At the ripe old age of eighty-two, when one is fully aware that it is time to make sense of what has happened in one’s life, I am convinced about two major things. They illumine the days that pass far too quickly.
The first conviction is simply about life itself – that we have only one life and that it is infinitely precious and that we had better make the best or it in both work and play and in our personal relationships and not always be hankering after greener pastures and sweeter times and easier circumstances and better people.
Charles Baudelaire, the French poet, in his journal wrote that life is a hospital in which each patient believes he will recover if he is moved to another bed.
