Complexities

I can’t imagine it.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass and think… “Who is this?  Who is SHE?” I don’t recognize her anymore. Tired eyes. Sagging skin. Eyes more dead than alive. Crow's feet. Thinning hair.

Age seems to be taking away rather than lending to. And I’m lost within myself, unable to find a way back out or at least “through”.

I can’t imagine it.

What my mother must feel. Waking up each morning and looking inside the mirror. Does she ask… “Where did she go? Where’s the young girl I used to be?” Does she recognize who she is or does she see beyond the image staring back?

I can’t imagine it. 

Twenty three years from where I am. Did she struggle as I continue to struggle? Did she walk precariously close to the ledge while contemplating what things time dragged her through? Did she wrestle with the demons who whispered in her ear, “Your good days are gone. So are the qualities once deemed pretty.” Youth… a shadow on the ground stretching out further and further, getting lost in murky shadows.

I can’t imagine it.

Knowing my own transition through the middle years. Is she fighting it all again, for the second time around? Or has she surrendered to grace? Has she accepted the beauty she emits in the here and now? 

Maybe it’s time to stop looking beyond what I see. Go deeper. Dig through the skin, the muscles and bones and to the very center…. Into the place that is real. That has always been real. The part that continues to stir my soul into action, into love. The part that keeps me placing one foot in front of the other. Maybe that holy of holies inside my mother’s soul is where she manages to remain intact, unchanged by changes. Far removed from the desire to be young and attractive again. 

I can’t imagine it.  But I try.