I’ve spent a long time - decades - defining my worth and my self by the work I did.

It seems to me lately that there is so much more to my worth and self than photographs, drawings, words, things people bought that I offered for sale.

If this life of mine has any value at all, it rests in what I have given of my heart.

How well have I loved. Others, and my self.

When you take the time to slow down [or are forced to by circumstance], the things that are unimportant fall away, leaving some sort of beautiful skeleton made of what matters.

What matters is that I can love better.

I can garden more. More often stand in the sunlight of a still day, listening to the sound of the tui in the tree above.

I can have paid more attention to my heart, and others.

I can be kinder to myself. Ride myself far less harshly. Apply far less pressure.

I was 54 two days ago. I figure, if I’m very lucky, that I’m in the second half of my life.

I wonder if I can find the courage to love better.

I’d like to think so.