“Let’s be honest, open and brave!”
“Soul on the Run” available everywhere (Balboa Press)
The sun was a spotlight through the windshield. I shook my head and blinked my eyes to make sure that what I was seeing was real, to make sure that it wasn’t a trick of the light, that I wasn’t mistaken. I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel to make sure the hands on it were actually attached to my arms.
Raised veins snaked across the back of my outstretched hands. Sharp lines defined them instead of soft angles. There were age spots where there was once clearly smooth flesh. Wrinkles framed the knuckles, not gently contoured skin. How could these belong to me? These are the hands of an old woman!
This truth widened up from my tailbone, skittered down my back and fingered across my shoulders. My going-grey hair lifted at the back of my neck as full awareness shot through me and I splayed my fingers in a gut-sigh of surprise. These are my hands! This isn’t a concept. This isn’t a spiritual axiom. This isn’t me being centered and oh-so-wonderful in the face of my culture telling me my body is too old.
A few months before, a man had called me “wrinkly” and I thought I’d weathered this transitioning of me towards old. I’d written about it in an article called “My ‘Naked’ Truth” and I’d received accolades and anger for talking about standing naked in front of a mirror honoring my aging body. This was different. This was way different.