Maria carries a sketchbook with her wherever she goes. Yesterday, I was sitting in a beautiful overstuffed chair in our inn, and I fell asleep. Maria sketched me sleeping, and I love her sketch.

Since I got older, it is sometimes hard for me to appreciate images of myself; I don’t recognize the face I see in storefront windows or the older man in the sketches.

But Maria is an empathetic and skilled artist. She sees something in me that I do recognize and like.

I appreciate the sketch; I’m learning to get more comfortable with myself and how I look. I’ve to stop wincing at photos of me; I look the way I look. Maria has no trouble with it; nobody else has squawked about it, so why do I have trouble with it?

I suppose I know the answer. In my head, my image of me is not of an older man. I thiink I’m stuck around 25. I look in the mirror every morning and ask, “who is that old man in my bathroom mirror?”

I suppose I fear death like most other human beings who are drifting closer.

More lessons in acceptance, there is no value to fighting life or the things you can’t change.

I like the photo. The older man in it has some dignity and presence about him; he seems to be carrying himself with dignity. There is nothing her to be repelled by.

I thanked Maria; I asked her if I could have the sketch. Maybe, she says, it is part of her notebook. It is fun being married to an artist.