I Am Age

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To say that I am ageless
Implies that age does not matter
Or should not matter
Or I should hope and pray that it does not matter.

As if aging is to be feared or avoided.
Or erased.

To be ageless means someone
Somewhere
Somehow
Have erased the markers of events, emotions and experiences
That have uniquely shaped me,
That have left their indelible residue inside and outside
Of this container of middle-aged magic.

Not that any of those things define me.

No.

But they belong to me.

They belong to the stories in my hands
To the songs in my thighs
To the laughter in my belly
And to the sorrow in my shuffling feet.

Do I exist for the displeasure of your assessment?
To whom do I need to show up?
Shape up?
Sit up?

You are not my Creator.

The brown spots on my face remind me
Of the times the glorious sun shone down on me
On beaches and in backyards,
Washing over me with its warm welcome.

You are not my Mirror.

The scar on my leg tell the story
Of friendship,
Of distraction
Of a time of healing and re-imagination.

You are not my Physician.

‘Act your age,’ they say.
But who are they anyway?
And what do they know about my age,
Or any age other than their own?

You are not my Companion.

I am Age.

I know who I am.
I know what I think.
I will tell you if and
When I choose.

I don’t owe you a smile or deferential silence.
I am sure of my steps and
I will travel the road that leads to flourishing.

I will nourish myself and
I will offer the rest to others,
Only taking what I need.

I am spiritually awake
Emotionally healthy
A force to be reckoned with.

I’ve done the hard work.
I won’t settle for anything less than
The unpredictable adventure of my One Wild Life.

I am not in need of another renovation.

I am a 53-year-old revelation.

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