How many times will I shed this skin? Revolving, morphing who I call myself.
How much more will my perceptions of my place in the world change? Of how I view its complexities, of how I see its humanity.
With each shedding I learn. Learn what love really looks and feels like- that it can be messy, loud and brash. Love is not always pretty and beautiful. It can hurt, and yet it can redeem.
How many times will this skin stretch? Loosening around the thighs, waist and middle. Will I recognize myself always, or will I wake one day to find aging came to visit while I slept? Can I appreciate the laugh lines for what they are, and the worry line between my brow, too. Can I accept the changes as representing pieces and parts of my timeline- as proof I am evolving.
I accept who I am, though I mourn the old versions, too. Do others miss the old me the way I do? Do they wish for the way I was when I took spontaneity and adventure for granted? When I had more capacity for exploration in the physical sense, while today my focus lies in the world of emotions.
Can I continue to bounce back after each of my falls, as I have up to this point? Can I accept the shedding of opportunities lost as weights lifted from my timeline, rather than viewing them as punishments? Can I just be…
Every day I change. I am blessed, my home is charmed, my world is my piece of perfection. And yet I continue to wonder about my role in all of it, assessing in my mind whether I’m doing enough for my family, and whether I am being present enough for me.
The rosebushes are back again, and they sit in a vase on my desk. But they’re not as fragrant, or as large as in years past, and I wonder what has changed. Are they really lesser than last year, or is it just my memory, my perception, of what was?
Why must I constantly compare?
Like them I continue to shed, making an effort to remove that which no longer serves me. I continue to pick up my pieces, remembering the best and important parts of my former self- trying today to make improvements. And sometimes that shedding feels exhausting, and like a sacrifice of one’s self. And yet when I wait for it- with great trust- I come to find my new skin grows back stronger, more capable and resilient than it ever was before.
I keep shedding. I keep changing, and it is for the best. I will always be me, and yet I will not grow complacent.