A Measure Of Age.

The many uses of colour and its hues.

I don't understand how the youth of today doesn't like to have conversations yet alone conversations with someone who is a lot older. These are the people who are fountains of wisdom, humour, information and contrary to the recent trait of getting information third hand on a Social Platform ( I am guilty of it too ) the older lot have first hand experience. In our modern world of living with our heads in a Fruity Cloud those rare,face to face, conversations are priceless and should be treasured.

Just for a minute fast forward 50 years and imagine the type of wisdom the older lot then will pass on...Real life experiences could be mighty rare indeed and stories of playing with friends outside in a tree house might only be read in history journals.

Anyway, I had the fortune of recently visiting an older lady. She is extremely funny and often drops pearls of wisdom wrapped in a humourous phrase. She was telling me of a recent stay in hospital and waiting for the final go ahead to be released when she dropped the purler... A doctor had to sign her out of course.

" One came in with gray hair, but even those with gray hair are looking younger and younger! "

And yes, isn't that the truth? There was a time when all and sundry who sported gray hair were old. Well, old compared to the peachy tones of youthfullness we had. Of course we never in a million years imagined that the grayness of life would catch up with us. Sneakily too, because most of us had elaborate plans when we were basking in the warm glow of youth.

Elaborate and often still not realized. The irony of aging is that those who've had the pleasure could tell us what is the mainstay of a life lived happily. No, chasing money is not part of it. Health, family and having a roof over one's head top the list of priceless pearls of wisdom that we only really absorb by hearing them in a conversation.

Wisdom, is so much more attractive and real to us when told with voice, gestures and perhaps an anecdote or two.

At times, I tend to wonder how big the collective moan of regret and sadness about the stolen moments of youth, time and intellect will be in a few decades from now?
How many precious, never to be had again hours do we offer up to that thief of our time, living in the palm of our hand?

Biggi