More That Part Deux

So what happened is, yup I turned fifty.  Mike likes to say I’ve entered “the second half of my first century” which to my ears sounds both hopeful and very, very old.  Evie, my evil inner critic, tells me that by now I should be way more awake, but also thinner, richer, more accomplished, and just an all-around better, more outlier-y, person.  

I also should have already de-cluttered my office, toiletries, and life.  Plus bake, craft, camp, and play an instrument — enthusiastically.  Also have a “sport”.  But she doesn’t say it that nicely.  

Glinda, my inner fairy godmother, tells me I’m a champion: I’ve had some lucky breaks, been dealt a solid hand, but also had some challenges and weathered a decent share of horse poop.  Now, entering the second half of my first century it’s clear:  I’m the pony.  (See punchline: “with all this poop everywhere there must be a pony!”) Like, duh. Like, neighhhhh!

I believe in my own plasticity, because I’ve experienced it.  Slowly, jaggedly, in fits of inconsistent persistence and ill-advised, sometimes harrowing, detours, I’ve somehow kept moving, been carried, in the direction of what feels much better, more livable, for me. I’ve survived. I’m alive. And I know I’m not done, I may just be getting started.  

I know Evie is trying to be helpful, but is not helpful. I am everything I need to be and I have everything I need to have to keep growing into the next thing I’m growing into, whatever that is.  I have some hope, some suspicion, and a tad of evidence that knowing that the journey will be ongoing until it ends might give me a bit more ability to flow through the  jagged ups and downs and swirling thoughts and dead ends and meandering wilderness and all kinds of stuff happening not the way I want it to with a bit more grace, ease, and comfort.  

Less wild horse, more perky pony. Maybe a bemused, benevolent self-awareness this-too-shall-pass type self-soothing inner talk, less panicky “Stop this ride I wanna get off we’re all gonna die!” kind of vibe.  Maybe not. It’d be so cool to become one of those smiley, wise, mellow old people who makes everyone feel so good dishing out compliments and reassurances all over the place. It could happen.

One message that’s been coming up lately over and over for me that I’m paying attention to is: This is my life, my ride, and I get to change what I can change if I want it to be different from how it is. And if I don’t change something I can change then I get to take responsibility for things being the way they are because that’s how I’ve chosen to let them be, how I’ve chosen to let myself live.  I’m free, but I’m also my own jailer.  

Good news/bad news:  I hold the key.  If I were giving myself a review as my own caretaker or as the CEO of Me, how would I rate?  Am I doing all I can to make myself, my world, our world, better?  Or am I limping along just trying to stay above water?  What do I need to keep feeling alive during this life?  To keep growing into the kind of old lady I want to be? That’s what I’m after.  More that.  I’m gonna keep going.

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