At 9 years old she is closer in age to my 21 year old self than I am at 37. And when I see her soul-shining and wonderful, I see reflections of a younger me....
So maybe it is in seeing her, hearing her- my young amazing daughter so full of life, and raw emotion- that I could finally see her- that 21 year old me in the hallway, afraid. And why I could finally grieve a pain I hadn't ever truly grieved, and feel a fear I hadn't fully felt at the time... because I had closed down, gone numb, gone cold within.
It's a long distance between 9 and 21. And in many ways 37 is so much closer--as if once we become adults, we are like fully mature plants who have ceased to grow. This may be true on the outside: Subtract 15 pounds, a few wrinkles and gray hairs, and I look a lot like my 21 year old self... By contrast my 9 year old daughter is at the very beginning of her physical transformation into a woman, which will happen quite rapidly over the next few years. But inside, the changes that have happened over the past 16 years are immeasurable, and if I am to remain vital and alive to this world, then I can only keep growing.
I can't imagine every arriving, ever coming to that place where I have stopped growing. If it has taken me sixteen years to embrace the young girl in the hallway, to hold her and to comfort her like she needed to be held and comforted then, then I can only wonder what life might ask of me over the next sixteen.
At this moment it seems to be asking this brutal honesty of me. Is this the truth about life-- that the older we get, the harder it is to lie? The pretending, the facade, just becomes heavier and heavier to lift....and the only thing I can do is to shed that mask and become more and more of myself.
I have come back to this practice of meditating, followed by writing every night- not because I have any particular goal of reaching a captive audience- but because this practice affirms the soul. My soul at 9 and 21 and 37 is a writer's soul, that thrives on a steady diet of centering, reflection and creation. I must lean in to what makes me come alive. In this tiny sliver of the night, there is no lie. I do not hide the keyboard beneath the covers, or make up stories about who I am. It is my time, and so I nourish that self-- that inner child and that young woman--acknowledging the blessing of who they are.
So maybe it is in seeing her, hearing her- my young amazing daughter so full of life, and raw emotion- that I could finally see her- that 21 year old me in the hallway, afraid. And why I could finally grieve a pain I hadn't ever truly grieved, and feel a fear I hadn't fully felt at the time... because I had closed down, gone numb, gone cold within.
It's a long distance between 9 and 21. And in many ways 37 is so much closer--as if once we become adults, we are like fully mature plants who have ceased to grow. This may be true on the outside: Subtract 15 pounds, a few wrinkles and gray hairs, and I look a lot like my 21 year old self... By contrast my 9 year old daughter is at the very beginning of her physical transformation into a woman, which will happen quite rapidly over the next few years. But inside, the changes that have happened over the past 16 years are immeasurable, and if I am to remain vital and alive to this world, then I can only keep growing.
I can't imagine every arriving, ever coming to that place where I have stopped growing. If it has taken me sixteen years to embrace the young girl in the hallway, to hold her and to comfort her like she needed to be held and comforted then, then I can only wonder what life might ask of me over the next sixteen.
At this moment it seems to be asking this brutal honesty of me. Is this the truth about life-- that the older we get, the harder it is to lie? The pretending, the facade, just becomes heavier and heavier to lift....and the only thing I can do is to shed that mask and become more and more of myself.
I have come back to this practice of meditating, followed by writing every night- not because I have any particular goal of reaching a captive audience- but because this practice affirms the soul. My soul at 9 and 21 and 37 is a writer's soul, that thrives on a steady diet of centering, reflection and creation. I must lean in to what makes me come alive. In this tiny sliver of the night, there is no lie. I do not hide the keyboard beneath the covers, or make up stories about who I am. It is my time, and so I nourish that self-- that inner child and that young woman--acknowledging the blessing of who they are.
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