Early this morning, I woke up in Washington DC, where I’m going to be delivering a speech in the late afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk in the sweet early hours, my workout gear on, ready to head out to the first floor where I know the gym is located.
The woman wrote in obvious distress that she was repeating herself. Felt depressed. Brain fog. Admitted to the occasional suicidal thought. She was terrified she was getting Alzheimer’s’ disease. At this point, she is committing to a long, possibly painful and confusing process of testing at a major university.
Ellen hunched over the saddle like Quasimodo, hanging on, for dear life, to the saddle horn with one hand and the back of the saddle with the other, as Toni (her horse) trotted rapidly to keep up with the front of the herd…
Yesterday morning this landed in my inbox from Margaret Manning:
Downsizing (and simplification, more generally) has been a passion of mine over the last several years. And, one of the things that I have discovered through this process is that downsizing isn’t so much about letting go of “stuff” as it is letting go of emotions, memories and psychological barriers to change. So, let’s talk about how to get ready for downsizing at any age. Have you already gone through the process of downsizing your home? Or, are you thinking about doing this in the years to come?
Last year, I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico, at a youth hostel. Tucked away upstairs, in my own spare private room, I pondered this past year.
Reading today’s title, you might want to throw your wine glass at me, but I assure you, there’s a method to my madness. I found it while considering a speech that many of us have heard, or read, from Nelson Mandela…
No matter how old we are, it’s always exciting to have something to look forward to. Working, enjoying retirement, or a little of both. Anticipation is a lovely thing. Every year, I set major goals…
Marion and Roger, a pair of Brits from 40 miles west of London, boarded the ship carefully. They’re in their 70s, and both are intrepid travelers.
The four Indonesian boys, all small but ranging in age from 12 to 14, led us along a tree-lined path. The fenceposts to either side of us as we left the island village were sprouting trees, a testament to the proliferating growth and superb soil of these many islands.
My friend Susan stared at me in disbelief. “You’re going to do what?” She was incredulous. “Go to Africa alone and climb Kilimanjaro at sixty?” She paused for a deep breath.