Acceptance

I am tall and slender like my father. I look a little like my mother. Though my face will never be as soft. One might say I am pretty. People take pride is such silly things. Don't they? As if we do all the work. But I didn't mold my cheekbones, chin, and nose while floating in utero. I did not decide on the wave and color of my hair, nor the blueish brown irises of my eyes. I never selected my hip width or the length of my legs. Sure, I want this body to move me and work, to climb mountains, run, garden, lift children, dance and write. I want to feel good and strong and so I eat well and work. I dance and play. Therefore, this form is strong and healthy and for that, I am grateful and I am happy. Certainly, it will not be strong and healthy for all eternity. For this body is entirely temporary. Still, I try not to give in to common earthly worry. Instead, I try to let whatever is, be.

I look older because I am older. This is obvious. This is acceptance. Luckily, I've never leaned too heavily on my hair color or my face or figure. When I was younger, I tried (leaning on my looks), but I just, sort of, fell over. So I no longer look too longingly into any mirror. This is the soft fragile shell I wear. That's all. One made for me by other bodies and by the great soul of all souls. Surely, I am curious about it, curious about time and age. I find my white hair, wrinkles, and wisdom most interesting.

Last year, I bought myself a pink t-shirt with the word MOTHER printed in large red letters across the front. At the time, it seemed like a powerful purchase, like a public naming. However, I've hardly worn it. For it feels like a bumper sticker on my chest. THIS IS ME! It screams. Yet, I don't want to be defined by any label. Labels just become judgments and assumptions. A simplified effort to name oneself, know oneself. As if I could ever be the abstract image of a word anyway. As if we were all our bodies or our roles and not a chaotic blended bit of the universe.

We try. We write lists, labels, profiles, roles, and words around ourselves...
I am this
I do this
I live here
I traveled there
I wear this
I have this
I was this
I am this

Words cannot define me. Not really. Though this doesn't keep me from trying. I love language. And I love all that it fails to do. For then there is only living.  I am living. And I am learning. Learning not to label. I am not what I do or the places I go to. I am not the linen, cotton, and leather I wear. I am not my brown and white wavy hair. I am not my moles, my freckles, my legs, my hips, my lips, my fingers, my feet. I am not what I have. (Again, I say.) I am not what I have. I am nothing and I am everything. An abstraction in body, traveling.