Yesterday I found myself yearning for a wordless place, a beautiful place where I could just be. I was tired of defining, concluding, reaching, yearning, improving, examining and, yes, growing. I fell into a deep sleep after I came home from work, and when I woke up, my head was empty. I couldn’t remember anything. I went upstairs to my work space and plopped and dozed some more with my feet up and my hair squished and matted on the high back of the leather chair where I do my writing. I looked at piles of papers, and I swear every squiggle I’ve ever made with ink on a page was screaming at me. But silently. Because I no longer understood language.
I closed my eyes against the din and breathed. Who am I, anyway? And why can’t who I am be orderly, defined, presentable, and outline-able? Quantifiable? I am nearly sixty years old, for goodness sake. When am I done chewing through the chyrsalis?