After spending half the summer struggling with some intense stress, and then in the midst of that stress, dropping everything and going on a much needed vacation for two weeks (which involved prepping for that vacation for a full month prior to leaving), not to mention the fact that I made a complete travel blog of our trip which included two solid weeks of writing and photos, and then returning just one day before all of the back to school shenanigans, it’s fair to say I’ve been a little busy. And although I have neglected to be a very good blogger for my diary of a disease, I have not neglected to write. I have so much to say, so much inside me that simply begins burbling out and so I write just for me. My friend Josh shared a wonderful quote by Henri Nouwen with me while I was on vacation that put to words how I feel on a regular basis…”I do not yet know what I carry in my heart, but I trust that it will emerge when I write.”
As much as I love writing and blogging, I do not love typing since my numb fingers make it more
irritating challenging than I want to deal with at times. And in the summer, when it’s very hot, the numbness is much worse and I spend far too much time fixing my mistakes and therefore I try not to type on my laptop at all, relying completely on my Iphone because the typing is much easier on me. I’m thinking I’m going to start using my phone more and more to blog, but I’m still learning the ins and outs and details I’m familiar with on my computer, but not on the WordPress app. It’ll be an adjustment. The week before last I turned 40, and although not trying to be poetic, this is one of those writing moments that spilled out of me about 11:00 pm on my birthday. Impulsive and unedited, here ya go 🙂
August 22, 2017
These forty years haven’t looked like I thought they would, nor does the mirror reflect what I’d like to see, but I’m determined to wear these forty years proudly. At times I bemoan I am not what I see others to be, but I confess, this I must accept, because I could not be them anymore than I could pretend to be a goldfish or a crane. I can only be me, even if sometimes I think there is another me I’d much rather be, but then I take notice how uncomfortable it would be to know the real me is underneath. Any other version would not know the joy or pain I’ve known, and would not need the wisdom I’ve learned. Some other me wouldn’t find joy in the simple things I’ve come to love, and the peace quite possibly I’ve earned. And another me would not begin to cherish the fine lines and tired limbs that have labored these nearly two decades to produce three beautiful additions to this world.
Another me might spend their way to fulfillment, or find purpose in that which is less than temporary, only to find it is a mirage. Or another me would try to erase the face that has earned experience and maturity, by trying to tighten and plump in all the wrong ways. Old wineskins always fail, youth can’t be created in a lab nor delivered in a syringe. If I could be another me, I’d likely hate the face I see.
How could I adore the face that looks a lot like mine, while envying a youth that is now her time? My heart would rather bleed than desire to be anything less than more than twice as old as she, and the mother to such beauty. So I’m determined to be very proud of the real, the aging, and the one hundred percent authentic me. I welcome this fourth decade, and I welcome what it brings.