Let me be fearless about aging.
Let me welcome each day, each year, as a friend and own them as a gift.
I love the pronounced lines on my face, a now-permanent reminder that I lift my mouth with the left side of my face first. I love the delicate spider-web of crow’s feet visible in the light of day, they mean I’ve laughed. I like my white hair at my temples and, when I see my hands, firm and capable, cleaning, caring, soothing, writing, wiping, holding, caressing, fixing, I think, I have such Mum Hands and it makes me happy, are hands a ministry of love? The freckles of my youth are still visible and I’m in that between stage, the middle years, no longer young, not yet old, the middle place and it feels like a balance, sometimes a tight-rope, other times, stability and rest.
There is a fearlessness about a woman aging well without bitterness, comfortable in the place that she has grown into with grace. The angst falls away, the second-guessing of my words and my feelings, my opinions, so little is written in stone and I feel even my spirit relaxing like my skin. Every year, I get more acquainted with myself and I am beginning to think that I’ll quite like growing old, I’ll wear long skirts and TOMS, I’ll laugh too loud and people will call it cackling.
Let me sit here with my pen and my coffee, paying attention to the days. It’s in the years passing that I move from wanting to “change the world” to wanting to change myself and slowly I’m beginning to understand.
It was my birthday. And there was no cake or party. And I didn’t mind one single bit because I’m finally comfortable enough in my own skin to admit, I just don’t like parties very much.
Linked up with Heather of the EO for Just Write, an exercise in free-writing, without the editing.