I am getting older and I am mortal. My skin is becoming wrinkled, lines are etched across my face, silver strands shine, and my snow-white hair blows in the wind. Where do I find the beauty and dignity of age? Why not simply accept the signs of aging and juxtapose my own images of being old and wrinkled to nurture the joy of growing older? When the fair of youth's obsession calls, I simply do not go. That is healing! There lies a mysterious beauty in it. It is lived, soaked with life's touch, with years, like old wood, like moss-covered stones, like landscapes shaped by the wind over centuries. Let us enjoy our inner harvest. Let us marvel at the fruits of our experiences. Thus, we are rooted in our wealth of life. Renewing myself moment by moment and dying. Transforming within myself. Traveling with light luggage, but with something else: the openness, discernment, bold questioning, and magical powers. When one is well along with oneself and others find her too edgy or irritating, she says: I understand something about dignity and I demand respect. You do not need to love me; I do that myself. For many things, I am no longer available. Another place awaits in a new self-understanding. I want to take it. I want to spend my years of black wisdom by well-guarded fires!.