Acceptance comes on in slow moving waves sometimes. Since it's Asher's birthday tomorrow, a cake comes to mind. Icing being slowly smoothed over the cake bumps - the small clumps that seem to emerge once you begin frosting.
For the past week, I've been staring at my desktop photo, a picture of me at 33, on a beach, broadly smiling with bug-eyed glasses on. This has been part of my manifestation board process - seeing images of what you want to achieve.
And, this girl looks skinny. She looks young. She looks just like...a girl.
I am no longer her. And suddenly, I don't want to be. I wouldn't take away a second of the knowledge, love, or achievement of the past five years. Even if, I am not so skinny and not so girlish - only five short years later.
This is one of those evenings when acceptance washes over you like a cool breeze after impossible heat.
I have a photo of my father, chest thrust up proudly, standing at the entrance to my dorm the day of my graduation from Exeter. I boy of 17 stands next to him with curly hair and a wide narrow smile, squinting against an unusually bright New Hampshire sky.
ReplyDeleteI was him for about 10 more years when I married. Late in the cycle of raising Amelia and Douglas, that self returned. I prized him; he faded in my early fifties. I'm glad.
Ahhh. That is lovely.
ReplyDeleteI adore being 45. I really like who I am so much better than when I was younger.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I wish I had the knee joints and the elastic skin of earlier times, but other than those few petty things, I prefer the Now to the Then. I can smile indulgently at my previous incarnations -- but I'm very glad they are previous!
I like that, Carolie. Overall, I adore being my age as well. It's just weird sometimes to "be" my age. :)
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