40 years of treading.
A few years of digging in.
40 years of support.
27 years of pirouetting.
6 years of swaying and rocking.
40 years of participating…
and letting go.
40 years of reaching and pulling.
7 years of jiggling.
32 years of being hard as a rock.
5 years of stretching, shrinking, and incubating.
3 years of hanging over the waistband.
33 years of being barely there.
4 years of doing what they were made to do.
40 years of bearing witness…
So this is my forty…
It’s very middle-feeling.
Not really old. Definitely not young.
I remember when a mixed tape was a token of love, yet unabashedly love Taylor Swift.
I’m not gonna lie.
I’m tired a lot…
my left shoulder makes a popping sound,
and I’ve somehow developed a “trick knee”.
I thought it would be a bigger deal – this loss of youth.
I’m uncomfortable with time’s relentless forward motion…
mostly because I have yet to master living in the present…
But I also know now what is truly a crisis and what isn’t.
I’ve experienced love and loss and trauma and rising from the ashes.
40 feels like resilience…
which is pretty good.
Pretty damn good.