And so you look around on December 30, 2014 and the outside world looks a lot like it did in December last year, standing there in its quiet grey concrete, with leafless craggy branches and 5pm night lit buildings. One thing you know has changed is the inside of your own physical vessel-it looks so different when you hold up your internal flashlight. So much so that when you run into the girl from high school who’s married in business casual with the same cute face and strawberry blonde hair she had 15 years ago, you wonder how she recognizes you because you’ve picked up camouflage, a bit of tribal war paint and makeshift angel wings since you saw her last.
You look at your vision board and wonder about handfuls of those heart leaps that didn’t quite turn out the way you imagined they would this year-remind yourself that parts of them were more like a 3-5 year plan vision, that logistically, some just couldn’t have come to be. Yet. It’s holding pictures of the past and present while you’re blowing kisses to the future-trusting that she too is sending winks of wisdom with warm eyes looking at you back. Trust.
Your ink stained pinky knuckle has been guiding you through, sliding over fallen black words that land all you’ve been carrying, a holding ground of pages whose hands and steady ruled lines can help receive it. You’re different and still there’s glimmers of you that are the same. And even though some of those pieces are ones you wish might have permanently shifted already, you’re grateful for the familiarity of them that reflects you back to yourself. Maybe if those too were now entirely absorbed and transmuted, you’d be floating with a completely unrecognizable and disconnected weightlessness-nothing to ground your feet to the earth. You need all of those pieces, to remind you of the journey and all the handfuls that you’ve learned, and are still learning on the way. Have Faith.
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
~ Anaïs Nin
The caterpillar doesn’t know it’s destined to be a butterfly, and the butterfly doesn’t forget who it was before it grew wings.
I think we can’t always see what we are becoming. But it’s beautiful and messy and hopeful and whole.