Days creep. Years fly.

Disclaimer – when I die, my sons will have at least a dozen assorted journals, notebooks, binders, calendars, etc. where I’ve started and stopped at keeping a diary.  Sorry, guys.  Here’s another.

More often than not, I find myself admiring the ability of my sons and my husband to remember details of events.  (The not part of that admiration is when their recollections include one of my many not so stellar moments.)  Heck, not only do I have a hard time remembering the details, sometimes I don’t remember the event altogether.

I’ve always been drawn to writing and photography as a means of documenting life.  I love reading the diaries of people who lived before our time, some famous and some regular folks like us.  I love seeing the snippets of their daily lives.  So I write to record the little everyday moments that are the precious threads that make up the fabric of a life.  I write to leave something of myself for future generations.

While the days may pass languidly, the years zoom by as if propelled by rocket boosters.  Next thing I know I’m 52 years old, looking at a list of things I want to accomplish in life and wondering where the time’s gone.  What have I done with all those years?

So here I am about to embark on the second half of my life.  Grandma Moses didn’t start painting until she was in her 70s.  Between Grandma Moses and my faith in God, I have hope that the next 52 years will be quite an adventure.