That In Between
One of those January days, one of those so-so, even-steven, calm days and that's good. I've had too many of the other. I am at calm sails and I like that. I am floating, anchor down though. I am a hawk floating on the thermals, the wind is enough, the wind is enough. I am neither young or old; I am at that middle place the un-measurable place. Not in the running but not out of the running; the mystery age that keeps me guessing.
If I listen to the voices; too young for that, too old for that; who is to measure; who knows me more than I know myself? No one. I don't listen to them, I don't heed their warnings, I don't worry, I don't fret. I walk taking firm steps, not tentative steps, I don't shy away and I don't reach.
I allow for imperfections, but not
all the time forever. I don't expect much from people but I don't give much
either. I will extend myself again but not at this time. I will rest in this
place that is so new to me and I will leave, but not one moment too soon, not
one moment too late.