Great analogy! I'll be mulling this one over for sure in the coming weeks/months. I've got a couple of similar aging analogies/models (also in my forties) that

Great analogy! I'll be mulling this one over for sure in the coming weeks/months. I've got a couple of similar aging analogies/models (also in my forties) that tend to come to mind when I'm confronted with these sorts of topics, namely physical speed. When we're young, we move slowly, crawling, then walking and running. The things we notice and care about tend to be smaller and more detailed. Walking home in elementary school, I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every brick in the retaining wall, every tree limb, every slope of every yard. Then came the bike, and greater speed, then the car. More frequently in adulthood are the planes. Now I barely notice the fine details of what I pass by, but my awareness of city-scale things, both at home and abroad, has filled in...the streets, rivers, buildings, and the development that spans miles and miles that were far beyond my grasp when I moved slower. It's a bigger, more complete picture, but I can't zoom into it. I often miss the slowness of my youth. I remember vividly being enraptured by the mundane details of my backyard, the roots of big pine trees, lush grassy spots, the cracked patio. So many tiny, "up close" details that were so interesting to look at, and run GI Joes and matchbox cars over for hours. Building software is the same. Most of my giddy memories of discovery and productivity were in the "slow" phase of my career, when my tasks and responsibilities were fewer and closer to the ground, so to speak. The code itself. Now that I can travel faster, I have a larger number of more impactful responsibilities, but I don't feel that closeness or giddiness. I'm rarely enamored by the solutions that I churn out.