How old would you be
if you didn't know how old you are?
I used to spend time thinking about such things. Things such as: If I woke up one day with no memory, what would I call myself? Where would I choose to live? What would I do for a living? Would I play the same instruments? Sing the same songs? Buy the same cheese?
Actually, I think I've figured it all out. I would call myself Ellie. I would live in the mountains. I would grow pumpkins and flowers and herbs. Or maybe be an archaeologist. I would play the guitar, sing hauntingly-melodic songs into the wind, and would eat Havarti cheese. Or maybe a good Stilton. But I would still have Millie. Ellie and Millie. Yes. That would all fit nicely.
I tend to get all thinky around my birthday. Do you do that? The day before April 8 comes and there I go, thinking. Whipping myself into quiet frenzies. My thinky, frenzied brain whispers: This is not where you thought you'd be at ___. How are you already ___ anyway? How can you be ___ and not have a child? What are you doing with your life, anyway?
But inevitably... ultimately... my heart stands up and crowds the noisy brain back into place. And thumping heavily with another year's experience, it pulses back: I am exactly where I need to be. I've lived this full and I've lived this well, and one day all these jumbled life pieces will fit together in a glorious, complete landscape. He will accomplish what concerns me.
Here's to another year of life. -Brin