The trees are just beginning to become alive again–yellow buds, green shoots (not quite an inch long). And still, some cling to death, not quite ready to let go of last year’s tired, brown leaves.
I feel, too, this struggle within myself between life (and growth) versus death (and stuckness/stagnation). There are ways in which I need to shed these old, out-grown arts of myself, especially the parts labeled “not enough” and “didn’t work”.
Can I invite in the Sun, and life?
Can I begin again, and reconceive my story, as though the words “failure” and “mistake” didn’t exist–or, at least, they didn’t stick around and determine my worth?
I’d like to believe that I am not yet dead, at the ripe old age of 35–that I am full of youth, still, and tempered with just enough maturity.
I’d like to know that, no matter what age, I am always learning, and I can ALWAYS begin again.
The story is never done, and thus, the soul is not ready to quit. Not now, or ever.
Let me take this moment, then, to begin again, and to re-create the beginning: calibrated to this time, and to this body, and to this moment–because, after all, there is no other.