I am staring into the face of 35, it is coming, not here yet but I can hear its footfalls approaching down the hallways of time. They don't seem to be skipping either, they seem to be plodding in my direction. That alone is enough to make me shift uncomfortable in my proverbial seat, however instead, I am staring, clear eyed at the face in the mirror, with the lines and furrows, each one reminding me of the road and occasional hardships that marked the way. It is interesting. Getting older carries a unique set of questions and conundrums. The twenties seemed marked by infinite possibilities and disproportionate dramas. Without the frame of reference granted a person through years of living, every little thing loomed large, every break up... unbearable, every joy...all encompassing. The thirties are different. I feel a more solid foundation beneath my shifting feet, certain that this too will pass...what ever "this too" may be. Yet my horizon seems to be shrinking. I no longer believe that I can do all the many incongruent things I once imagined. For instance, I don't think the wandering, gypsy can reconcile herself with the Montessori teacher, mate and mother of two boys. I no longer believe that I will become a great sweeping academic astounding the multitudes with my brilliance, nor do I imagine that my art will move mountains and gain great acclaim. I doubt that I will write the next great American novel, nor do I imagine that I will be a great saint, clad in white and raising the dead. No, I am somewhere else, on a path that is uniquely mine and somewhat mundane. I don't know where it will lead or even the terrain through which I will travel. But I do know that somehow I set foot on a distinct path, without really noticing it and I am walking sometimes blindly, occasionally wisely in the direction of my own making.
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