In the Morning

I have been told, I am in the morning of my life.

A few days ago, at about 10am, I wondered if I existed at the 10am stage of my time here. That particular morning I happened to have slept in. Although this wasn't typical for me, it still made me a little uncomfortable to think that I hadn't done anything with myself beyond showering and, if I was lucky, making myself appear presentable for the day.

In a brief laps of time I reflected on the earlier parts of my life and realized that these too were acts of waking up and getting ready. The typical child spends the majority of their time awake between the ages 5-18 (plus however many years for higher degrees) in school. But why? To learn, yes. But really, in a strictly applicable sense, to prepare for a job, raising a family of their own, etc. Or in other words, to prepare for the rest of their life.

When I turned twenty I went through this time of fixating on the fact that I had potentially concluded a quarter of my life. I felt overwhelmingly old. I know that may sound silly, especially to those significantly beyond their twenties, but it was definitely a reality check moment for me. I have a fairly poor memory, and I could only recall insignificant snippets from here and there of my childhood--an entire quarter of my life pieced together in a few random memories.

My earliest memory: Riding my tricycle around our small apartment complex and feeling as though I'd gotten lost because it took my short, three-year-old legs a lot longer for me to work my way around the building than I anticipated.

I remember my father purchasing me a 25 cent toy from a small candy machine in the hospital while we waited to see my mother and newly born little sister.

My mind swells with my earlier dreams and ideas of the world, as I recall the first time my mother helped me apply the lightest shades of eyeshadow and lipstick, so that I might wear makeup in public.

I can't help but relive the churning stomach and trepidation of auditioning for high school dance team in front of my more popular cheerleader peers.

I chuckle at the memory of moving away to college and realizing I needed to buy my own toilet paper.

And I daily recall the morning only a month ago when I woke up to the traumatic death of my grandmother.

This is a quarter of my life, in so many words.

Just as the beautiful pastel blues, pinks, and yellows of the sunrise fade into the warmth of the afternoon, so too does the novelty and magic of childhood fade into our background of life.

Inevitably, storms come and go unexpectedly or not, and life presses forward until we each hopefully glow in the rays of a brilliant red and purple sunset.

It's hard for me to fully grasp the duration of an entire life--so long and yet so short.

I find myself staring at women only a little older than myself, wondering how I will get there, but recognizing time's unfailing ability to push us forward.

A very eccentric but wise man once told me, the waves never stop moving. He explained how he had sat on the beach one day alone for 10 hours, until he realized the waves never stopped moving.

So it is with our lives. The waves are always beating against us. The water is always changing. Sometimes the liquid can feel cool, refreshing, and brilliant on the shore of a beautiful beach; other times we feel as though we are drowning. Over time, the water refines us, removing blemishes and rough spots. But the waves never stop moving.

I don't know what time it is in your life right now. I don't know what you've done with your minutes already spent. And I don't feel the need to give you some unasked for, cliche piece of advice.

I just want to let you know, I think wrinkles are beautiful.