This is the period of spiritual reflection, our last chance for spiritual renewal. Some aging people seek vengeance and power; some – me, for one – ask myself what kind of person I have become in this life. Do I like that person? Do I want to change? Can I leave the scars and regrets and choose to leave some good behind instead? It’s time for me to go down into the deepest parts of myself and come to peace, not with my antagonists and critics, but more importantly, with myself. This is the period of life when I can, if I choose, look into my own heart and soul for the answer to my problems and the sting of my mistakes. This is the time to bring me into the light. It’s a time of life to become a fuller human finally rather than look outside for the answers to my troubles and failings. This is a humbling time; I see that I spent much of my life procuring my innocence while my heart and soul sang a different song. How guilty was I

The flowers hold the key to my spiritual reflection. I hope to see you in the morning. I have nothing on my calendar except my therapist. I love my monthly hour with her.

I’ve been talking to my therapist for nearly 20 years; boy, does she know me well. I can get away with nothing, so I no longer try; I have learned a lot about myself, some of it good. I guess I am a hot mess.

They helped, in my case, save my life. Peggie says I did what I had to do to survive. It’s as simple and complex as that. I Speak to my therapist once a month. This is perfect for someone now my age. I’ve never been more open or less defensive. She has taught me many things, one being that I can no longer hope to undo so many things I still feel responsible for or guilty about.

I couldn’t put back a failed marriage or erase the years of neglect, indifference, or disregard for the people who had the right to expect more from me. I can only support or help people who expect nothing from me. It’s a head twister. I get something every time I speak to my therapist.

These Starling birds are the bad boys of the flower world, or so I am told. I relate to them; I was often a bad boy, and nobody liked me.  These push birds are not the least afraid of me as I sit in my chair by the window with my camera on my shoulder. Sometimes, they glance over and spit a bit of suet on the window. I think they are telling me they are not afraid of me, that I can sit there as long as I want, and that they don’t care.