The Beginnings Of Some Things.
Last night, while looking for something on my old hard drive, I found this image — a few years old, technically so imperfect, but it fits so PERFECTLY with EXACTLY where I am right now in my life that I just had to edit and post it.
I am so much the same, but so changed. I am a few pounds heavier, plus one child, a couple of extra tattoos, and there is a lifetime of stories written on my face. There’s been death — both expected and lingering, and sudden and breathtaking — several times over. A birth that broke open my body and my world and stitched them back together with profound love and gratitude that I could feel that way twice. I seek out my husband’s face — also older, but all the more beautiful for it — and the sun of it warms me right through to my bones. I am more tired. I dream more deeply, of blossoming thistles and empty houses and animals with fur that feels like running across endless plains under my fingers. I am wiser. I listen better. I plant my toes in the dirt, in the grass, in the mud — I no longer fear the storms that hum along the surface of my skin, and turn my face to taste the thunder. I eat weeds and drink flowers. I stand barefoot under full moons and listen for the wolves. I look for the wild. I aim for the wild. I am becoming the wild.
And I think you can see all that beginning to unfold on my four-years-ago face.