A friend had read my note on what makes a woman know she’s old. My offspring had read it and responded with interest and sympathy; how would a valued and wise contemporary react? “But you’re NOT OLD! Your body may feel old, but that’s not you – what do you think you really are?” What indeed am I? What is anyone? Are we mind? Soul? Spirit? Whatever William Butler Yeats had in mind when he wrote “…And fastened to a dying animal…”? The animal may be dying, but…
She gave me a different slant on aging.