Here’s another piece from the past. I wrote this several years ago and was rooting back through old files and stumbled upon it. So much of the sentiments expressed here still ring true for me so I thought I’d share.

I begin to think that life’s journey is simply an handful of wanderings. I wonder if I shall ever reach the end. Or is the end even the point? My wanderings have taken me far from the beaten path and in turn, led me directly to it. I am both who I was when I was born and a completely different person all together. How does that even begin to make sense?

People are funny, strange creatures. We can none of us figure ourselves out…though many have tried and perhaps gotten close enough for a glimpse, only to have it vanish like a mist.

I dream of mists. The kind a princess walks through in the perfect romance…her knight on the other side, just hidden from sight. I dream of the mists that time vanishes within. It is a place I dare not venture.

My wanderings are like those of a young girl in the middle of a meadow no one but myself has discovered. At times I can feel the rays of the warm sun beat against my face and I lift it up in joy and exaltation. And then there are the moments where I wander aimlessly, often in circles, the tips of my fingers brushing the stems of grass, so long that I am nearly wading in them.

You know, there is this question that THEY all ask. THEY ask it as a generation of youth stand at the door of opportunity, ready to embark on the long, dark, and mysterious journey of life beyond the corridors of high school, far away from the halls of college, out there in what is commonly referred to as “the real world.” THEY ask it expecting a well thought out answer spoken with wisdom, wit, and long unintelligible words. “What are your plans for the future? What are you goals? What do you want to become?” And I long to ask them in return, “Is life simply about becoming ‘something’ or achieving ‘one’ goal or is it instead, taking faithful,purposeful steps each day after rising?” But I don’t. I smile. And nod. And chuckle. I do not have the answers to those questions so I allow them to linger in the space between our ages, our intellects, our understanding.

The memories of childhood hang in the air as a sweet aroma, even as the door to the future beckons in a breeze and the memories begin to shift, waft and disappear. I grab at them in frustration and worry. What will I forget tomorrow? What speck of joy long past lived will be lost in the recesses of a mind I cannot even begin to fathom? This fear has grown even greater since both of my Grandfathers died over a decade ago. Even now I cannot believe it has already been eleven years and I have trouble bringing to mind their faces and my eyes hurt with un-cried tears and a heart that aches for their absence. I know without a doubt I have already lost so many of the cherished memories of me and my Grandfathers. They are locked away in some file cabinet to which I do not have the keys and whose location I cannot even recollect. And sometimes I am angry that they aren’t here to share in the memories I am making now. I become afraid of age. I am not scared of death for I know that there is an after life. I am more scared of living for some long stretched-out time span that leaves me too thin to remember things, too weak to engage.

But these are the simple and not-so-eloquent musings of a girl striving to be a woman in what often feels like troubled times. These are mere weeds in the sands of time. Quickly sprouted, quickly dead. They are worries that are fleeting.

It is my philosophy that we will continue to discover who we are for as long as we walk on this earth. Time changes each of us adding new features and wearing away old ones. We alter and it is hard for us to keep up with ourselves. At least, that is the way I often feel. As if a part of me is running to catch up with the rest of the body. I hang outside of myself and am one step behind, making the reel of my life a little foggy and hard to follow.

My favorite painting is by Monet. It is one in the series of bridges over the water lily pond. I can sit and stare at it for hours and let the peace that it affords me creep into every limb until it settles in my soul and I am quiet and content. The water lilies are beautiful. From far away they look like masterpieces. The most perfect water lilies ever created. Up close, they are each made of a thousand small brushstrokes. That is the real miracle. From a distance I may look well put together. My body parts are all intact and at the very least, functioning, and I am able to speak and see and hear. But inside, right up close, I am made of a million instances. Me, my person, my character, the woman whose uniqueness is both a joy and frustration, has been created by thousands of events, conversations, books, ideas, gestures, and connotations.