Friday, September 20, 2013

Prose at 30

I flipped through an old composition notebook the other day.  The notebook is filled with scribbled poetry and prose from my imagination, a bit of college algebra from back in the day, several bunches of ripped out pages from writings I was embarrassed of, or etched thoughts that were no good; as well as some crayon-scribbled pages courtesy of my wee ones.  While perusing the pages, I came across something I wrote and forgot about from almost two years ago.  I enjoyed reading it, and became a bit reflective afterwards.  Not wanting this particular writing to accidentally get ripped out or finger-painted over, because I kind of like the snapshot it creates of my thirtieth year, I decided to share it here in the blog-o-sphere.

On my 30th birthday

Below is what was written -- my reflections at 30.


I still don't have the important things figured out.  I still daydream like a school girl.  Meanwhile, we're trying to close the chapter on child bearing -- but not sure if another wants to squeeze through the pages.

I try to be a good mother, but fail at a lot of things. . . sometimes I get them right, and I smile because I nailed it.

I write this while sitting in a rental home -- thriftily decorated -- staring at flowers -- red roses -- received for Mother's Day.  My prize for failing and nailing.  There are yellow daisies keeping my roses company.  Tralee's prize for dancing.

I worry (will I ever not?) about finances, worry about teaching preschool tomorrow.  When will the items get here?  I worry about my love. . . about our love.  How fierce and green it once was.  Now weathered, watered with tears --both joyful and desperate--, torn up and tapped back together again and again.  Strong in the parts that matter and a little iffy around the insecurities.  Forever and ever committing ourselves to one another's mercies.  Forever and ever creating roots that entangle until there's no way of knowing whose tree the root belongs.

I'm learning that paths don't always lead to perfection, but I'm being perfected with every stumble and step.  Each struggle, trial, road block, storm, fight, tear-stained puffy face from uncontrollable tears or stubbed toe followed by muffled curses -- It all makes me capable, sharpened, polished.

It's painful and beautifully satisfying to weather. . . 

I endeavor to make my outside polished as well; eating better -- plant biased mostly -- and getting
stronger -- four-days a week-- as I pound the pavement, take the wee ones on bike rides, or let a fit lady in spandex tell me why it's a good thing my sore core, legs, butt, and arms feel like they're about to fall off or burst into flames.  I might scream, grunt, or cry but I'm gratified -- proud of me.

And I'm not. . . 

But I'm in training; hopeful to know more and to do better.  I imagine the day I'll have life (mostly) figured out; the day when the puzzle pieces glide together. . . And maybe they won't, and maybe I'll die daydreaming.  Until then, I won't abandon my desire to improve on yesterday.  Even when I sometimes walk backwards with my eyes closed, I'll keep moving; whether it be a walk, run, or wiggle. . .  when wiggling is in order.

On my 31st birthday

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