Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

The collecting of years.

October 7, 2016

 

I have, finally, finally, become okay with getting older. It's not so much a question of vanity, not really. I don't care about the inevitable gray hair, I don't care about minor changes in my skin--not really. These markings are our history; they assure us that we have seen so much, remember so much, learned so much. They tell the world where we've been, reminding us of how strong, how resilient we really are. 

 

No, for someone who loves tattoos and scars and stories as much as I do, these things don't bother me. What bothers me (I wanted to say 'bothered'--past tense--but I don't think that would be accurate or honest) is that I don't feel as though I've arrived anywhere close to mundane, ordinary stability. Stable is what I thought I'd be in my late 30's. Not that I wouldn't still be a bit of a wanderer or a seeker, I think that's just my makeup, but that I would have a permanent dwelling, a landing place. I'd stop worrying so much about scarcity and lack, I'd know myself well enough and more easily sort paranoia and anxiety from reality.

 

But maybe we never feel as though we've arrived. Maybe life is like one big Eurorail ticket--we just keep hopping trains, hoping for romance, hoping for beauty, hoping to be moved by art, hoping to pick up a bit of the language. 

 

Either way, I think gray hair will be a hell of an easier transition, all things considered. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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