Maturation

I felt mature for a moment. 

It has nothing to do with wandering around the house yelling about where my insoles, bunion protector, and bifocals are. It's bad enough I have to wear such things, but the fact that I have to find them is even more annoying.

It has nothing to do with looking in the mirror at a woman with a lot more gray hair and wrinkles than I have.

It has nothing to do with throwing open all the windows in church halfway through service because it suddenly is fifty million degrees.

That stuff makes me feel like I'm aging.

I felt mature. 

Hopefully it makes up for all the fart noises I made with my hands and the juggling of random items at the police ball where there was no dancing nor a corsage so I felt regression was in order.

No, today I felt mature when Cassie, my dog, and I ventured into one of my favorite basins. We were on a snow covered steep incline, which some might call a cliff, and Cassie asked me with her eyes what we were doing. I agreed with her that we should turn around. It wasn't a fear thing, but the realization we had gone over several ridges wondering what was over the next and if I continued then there was no way I could manage yard work.

A sign of maturity is recognizing limits. Not necessarily being limited by them, but recognizing them and making a choice based on them. I refuse to be domesticated by age, but I'm okay being reasonable with my body.

I still slid down the snow patch and bushwhacked through thorns so I ended up wet and scratched, but I managed to get my garden and flowers planted. 

Living without limits is idolatry. 
Always living within them is boring.