The Journey Inward

As wide-eyed as little me, capturing fireflies and setting them free in her cathedral-ceilinged living room at night with all the lamps out, sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching them appear first here, then over there.

As creeped-out as that same little girl, laying awake in her bed hours later, feeling the imagined footsteps of fireflies all over her body.

As confident as teenage me, sauntering down the stairs of her split level house, killing it in her matching mauve sweatsuit with the inexpertly cut Flashdance neckline, ready for high school orientation.

As indignant as that same teenager, stomping back up those stairs after her mother, standing at the bottom, looks her up and down and declares, “Is that what you’re wearing?” which both of us know means it is not.

As green as 22 year old newly certified me, walking into a classroom of 16 six year old boys, presuming she knows how to meaningfully fill the next 6.5 hours.

As sweet as those boys hugging their teacher who always had a smile, always had a word of encouragement, on their way in and out each day.

As life changing as the moment the doctor placed that tiny baby with the shock of black hair on the chest of 29 year old me and proclaimed, “It’s a girl! She’s yours!”

As abject fearful as that same new mother me hearing these words from same doctor: “You can take her home now!”

As grief-stricken as 33 year old me driving home from tutoring and getting the call on her notepad-sized cell phone with the “emergency calls only” data plan that her dad had passed peacefully after suffering from Alzheimer’s for years.

As tender as that grown woman/little girl me pulling over to sit on a bench by a creek, her happy place, to have a gut-wrenching cry before driving home to her family.

As proud as a devoted mom me bringing her firstborn, country-raised daughter to university in the city thanks to a well-earned academic scholarship.

As poetic as that mom bringing her own mother along to see the grandmother’s graduate alma mater with fresh eyes and to remember the place she met her husband.

As affirming as a 47 year old, divorced after 23 years of marriage, me walking into an adorable home she bought with her own money, that has everything she needs and nothing she doesn’t, and filling it with intentionally curated furniture and objects.

As daunting as that same woman on the first night, climbing into bed alone, and bearing witness to all the creaks and groans of her “new” 100 year old home in town.

As joyful as a make-my-own-decisions me bringing Henry home to pester and adore her two older dogs, and finally giving the girls the puppy they’d always begged for.

As soothed as that same mom holding tight to that puppy on the days the kids and older dogs went to their dad’s and she fretted over what to do with herself.

As tortured as an exhausted 53 year old me dragging herself to work and sitting and staring into space because her mother is slowly dying 20 minutes down the road, but not necessarily today.

As honored as that same woman, sitting by her mom’s bedside one afternoon and witnessing a miracle – her mom, mute and unaware of a visitor, smiling, then lifting her arms up into the air and murmuring unrecognizable words three separate times – then passing later that night when all visitors had gone home.

As plucky as that same woman, months later, taking a chance on starting a writing business based on desire and passion and jumping in before she was ready, because she knew that frankly, that day would never come.

As fulfilled as that business owner, connecting with middle aged women searching for more for themselves and finding it through her writing classes.

As brave as an independent, introverted 54 year old me taking a chance on love again, despite all of its tangles, toils, and troubles.

As joyful as that middle aged woman laughing, traveling, and talking with her best friend and biggest cheerleader boyfriend.

As befuddled as this 55 year old author, who doesn’t know where or how to wrap this piece!

As confident as this same woman who knows, “Just leave it here for now. There will be more to come.”

Photo: Flemington, NJ. 5.14.24 by LA