The Deep Well of Later Life 
There is a particular winter without seasonal cure where that which has lain dormant, innate, unattended must be unearthed and fed. The paths we've known, chosen or not have petered out in the wood. We've arrived here, heads down and focused the absence of obstruction as compass feet shod with the roles provided by our time. So much time has passed. Now, this nettle of brush before and beside every familiar move. Dim light amid a nattering of insects annoying the skin. The edge of panic a constant and uninvited companion. Yes, there are limits now: age, incredulity, resources. But in the midst of all these, when we finally banish the voices of all those familiar judges with their noisy gavels and demands for order freedom waiting to be welcomed with our weary, hard-earned maturity. With it, glorious light bright and unexpected new insight, new shoes, new paths and rich, refreshing possibilities. Who knew at the age we are now new life emerges with its own indefatigable persistence. by Skippy --a survivor on her healing journey | 
