Everything is always changing no matter how much we wish for it not to. It is the way of the world. Nothing is permanent. At birth each life starts evaporating, accelerating more rapidly all the time. Even with a loving life made with another a day will come when they will likely depart this Earth one at a time. And likewise go friends, family and everyone we know. Everything is just for its time, and no more. My accumulation of years is not such that all in Saxe’s poem below belongs to me. However, a good bit of it does. Even more I can feel and see it on the horizon.

My days pass pleasantly away;
My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;
I feel no symptoms of decay;
I have no cause to mourn nor weep;
My foes are impotent and shy;
My friends are neither false nor cold,
And yet, of late, I often sigh–
I am growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,
I’m growing old!

I’m growing fonder of my staff;
I’m growing dimmer in the eyes;
I’m growing fainter in my laugh;
I’m growing deeper in my sighs;
I’m growing careless of my dress;
I’m growing frugal of my gold;
I’m growing wise; I’m growing–yes–
I’m growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I’m growing old!

Ah me!–my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
Even flattery’s honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in “How young you are!”
I’m growing old!

Thanks for the years!–whose rapid flight
My somber Muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold
Where all are blest, and none may sigh,
“I’m growing old!”
By John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)

Gratitude thrives in me for every hour lived and resounds even more strongly for each one remaining. Today I strive to make better choices more true to the hopes and dreams I hold. With my treasury of time dropping like sand through an hour-glass I have little to spend on anything except being true to what contributes to happiness.

Real generosity towards the future
lies in giving all to the present.
Albert Camus