This morning, before the snow and sleet, it rained; a timorous promise of spring.
Spring doesn’t speak to me the way it did when I was young. The winds blow away the gentle voices of hope and rebirth, leaving only the harshness of a world struggling to overcome the ravages of winter. But this year, I am looking forward to spring — the winter has been long and bitter, and I feel as if my new life has been on hold.
A friend told me that the worst thing about aging was the people you lost on the way to getting lost yourself. I thought “getting lost” was an apt way of describing the aging process. Everyday, it seems, vital parts disappear or begin to fade out, and you no longer know who you are.
After I went through menopause, I felt as if I were reborn, a new moon rising after the old one had set. Those missing parts no longer seemed to matter; they belonged to someone else, someone I could barely remember. Now that the cocooning winter is almost over, I am again wondering who this new person is, the one I am becoming. In the youth of my old age, in this spring of a new year, I realize that there is still some hope left in me. Perhaps success will still come my way. Perhaps new friends are on the horizon.
Perhaps my moon is still rising.
