I am fortunate to live where there are folks who really know about preserving one's mind.
I'm more than interested.
I am learning more about my own brain and mind, and learning about flexibility and habit, and what kinds of new things are easier to learn now and which are harder. (The smartphone is definitely harder. Knitting is easier. Great recipes and getting my cartoons onto the MacBook are worth it.)
Writing is easy because I have been doing it daily for most of my life.
Writing about the state of my beloved, z'l, when he was alive, was easy.
Writing, as you have urged me to do, about my own state, and sharing it publicly, was harder.
But because I had begun by writing about Zalman, and we had already established some sort of ghostly on-line rapport, it was easier.
Meanwhile, my friend deeded me her retired iPhone.
That turns out to be a steeper learning curve than I had anticipated, and will also keep my mind on its toes.
And just as I have been dealing with these things that make my shoulders creep up, my jaw tighten, and my eyes narrow, I finally threw myself into the recliner chair, kicked back, welcomed Mishka who leapt into my lap, and reached for the nearest book.
It turned out to be Stanley Keleman, Your Body Speaks Its Mind.
Reading random parts of it reminded me how divorced I can easily become from the natural world, both within me and around me; how I can ignore or supress the inner impulses toward pulsating or streaming, until I have silenced them altogether.
It leads me to the obvious question: am I willing to experience loss and grief fully, in my body, in my cells, opening to that devastation so that I may re-enter Life fully once more?
I do not yet know the honest answer to that.