Ichabod's Day

(Attributed to the Maori) The sky may be clouded, but ever the sun,  Will sweep on its course till the cycle is run. and when into chaos the system is hurled,  Again shall the Builder, rebuild a new world. Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal,  Move on, for your orbit is fixed to your soul. And though may it lead you through darkness of night,  The torch of the Builder shall give it new light. You were, you will be,  Know this while you are,  Your spirit has travelled both long and afar, It rose from the source, to the Source it returns,  The spark which was lighted eternally burns. It slept in a jewel, it leapt in a wave,  It roamed in a forest, it rose from the grave. It took on strange garbs for long eons of years,  And now in the soul of yourself it appears. From body to body your spirit speeds on,  It seeks a new form when the old one has gone. And the form that it find...

As I embrace my half century I do so with a mixture of reflection, indifference, excitement and a need somehow to both wear the badge of maturity and prove that I am still not too old. Too old for what? I've no idea.  I have waited for this birthday for a while, preparing with a clear focus denied many of my other 'milestone' birthdays. I have stopped colouring my hair, I seem to have spent many occasions stating - "I'm nearly 50" in a tone clearly explaining that I am too old for this (whatever 'this' may be). I was quite looking forward to being old. As a teen - 50 was very old. I thought being 50 meant: a) I am nearer retirement than a new starter (although with the pension situation this may soon not be the case!) b) I was over half way through my life (I don't intend to live to being over 100) c) I could be left alone to "wear purple and eat sausages" as the poem  by Jenny Joseph suggests d) I thought I would be a ...