Stranger
Who would I be if I met myself as I would a stranger, with fresh eyes,unaccustomed to the endless rattling judgment?
I say, I no longer see myself as I was before,
wrapped in identity and expectation of a life that should be this or that.
I say, this person is bolder, mellower, funnier and more forgiving.
I say, this person dares to stretch beyond the comfortable sufficiency of the day.
And her face reflects that wisdom, –more lines yes, and a brighter sparkle behind the eyes as well.
The joints may be rusty but the spirit flexes more easily with what is,
and opens to the “other” and to what they hold most dear.
I say, I am the stranger now,
I am the one who melts into the pleasure her body offers,
not to wield power or to prove to that little voice in the head,
once and for all, that I am worthy.
But strange enough that such pleasure can exist without the pain of guilt or culture.
Strange too, that I find myself awakening to the stranger who shares my bed,
releasing the grip of “knowing”
that keeps me from seeing what drives him or warms his heart, now.
I grant myself the permission to discover him again, anew.
Strange that I should show up at all,
and take full ownership of my birth right to dance,
to create, laugh and spin,
weaving the thread that connects me to the unchartered future me,
a stranger after all.
Showing up without the burden of being what others want me to be.
And above all, strange that I live no longer with the comfort and illusion of immortality.
This is it.
Time here, looking through these beginner’s eyes, is finite.
Not an endless hero’s journey but one that must and will come to an end,
making this time now
strangely precious.
And finally, strange that each moment’s birth and death feels more treasured and poignant,
that there’s no way to honor them all,
but that I want to honor them at all,
is new to me.
