We crave stillness, but move about aimlessly. Once a place of relative calm and routine, our home teeters in a state of fluid negotiation. All of the players are in flux. It's a study in contrasts: manly muscle and sagging skin, lustrous hair and graying beards, water and wine, devotion and drift. By midlife, we've begun to accept our own inevitable deterioration. Mortality looms, our time here precious. We lose parts of ourselves, in much the same way as we surely lose the people who surround us – through death, through life, through drift. Our children evolve, their circles ever expanding. They spill forth in every direction, breaking boundaries while we remain. They will never need us as they once did, when life was new. Like water, smoke, and shadow, the force of circumstance buoys us along. There is darkness here. We drift.
