It has recently occurred to me that I am a different person from who I thought I was. Let me elaborate, please, for I am not schizophrenic or otherwise mentally ill. I am speaking only from my own personal experience with myself. You see, I always thought of myself as a writing sort of person. A person to whom words and language were the epitome of human understanding. A person, in fact, who was most comfortable and proficient with words to tackle everyday life and existence. Codswallop! Although I do have a certain knack for putting one word after the other in an appealing way, in two languages so far, I have found that what really makes the world a clearer, more understandable place, is visual representation. In other words: I want pictures. I have an idea for something and the first thing I do is sketch it out – with words for meaning or pictograms. I make little doodles for my daughters to hang on the bathroom wall to remind them that wipe-FLUSH-pants-wash-hands is a good way to get a handle on personal hygiene. Heck, I even take my sketchbook with me to places and attempt to draw what I see and everything I hear falls into place as well. Never too old to meet a new old friend.