I picked up a book, one I’ve had for a while but have never finished, off a shelf at home a couple of weeks ago. It’s a dense book, non fiction, that includes a lot of ideas that take a bit of processing. Physically this book isn’t easy to read either: the type face is an older style and one that I don’t find very friendly in a size that makes me believe that finally I’ve reached that point in my life where my arms are starting to be too short.
But I’ve been working my way through this book starting from the beginning because I know only vaguely what is in the first couple of chapters. I turned a page today and startled myself. There scrawled in the margin in pencil was a note that I’d made at least a dozen years ago the last time I tried to read this book.
My handwriting hasn’t changed much, and neither have my thought processes as I was having the very same thought reading this page now that I’d jotted in the margin previously.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately how time and experience change us. Probably it’s part of that whole figuring out if I’m going to the reunion thing. More, though, I think I’m trying to figure out if it’s possible to learn from my mistakes in my life time.  It’s corrollary to the “I’d like to be old when I die” school of thought: I’d like to find out along the way instead of having all the answers at the end of the game when they do me no good.
Random thoughts on a barometer-funky Thursday.