Life is worn and tearing, and this makes me profanely angry.
I hear a baby cry in the distance, just a simple need for succor and in an instant, I’m filled with Memory—Grief for What’s Lost. For when it was my breast, feeding the cry, when mine were young, I did not understand The Wonder. A baby cries in the distance for its mother’s breast, and then quiets down, a need met.
For me, I gave, and gave to three babies, nursing for what seemed like years. Those moments, now a memory, I could not take them in, not fully, I was not wholly there. It’s Long Gone, that feeding. I can never do again.
Sitting here, a decade later, there’s a grieving inside me, even here in this public place with a stranger’s baby crying, my heart tears apart, breaks with the memories—it is worn and tearing, rending.
I sit in a library waiting for my teen child, and appreciate the people getting old slowly before my eyes.
I think hard. I want to take in this Moment of Solitude, receive the slowing of time.
Be here, In This Moment. Breathe it in. I sense that I am becoming a better person, sitting amongst these Saints, the tomes and verses—Wisdom is everywhere to be found if you are listening.
I wonder at it all.
Why do we appreciate what is Magnificent and Beautiful, only when it’s Too Late? What is happening now that I need to Take In, Understand and Catch before it is too late? Before I am one of the aging, Watching Time Ticking, like them.
Life, is worn. I hear it tearing apart—Or is it my heart breaking. Can I hear callouses accumulating on my soul?
Life is worn and tearing, I see the Zigzag of Age on my skin. I’m Breathing In my Life,
I’m here. I’m—still—here.
Grateful for a second chance, to Know Things Differently, Again.
Be Here, Be Here. Breathe in, I whisper to myself, to the Aging, to the Baby, to the Mother, to them all.
All isn’t all lost yet.
I am the lily, beautiful. You are the lily
Life is the lily, consider it.
Of the One
Who Made Us All.
I am worn. I am tearing.
But I am going to stop worrying, if I impossibly can.
Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. — Luke 12:2 7