FROM KIM
With my seventies has come a quiet, persistent tiredness, like a low tide that never fully turns. Muscle mass slips away no matter how faithfully I swim, how often I show up at the gym, how many miles I take from the desert trails. I feel the runway shortening now. There’s no drama in it, just a clear-eyed knowing that these arms and legs have already done their strongest work. And yet, something softer has stepped in to take its place. The restless hunger for the next grand adventure has eased its grip. I no longer need to chase joy across continents. I let it find me instead, often barefoot, often in the smallest corners of an ordinary day.
After fifteen years, my blood pressure has quietly returned to normal, as if my body itself has decided to unclench. I read a book in two days, then reach for another without urgency, just appetite. Time has shifted from something I spent to something I notice.
The flow of joy comes in a thousand drops.
A friend’s smile that lands without effort.
Lizards doing their proud little pushups on sun-warmed rocks, as if auditioning for no one at all.
The quicksilver whir of a hummingbird stitching the air together.
A hibiscus that shouts its beauty for a single, unapologetic day, then bows out, satisfied.
Dogs seized by the pure democracy of joy, sprinting for no reason but the fact of being alive, then collapsing into warm, breathing bundles beside you on a cold morning.
The crisp, golden crunch of sweet potato fries. The fragrant, rising steam of pho.
A million tastes, a million aromas, each one a small argument for presence.
The tender green of new leaves on the ficus, the heavenly scent of lemon tree blooming.
The impossible blue of the swimming pool holding the sky in its arms.
A million colors, none asking to be improved.
Look, hear, taste, smell, feel.
Joy is not rare. It’s just easily overlooked.
And then there are the songs of Janis Ian, still reaching across decades like a hand you recognize in the dark, pulling me gently into our shared longings. Longing for peace. For justice. For an end to the casual cruelties we once accepted as ordinary.
It’s a good place to linger.
At Seventeen
Song by Janis Ian
I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say, "Come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
And the rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
The small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say, "Come dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
And ugly girls like me
At seventeen
On the road to 72, I’ve learned that strength quietly changes shape, trading muscle for patience, speed for clarity. That joy rarely arrives as fireworks but as a steady constellation of small, luminous moments. That most of what once felt urgent wasn’t, and most of what truly matters can’t be rushed. I’ve learned to trust the body when it whispers instead of waiting for it to shout, to choose people and places that feel like exhale, and to let go of the exhausting theater of proving anything at all. Love, it turns out, is less about being chosen and more about how gently you learn to hold the world, and yourself, in return.
Kim
| 
