In 50 days, I will turn fifty. Millions (billions?) have done it before me, but I will only do it once, and it is a HUGE number for me. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, fifty screams with absolute certainty that I am no longer young.
Overall, I have enjoyed aging, and I have had more fun in my 40s than any other decade, so it is not about youth per se, because that is so obviously wasted on the young. It is about running out of time.
It is about not wanting to squander a single moment of this life that goes by in the blink of an eye. I think about what I will leave behind, besides a whole lot of unfinished projects, unused art supplies and wine corks.
I have no children – so how will I be remembered – or will I, at all – and for how long? And why is it important to me, because I know that it is.
I want my life to have meant something. I want to leave behind something of worth and beauty – a story, a work of art – something.
So, at almost 50, I am in a mad dash to figure out what that is, and to do it.
