By Lily Swarn

'Diseases of the soul,' proclaimed Cicero, perhaps with good reason, 'are more dangerous and more numerous than those of the body.'

Germs may kill slowly, but a sorrowful spirit can sap life in ways no medicine can touch.

Children could confess to their mothers, if honesty were demanded, that they might eat their green vegetables only if they smelled like butter chicken.

To some, streams of liquor flow like manna from heaven, while a plain glass of buttermilk is a humble draught no one admires.

Taste, desire, and habit bend our choices with strange authority. Well, to each their own.

A cheerless disposition and a constant complaint never healed an ailing body. Smiles rarely bloom from someone weighed down by pain.

But I know a gentleman who has long passed his 90th birthday, as lively and blithe as a lark.

His phone calls arrive like bursts of sunlight, carrying favourite poems, a parade of jokes, and a zest for life that refuses to dim.

Every word, and laugh, sweeps away a little of the world's gloom. He astonishes me with his exuberance, reminding me how spirit can endure beyond frail flesh.

As I hang up, I reflect on my own petty fears and nagging worries.

MENAFN07102025000215011059ID1110159373