Yes, you have heard me say it a gabillion times. I am 45 years old. To many that is not a milestone. Yet, given the fact that Black Americans have racism and stress cutting their life expectancy down, being 45yrs old is a beautiful thing. My mother died when she was 46yrs old – so my mortality is all I can think about at times. Late at night. Like, um, right NOW.
… But I feel my soul changing. There is this maturity that I have been forced into that scares me but I embrace it because in the end I know my dignity, self worth and resilience will be all I have left. My soul seems to be creating its own Dewey Decimal system as it reflects upon all my painful moments.
There is a catalog being compiled of things that I have surmounted. I am trying to internally benchmark tactile memories of what hurt me, what cracked me, what broke me and see the commonalities so that I can absolutely avoid them in the future.
And so there is this contract with my soul now, it wants peace. It wants authentic engagement. It wants to laugh. It wants to cry. It wants to languish in a space where it is adored and championed. So it is adapting to the beautiful spaces in my life where I am valued. The spaces where I can shed tears of happiness.
I appreciate my soul and its quest for peace more each day. There is a subtle beauty in which it speaks to me softly, kindly but more so truthfully. There is a delicate charm to making a mistake and having to honestly reconcile it within yourself. As you age emotionally, physically and mentally… So does the soul.
… And that’s a truly beautiful thing.