One month is fine but two or more months is better.

If this appeals to you, please contact me at byyoung@mac.com.

Thank you. 

Death, be not proud

My sister Gael's beloved died April 24, 2025, nearly exactly to the day, two years ago, that Rob took his tragic fall. I am mourning the death of yet another good man. 

Larry was a husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend.

He was also a teacher, a dreamer, an inventor, a storyteller and know-it-all.
To put it simply, this world is left less interesting without him. And for those lucky to have loved him, his passing is incomprehensible.
---
Larry was born March 5, 1953, in Calgary, and grew up in small town Alberta. He spent his early days torturing his sisters, making friends with animals and figuring out the man he wanted to be. He left home to learn and adventure in forests and mountains. He eventually made his way to Ontario where he'd stay for over 30 years. Here, Larry found a community and with luck on his side, into his world came a wife, and her two young girls.
Larry's life was full. He spent these years becoming a champion for safety and supporting local
politics. He always made time to lend support to local causes and make the many people in his
life feel important. He nurtured his interest in games and stories and learned to cook and DIY.
He never stopped loving nature and travel and dreaming of his next adventure.
In time, he was gifted with two granddaughters and two grandsons and his role as grandpa may
have been his most cherished.
That Larry's story ends with an inexplicable illness, is not what anyone would have chosen. But
he left as he lived, surrounded by so much love.

My friend Wenda sent me this poem last week and it describes so much of what I've felt since Rob's death but the last stanza, I don't recognize as my tears still flow. I am thinking of my sister whose grief is raw. 

For Grief | John O’Donohue

When you lose someone you love, 
Your life becomes strange, 
The ground beneath you gets fragile, 
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure; 
And some dead echo drags your voice down 
Where words have no confidence. 

Your heart has grown heavy with loss; 
And though this loss has wounded others too, 
No one knows what has been taken from you 
When the silence of absence deepens. 

Flickers of guilt kindle regret 
For all that was left unsaid or undone. 

There are days when you wake up happy; 
Again inside the fullness of life, 
Until the moment breaks 
And you are thrown back 
Onto the black tide of loss. 

Days when you have your heart back, 
You are able to function well 
Until in the middle of work or encounter, 
Suddenly with no warning, 
You are ambushed by grief. 

It becomes hard to trust yourself. 
All you can depend on now is that 
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself. 
More than you, it knows its way 
And will find the right time 
To pull and pull the rope of grief 
Until that coiled hill of tears 
Has reduced to its last drop. 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance 
With the invisible form of your departed; 
And, when the work of grief is done, 
The wound of loss will heal 
And you will have learned 
To wean your eyes 
From that gap in the air 
And be able to enter the hearth 
In your soul where your loved one 
Has awaited your return 
All the time.

I hope that Rob and Larry are enjoying margaritas together. I hope that they are in some magical place - the place that my grandson Seb described - having a good time.

"My life is a dot lost among thousands of other dots".

From snow monkeys to two little boy monkeys, my Japan adventure has been full to the brim with noise, much movement, culinary delights, sacred temples, a spring festival in Kanazawa and so much more.

My strongest images are of cherry blossoms, wasabi fields, and Japanese architecture. 

I have had two weeks travelling as a group and now everyone has flown home and I am alone. I am alone. No one to lead me to the sights. No Jane and Brendan to lead me to restaurants and interpret menus. What do I want from this trip to Japan? I don't know. 

My first solo adventure took me to Yokohama, a port town, great for people-watching and shopping but it didn't excite me. I returned to Tokyo and again met my friend at his showroom and placed an order for fall for LJ . (Yes, I did think its days were numbered but no more.)

I next caught a train to Matsumoto, the home of Yayoi Kusama, an artist who has stolen a little piece of my heart. (I, Kusama, am the modern Alice in Wonderland.) Yes. There is a craziness, a loveliness and so much  fun and colour in her work. Big bright tulips enhance the exterior entrance to the Matsumoto museum. Inside, there is a circular route to her exhibit. I walk through a room with mirrors, a room with a lit ladder to heaven that magically appears to have no ceiling, a light surrounded heart installation. In its centre is a mirror. I see myself. I am love? Next is a special room where each person or couple are guided and the door is shut for twenty seconds. Bright globes of various colours surround me - flashing, pulsating. They feel as if they will touch me but I'm not allowed to touch. The next room holds Kusma's famous large pumpkin, with black polka dots, in a room painted yellow with more polka dots. After walking through the exhibit, I want more so I walk through it a second time. 

Yayoi once designed a suit for George Cluny, art embracing film. Cluny is almost lost in polka dots.

"Kusama has been open about her mental health and has resided since the 1970s in a mental health facility. She says that art has become her way to express her mental problems... I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieved my illness is to keep creating art". 

Last night I met up with Justin, Susan's eldest son and we wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found an Indian restaurant - not what either of us would have chosen but it was Wednesday and most restaurants were closed. We talked about relationships, his work (he has been teaching English in a university for over thirty years). He is happy enough yet doesn't know if he will stay in Japan when his youngest child leaves home. I am happy that we have had time to talk - a little shyly but still I got to know him a little more. 

In the morning, I took an early train back to Tokyo and am now in one of the smallest hotel rooms that I've seen but it's clean and I need to explore a little. I work again tomorrow and then head to the seaside. 

