All sorrows can be borne, if you put them into a story . . .Isak Dinesen
It's been a struggle lately. I am just not certain about the woman who continues to peer back at me at the mirror. She is at once an image of who I used to be . . and then she's not. I see a resemblance, faint and fading . . and yet, I am once again, not certain whether I want to pull her back or push her away. In those moments what I really want to do more than anything is to cry. Big heaving sobs. Over the loss . . no, I think not. My guess is that I want to cry because I can no longer define her.
She's shape-. . .literally and figuratively . . and what I once thought of as an absolute "I won't ever" . .is now becoming real. My hands look like my father's, my legs are those that stoutly ferried my grandmother up the stairs, into the kitchen, to her favorite recliner, and into my heart. My lids droop . . to say nothing of my boobs that are only secured by the corseted stays of an underwire . . although I know for certain that my eyes still "see" beauty and my heart can still "feel" the deepest desires and longs for time spent wasted in unknowing.
And so the story is not of the past, but of the future. . where I will go, who I will be . . unbridled freedom. All it takes is a little bit of imagination and a willingness to put one foot in front of the other . . in the present.
No comments:
Post a Comment