One is only 75 for a brief year, and then that age is gone. So as I await another New Year, I also await my new age with the joy and sadness that accompanies one-plus-three quarters of a century.

2022 was a productive year. Two shows of my Artist Books brought home to me the depth and breadth of my work in that medium. Sometimes you cannot see the forest for the trees. Solo shows can clarify and broaden  perspectives.

As time goes on, more than ever, making art has become my life. I work in my studio almost every day. When I miss a day, I feel lost. Art infuses my life with a sublime sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, even if it goes unobserved by anyone else.

I have become an increasingly self-sufficient, self-reliant artist. I know what I am doing. My work is my own, my voice, and that knowledge buttresses my efforts.

At 76 I enjoy shedding old patterns, and reinventing the way I do things. Each new work is a new  beginning even when it is related to an earlier work. I have grown accustomed to difficulties. Instead, I enjoy challenges. I am patient with myself. I have learned to wait, to let the process play out, to let the picture emerge. I don’t despair.

Besides the work, there is friendship. With age, I have grown more appreciative of my friends. They are my anchors. Our shared pasts give me perspective, past and present. If I need help with something that neither I nor Edwina can do, they are there for us, as I am for them. It is comforting to know one is not alone.

And as my age increases, I am happy to be healthy and well. So many others are fighting illnesses, and mortality is always not far from my mind. I am thinking about the way I want to be remembered, the good I hope to leave when I  depart this world.

After fifteen years of retirement, I finally have stopped setting my alarm clock. Life is just a brief moment between eternities.