The Flower of the Cherry Tree

 The flower of the cherry tree has great power. Its prettiness is a mask. With its spirit, its exuberance, it is all ruthless appetite and lust for life, the urge to try or die trying.

But in the end it does die... In the end we all die... so we might as well let life improvise the music we play.

Here I am in a modern art museum in Kanazawa. Light, large spaces, and a room with light bulbs on the ceiling that flash on and off in time with one's heart. I liked this visual display. In another room, a white rabbit lay - apparently an illegal Korean immigrant is inside the costume.

 

I lay down and kept him company. 

Today, we are in Hakuba, up in the mountains. The sun is shining. Seb and Brendan built a snowman. My family and friends have gone further up the mountain to cavort in the snow. I'm taking a breather, time to slow down and think.

I am reading A Single Rose again. The beauty of the writing appeals to me. I read the following couple of sentences and a light bulb came on in my brain:

The hardest thing, it turns out, is not trying to be happy without the person you loved... it's changing, no longer being who you were with that person.

The Book of Grief

I began a writing circle last week led by my most wonderful friend and mentor Marlene. (She encouraged me to attend as she know that I have been having a difficult time and yearn to write but am unable.) So I've attended one class and although I was nervous, I wrote! Before the 25 minutes allocated to writing, she read a poem The Book of the Body by Laura Weaver.

 Here's the beginning:

The library of the body is a revelation.

Today I pull out the book of grief

and find one hundred chapters.

There is the chapter on letting go~

where brilliant leaves, 

tumble down the branches

of the page, veins lined in gold.

I  didn't read what I'd written even though I was paired with a kind woman who read hers and it would have been fine but, when I do this stream of consciousness writing, I don't know what I've written until I read it, so for now I'll keep quiet although I'll copy what I wrote here as only a few friends who I trust read my blog.

"The Book of Grief. Letting go. I cannot let go of my grief over Rob's death. I am afraid. I am filled with rage - angry that Rob died and angry that he left me a lot of shit to deal with. There's more. I question myself. Was I good enough, passionate enough? Could we have been happier ? And then I think that we were happy enough. What does "happy enough" mean? We weren't lovey-dovey. We lived our own lives together or sometimes at a distance. Often I loved him more when we were apart. I would call him on FaceTime and it was a comfort to hear his voice. 

We were a couple. What does being a couple mean? We were not alone. We shared responsibilities.We shared children and grandchildren. We always celebrated Christmas together. We trusted each other. I never felt myself alone even when I was alone. I'm not sure I know how to describe this but now I feel smaller when I go out into the world, more uncertain, more afraid.

I call this period in my life, the post-Rob. How long do I have? Rob lived to nearly 77. Will I live to mine? No funeral, I told him. After Fanny died choking on a piece meat, I said that I will not attend another funeral. Long before her tragic death, she asked that if I outlive her, I must check that she is really dead before being lowered into the burning inferno. 

I did not go to the Crematorium for Rob's burning. I couldn't bear seeing his coffin and the lowering. When Brendan picked up his ashes the next day, I embraced it thinking "is this what we are reduced to? This is it? The end. 

I know he had a good life. He did what he pleased. He was happy alone or seemed to be. I live in chaos. Not Rob. He could sit for hours listening to music or reading or playing with his cat, or cooking exotic meals. He wrote a novel too. It's good but he never even self-published it. 

And now, as I clear away his stuff, his clothes and shoes, I wonder what is important. I want to get rid of more and more stuff and have only the essentials in this house but this takes time, I pause and paint the stairs white. I ask friends for quotes and using a paint pen, I write them one by one on each step or I have friends write them so there is no uniformity. I read them as I ascend, hoping that they will tell me how to live my life.  

Go Soft into 2025

Happy Chinese New Year

 

I meant to publish thoughts and quotes on the 1st or 2nd of January but I was in California and a boisterous, bossy, nearly two-year old, with a joie de vivre and engaging personality, stole my attention. It's only now when I am back in France in a too quiet house and the Chinese New Year celebrations are happening that I remembered to return to my blog. 

"I wish you endless dreams and the furious desire to realize some of them. I wish you to love what must be loved, and to forget what must be forgotten. I wish you passions. I wish you silences. I wish you birdsongs as you wake up and children's laughter. I wish you to respect the differences of others, because the worth and virtues of each person often remain to be discovered. I wish you to resist the stagnation, the indifference, and the negative values of our time. I wish you at last to never to give up the search, for adventure, life, love. For life is a wonderful adventure and no reasonable person should give it up without a tough fight. I wish you above all to be yourself, proud of being and happy, for happiness is our true destiny."

~Jacques Brel, sending his best wishes on New Year of 1968, Europe 1 radio

“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.”   ― John Keats

I enter the new year not so much afraid of aging but of losing my mind. 

 "You have to grow old. Don't cry, don't join begging fingers, don't revolt: you have to grow old. Repeat this word to yourself, not as a cry of despair, but as a reminder of a necessary departure... Go away slowly, slowly, without tears; forget nothing! Take your health, your cheerfulness, your flirtiness, the little goodness and justice that made your life less bitter; don't forget! Go ready, go soft, and don't stop along the irresistible road, you'll try it in vain - since you have to grow old! »

Sidonie Gabrielle Colette "Les Vrilles de la Vine"

I know that I must work, think, write, explore new places, as well as find a new passion, to stay mentally dexterous.