Not pulled apart in any way, just that some days – clear eyed or blurry. Hard to tell. I feel life is not over. Not nearly over – but more like it is just beginning.
View looks the same, face in the mirror looks the same and I can’t imagine wanting to live anyone else’s life. Hasn’t always been that way, but now it is.
Sitting here marveling at how great life has been, how much I’ve done and how much I’ve laughed and smiled through. Hills, valleys, mountaintops and muck. And words rhyming with muck
I wonder if, when much younger, I’d have responded to that with any understanding or appreciation of its value, of its simplicity, of its magic?
I don’t live inside house or castle, don’t live without imagination – I live inside my life. It’s crowded in here, with all my stuff. I could make room for someone else. But it would have to be a great fit, wouldn’t it? Hard to turn around without colliding.
I inhabit my life, as it inhabits me.
Just beginning to chart a future, figure out a path and embark on ‘the real journey’ of my life, just beginning to appreciate perspective and pain, generosity and gain.
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