Maiden Mother Crone

There's a strange dichotomy to growing older. I've left the Maiden years far behind, and have recently bid adieu to the Mother and am now standing firmly if somewhat querulously on the shifting sands of The Crone. I see the deepening lines on my face, the map of my life. Part of me, the public part, says yeah, I'm proud of every one of them.
I remember photos I saw once of Georgia O'Keefe and Helena Rubenstein. Georgia O'Keefe had her haired pulled back into a severe skull-hugging bun. Frankly I don't remember how Ms. Rubenstein was wearing her hair although I suspect it was in a styled society matron helmet. Ms. O'Keefe's face was a network of lines, crossing and criss-crossing her face. Ms. Rubenstein was well-preserved, pampered and young (for her age). But it was Georgia's face that was beautiful. Full of life, experience, it was a reflection of her inner being. Helena's lifelong attempts to preserve her youthfulness succeeded in preserving, to a degree, that illusion, but the success meant she had constructed a mask and her inner being was hidden.
So publicly I affirm that my face is what I've got after more than half a century of life and I'm proud of it. Inwardly, or privately looking in the mirror, I lament the loss. It's shallow and somewhat sad. Can I blame the fixation on youthfulness in today's society for my dissatisfaction? No, despite the daily inculcation that only the young matter I do know better.
The loss of beauty and youth is the price I pay for living. OTOH, I do fight against the loss of physical strength and suppleness. The gym and yoga help, especially yoga.
When I first started yoga it was so hard and so painful it seemed as if I'd begun too late. But every day there is some small improvement in flexibility. My back hurts less, I'm stronger and more flexible than I was. Mentally I don't meditate enough to notice improvement. That's something I need to address. Even allocating 5 minutes to following my breath, there is a second or two when my ceaseless mind chatter stops long enough to touch that still calm center. And then off I go again on another tangent of chittering chattering mindspeak.
I began this post because I was thinking about books and reading books. Twice in 2 weeks I've borrowed a book from the library and then after reading a few pages decided it wasn't worth reading. Is that incipient loss of mental power or the ability to concentrate or is it that my time is more precious now and I don't have to read everything I get just because I got it? I used to read everything. Even if I didn't like a book I'd read it. Now I can't be bothered.
I should be out riding today. Haven't ridden B since last week but it's cold and windy and quite miserable. I've got a painting to work on and The Book, which I haven't added a word to in 2 weeks. R is away until late tonight and gone again tomorrow which gives me the opportunity to work uninterrupted. I should also spend time with little Tach but it's not very comfortable to open this room to the winds coming in off the verandah (and feeling like they're rolling off the glaciers of the Antarctic!) so I go out and make quick visits and long for summer.