I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the slowdown.

When I was younger, I took my body for granted.

I was so busy bemoaning what my body wasn't, taller, thinner, with curlier hair and straighter teeth,

that I hardly appreciated what it was.

Looking at old photos, I can see now what I couldn't see then.

It seems to me that middle age is the time we start to regard ourselves differently,

to notice ourselves physically changing. Yes, I have new lines around my

eyes and new glints of silver in my hair, but my body continues to surprise me in wonderful ways, too.

It brings me a lot of pleasure, maybe even more pleasure than it did when I was in my teens, 20s, and even 30s, because I appreciate it. And because I am less self-conscious. That is one of the gifts of aging, becoming more yourself and caring

less about what others think about you or expect from you. My mother told me this time was coming,

and she was right. I have never cared more about the things that matter.

I have never cared less about the things that don't.

Clarity is a gift.

Do I wish I could have that clarity

and still have my young body?

You bet I do.

But that's not how this life works.

Today's poem moved me so much because it arrives at that clarity. I think you'll want to listen to this poem more than once, letting it lap at you like water, letting it rise around you

like smoke from a beach bonfire, letting it sing to you like an aria.

Bonfire Opera by Danusha Lameris.

In those days, there was a woman in our circle who was known not only for her beauty, but for taking off all her clothes and singing opera.

And sure enough, as the night wore on and the stars emerged to stare at their reflections on the sea, and everyone had drunk a little wine, she began to disrobe, loose her

...