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28 Crossing the Rubicon at Seventy we do not know the name of the river that roils beneath us until we arrive at its shores—until we give reason to pass along or stay there where waters sound like uncut jewels swirling in a tide pool—until the little boats we’ve made fold like kites in a storm—until we’ve come to that point where turning midstream is outside reason and staying lays sour on the tongue—know you have shaped a raft before floating with the current toward another long day’s journey—know you have yet another reason to reinvent yourself before you take the last route home ...

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