I sometimes have the feeling that I can’t recognize myself.
When I look into the mirror and the image reflected back at
me all of a sudden seems unfamiliar.
And then I actually feel.
The coarseness in my hands and
the expanse of my hips. It’s like I’ve gone from child to
adult in nothing more than a few seconds.
Like there’s been a lapse in the universe and
the old me was plucked out and replaced with this one.
But then I remember the un-phenomenon
called growth. And there wasn’t a lapse
–no, now I remember–
there were moments that demanded I stretch
Yet somehow the fact that I’ve changed is only important if I notice it.
I can go through weeks months years decades
just being and not knowing.
I hope, as I learn to notice, that I appreciate every
wrinkle on my soul as I do each one on my skin.
That I lovingly glide my fingers over the
crevices and nooks in my epidermis, just manifestations of the growing
wrinkles conspicuously hidden in my brain. Old age is a sign of wisdom-
I won’t hurry to smoothen them out.
I no longer fear it.
I no longer fear the old or the new.
New things to try and new things to learn.
To ask about experiences I never had in an effort to
understand diversity better. I’ve learned that the only one
holding me back from connecting to others, to being a blessing,
is a little ball of uncertainty called Me.
Me would spend more time mulling over
13 reasons why particular ideas could never
work instead of finding solutions for them.
Me refused to exercise kindness on herself by
saying no when she needed time to grow
I refuse to be my own bully. I choose to believe that
God has implanted gifts in me and I choose to act on them.
I choose to love my wrinkles. I spend more time
intentionally building myself and others up for the future
and for the now.
The worst outcome is that I get a particular idea wrong.
The best outcome?
Well, I imagine it’ll be unimaginable.