My nanna turned ninety years old today. Ninety. Years. Old. That’s quite an impressive feat, very worthy of celebrating, and so we did … however, she also suffers from dementia and gets very thrown by anything that veers from her daily routine, so we kept things low-key, just a gathering of her children and a few of us grandkids, with a cake and candles and pink fizzy drink.
Nan’s older sister came along to the party, too; my great aunt Alma who just last month turned ninety-five. Oi. Given that their mother and father live to ninety-eight and ninety-seven respectively, it’ll be interesting to see what number these two dear old girls make it to, with those longevity genes and modern medicine on their side.
I’m hitting a smaller milestone of my own later this year (forty, she whispers) and I sometimes find myself stressing about how fast the years seem to be slipping by, and along with that, how long it's taking me to write this book (ah, yes, my patience issue raising its ugly head again.) But these days I am able to calm my heart palpitations by acknowledging that even after four years, I am still a learner writer - not quite a wet-behind the ears beginner, but not a veteran, by any means. And this means that getting my book into shape should take time. I mean, I didn’t learn to become a lawyer over night. That took six years of hard graft, and learning to write – and to be a writer – may take just as long, if not longer. Hopefully, I’ll never stop learning … but somewhere along the track, I will finish my book.
So today, looking at my nanna and my great-aunt – and remembering my late grandfather who made it to ninety-two – I was reminded that with just a little bit of luck, I probably do have plenty of time on my side.