I live in the shadow of the Sun Sphere and a stone’s throw from the Tennessee River. Last Saturday I turned sixty.
Today I sat on my balcony to reflect as the sun rose. As the sky lightened beneath the sphere, the fog thickened over the river. The fog lingered and swirled until the ball of the sun rose to the height of the sphere.
This semester has been like a magical pre-dawn moment. A new light licks the edges of the sky. Fog sinks down to blanket low-lying areas. Research and teaching light me up. Data collection and class preparation darken my days.
As the semester neared its end, I turned sixty. Sisters and friends celebrated with me. We talked. We ate. We danced.
Today I rejoice that I can sit high enough to see both the sun rise and the fog rise. I won't always have this vantage point. But I’ve seen enough cycles now to know another day, another week, another year, another decade will rise, burn off fog, and fall again. Sixty sits well with me.
