I celebrated my fortieth birthday last month and it’s been causing me to reflect on my life so far.
I feel like I’m finally becoming comfortable in my own skin. I’m mostly accepting of my body while still caring for it and making it stronger. I’m embracing how I’m made mentally and emotionally as beautifully designed features rather than flaws. (This is still a work in progress, especially when I feel like no one around me quite values those features).
I’ve realized that I don’t actually feel any different inside than when I was younger except that I’m more secure as a person. While I fear some of the process of aging, and it’s hard to watch the people around me age too and even die, I am in many ways happy with where I am.
But there is so much more I want to do. I feel as though my days on this earth are few and there is still so much to create. I may be in the post-childbearing portion of my life, but I haven’t stopped bearing fruit. Whether it’s the yarn that slides between my fingers or the words that tap onto the keyboard, I’m still creating and I don’t know that I’ll ever stop.
Despite discouragement, disappointment, and frustration, I keep coming back to the things that make me feel alive in all the beautiful creative facets of my life. Some are dormant, some are active and there always seem to be potential new ones emerging.
So as settled and comfortable as I feel, I am always growing. I’m sure I will look back on these years and feel even more at home with myself by comparison. But for now, I’m going to lean into the activities and people that make my heart sing, hoping all the while that I have as many years as possible to make and build all the things still simmering in my soul.
In January I turned 54 and I feel no different than when I was 20. But I think as I’ve gotten older, I too, have become more creative. I do understand your point of view.
Happy 40th and I hope you live to see many, many more creative years. Blessings.
I’ve seen much of what this life can give,
the tapestry, the warp and weft,
and though I want so much to live,
it seems that there’s so little left.
The door lets in the world outside,
the happy dogs run to and fro,
but part of me just wants to hide
from the things that I now know,
the goals which will not be achieved,
and that I never really shared
for doubt that I would be believed,
but I wonder, if I’d dared
to tell what I kept in my head,
might my dreams have lived on when I’m dead.