If I'm going to keep an account of my 70th year, it clearly is not going to be a daily one. Setting up a blog space was the first step, and here I find it beckoning to me, waiting patiently in some form, out of sight, but there nonetheless--like a memory in a small corner of my mind begging to emerge.
It's remarkable to me that I am 70. And I am seeking to live into that age--really not aged, but, frankly, old--with some kind of notation, documentation, that yes, I was here; I made a note of it, unlike the other "0" years that slipped away--unlike the decades now behind me.
I celebrated age 70 by going to Paris. The actual day of my birthday was a Sunday; I am an Episcopal priest, and it just so happened that that very Sunday marked the Bishop's visitation. So I began my 70th year with a blessing. And left the next day for Paris, for a week in an apartment on Rue de Montorgueil. And now I'm back. It's early morning, with only the cat Miranda astir. Perhaps now I can begin.
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