Growing old is partly an inescapable process of accommodation and adjustment.
I am afraid of dying-but being dead, oh yes, that to me is often an appealing prospect.
As in everything else, I find that age is not good for much, that one becomes deafer and less sensitive. Also, the higher up the mountain you climb, the less of a view you get. A mist closes in and cheats you of the hoped-for and expected opportunity to see far and wide.
Look at life with the eyes of a child.
No longer diverted by other emotions, I work the way a cow grazes.
While I drew, and wept along with the terrified children I was drawing, I really felt the burden I am bearing. I felt that I have no right to withdraw from the responsibility of being an advocate.