It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?

Gardening is the instrument of grace.

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

Fighting dragons is my holy joy.

Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember nothing stays the same for long, not even pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.

Mountains define you. You cannot define / Them.