I want to be young again, but I really don’t want to re-live all the lousy stuff that occurs in the normal course of growing up.
I want to be old enough to fully accept that ‘legacy’ has nothing to do with what I did for a living, but what I did with my life – and that it mattered.
I want to find my waist again.
I want my waist not to matter as much as the shape of my soul.
I’d like to have no regrets, yet I regret that I think one can’t live without them.
I want to be remembered despite not having any wish or intent to go anywhere which would prompt people to miss me.
I wonder when I’m going to feel like I’m making my mark, yet delight in doing nothing but watching two fawns practice leaping in my backyard.
I miss the sounds and smells and demands and affection of having little boys, though my sons as adults delight me as no other adults can.
The rain is welcome, despite my wish for the sun.
In my head I’m far younger than the mirror suggests. I find that a little insulting, and adds still more dissonance.
I want to read and read every book, blog, essay that grabs my curiosity and still take time to relish every sentence that I love.
I want to travel more and still cocoon at home.
I want to dare more though I’ve never been known for being particularly intrepid.
Nobody gets everything in life; yet everything in life is not worth having.
The ebb and flow of extremes. The push and pull of our hearts and minds. It’s ok to grapple with this confusion, I tell myself. It’s that insistent feeling I have that somehow, we’re supposed to ‘know’ by now. The irritation I feel when I find that when pressed, I really have no clue – and the smile on my face as I realize that I’ll likely never get off this swing, so while I’m on it I’m just going to see how high I can go.