Waking up Old

Old is the land, old is my hand.

My body, my soul.

I wake with the weight of a blanket, a patchwork blanket, of decades, thrown over my body. It’s weight is a comfort, familiar and reassuring. Each patchwork, a different season, a different turning. Continually I add to this blanket of my life. All the episodes of my life, sewn together with threads from other’s lives.

Lives that interacted with mine at one time or another. Some were just brief encounters, others lifelong acquaintances. Family, friends, and lovers.

It’s colors are varied, and vibrant. Giving it a life of it’s own. Even the older, earlier, patchworks, still retain their hue. They still remain important, in keeping the blanket whole.

As is always, it seems, there are those episodes that we would wish removed. Or at least forgotten. Cut from the fabric of our story and tossed out with the evening’s trash.

Yet, it is these episodes that have some of the strongest threads, ruling our thoughts and feelings.

With practice, over decades, even these can, and do, become just another episode. Hopefully making the blanket stronger as a whole.

In the end, this tapestry of life, is what it is, and we are, who we are.

I will wake for another day, and add to my story, as mundane as it sometimes is.