Dear Me at 70,
I hope you’re still waking early,
not out of duty, but because the morning offers something no other part of the day can—
a soft kind of hush
that makes room for reflection
and lets you move gently into whatever comes next.
I hope you still begin with the animals—
their quiet reliance a steadying thing,
a reminder that care is often small and daily.
After breakfast, I imagine the beach walk with the dog hasn’t lost its charm.
The way the morning sun glints off the water.
The way the sand shifts underfoot.
The way she still bounds ahead, full of unreasonable joy.
Maybe you still stop for a coffee,
sit at the same table,
nod to familiar strangers,
then meander home like you have all the time in the world.
Are you still listening to podcasts in the morning?
Letting a new idea in,
letting it stretch you out on the inside,
and then putting pen to paper—not to prove anything,
but just to respond,
to stay curious,
to keep the muscles of thought and feeling supple?
I hope you still write mid-morning,
a couple of good hours before lunch—
not chasing productivity,
but welcoming clarity,
sifting meaning from the dust of experience.
Some days, I hope, there’s lunch with a friend—
light conversation or something deeper.
Other days, maybe it’s just you and the sunlight across the kitchen bench.
Either way, I trust it’s enough.
I imagine you still scroll through recipes,
not because dinner needs to impress,
but because trying something new still feels like a kind of defiance—
against sameness, against shrinking horizons.
You’ve always known that food is about more than food.
And the reading—may it never stop.
Afternoons with a book,
with the dog sleeping at your feet,
is still one of the better ways to pass time.
I hope she’s still up for a second walk—
to the park this time,
where you throw the basketball and she herds it like it’s her job.
I hope people still smile when they see her.
I hope you still do.
And I hope you still go to bed at a reasonable hour—
not because you’re old,
but because you’re wise enough now
to protect the gift of rest
and the promise of another morning.
With affection and curiosity,
Younger Me
The Afterword 
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