I awoke early this morning while it was still dark outside. Not only had it snowed sometime after midnight, but I had turned 60 years old. As far as I am concerned, 60 is an amazing feat not to be taken lightly. It is also more than a gentle reminder that life is too short to let dreams go their way.
Early this week I read about a Russian composer, Pyotr Tchaikovsky, who produced a wide variety of symphonies, operas and ballets. When he was a child, he was assailed by melodies and rhythms that constantly ran through his mind. He would beg his mother to take the music out of his head so he could sleep.
This is what I wish for the rest of my life. For my mind to be so full of words that the only way to get them out of my head is to weave them into stories. I will have to write many stories, so new words can fit into my head. I wish never to be without my camera, because photographs tell tales. I wish never to stop feeling and seeing.
That was my birthday present to myself and a promise to keep.
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