At the turn of the millennium I interviewed a number of centenarians who had lived across the 19C, 20C and 21C. Not all of them were happy but most exhibited a sense of adventure and fun.
There was England's oldest man of the time (107) who proudly displayed an award for being its oldest scholar (at 104). Each night he would ring two brass bells to remind him of the voices of his two long departed wives.
And a white India born woman whose parents in the wake of the Clive massacres had taught her to use a gun at the tender age of five. She admitted that when she first arrived in England (1919) she missed Indian men because they were prepared to kill for honour.
And another who used to play the flute on her own on the heathland above her fathers Dorset farm. The only trace of 10 years spent in Queensland in her/the twenties, was a peculiar Australian drawl when recalled the name of Cairns.
I've no idea how anyone gets to live all the way up to 100. But it seems to require a certain lightness of being.
When it's too hard for me to just assume it's all for fun, I pretend everything is playing.
I pretend that the trees are, in their own, long, slow time, stretching, dancing and waving at each other. And the clouds sometimes somersaulting, sometimes rolling downwind, and sometimes dressing themselves up as things and beings.