seasons

I am stymied, without voice, uncertain as to who I am. I have become too old, afraid of wrong choices, afraid of changing, afraid of  lost time, afraid of a truncated future.  Dreams are only for the young. That joy, passion, fearlessness has somehow spilled from my cupped hands.  It seeps into the earth.  I am inert.  I call myself deliberate, born of a practical bent. but the truth is fear has clasped my heart, whispered failings in my ear. I am mired.

So I acknowledge this and lift one foot and then another, eyes wide open, breath deep, on and on until I am further along, a sudden decision made in this golden season, this barely autumn of a life, so foreign to me, unrecognizable.  And slowly I begin to love this creature I have become, realize there is yet time, future, dreams to be had, remaining.  It is this that keeps me calm, a dropped leaf on still waters, peaceful, though without true movement.  until a current catches me and i revel in the tumult, the uncertainty, bobbing in the eddy, to resurface, bouyant, gripping fast to life, finding joy, finding place, becoming, once again.