Non-Fiction Friday - "Being a writer"

My whole life I’ve felt like I had something to say. I’ve felt it steeping in my heart and in my brain. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue. I can almost, just almost, say it sometimes - sometimes finding the words to articulate this... this... thing that I have to say. But it never feels quite right. I’ve always had this theory that the problem is that I’m not old. That as soon as I get old I’ll be able to say that thing. That something will turn on. When I look like my Grandma I’ll be able to tell the story and it will be epic. I’ll open my mouth and wisdom will miraculously and eloquently and simply pour forth like the rock at Horeb; my water will refresh millions. This is how it’s always gone in my imaginations of my future. I’m the old lady with cookies - and advice.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about death. And in the process of attempting to confront, or even admit, one of my greatest fears, I’m learning. I’m learning that people don’t buy anti-aging face cream because they’re vain - they buy it because they’re scared. The lines on their face taking the place of odometer, counting the years they’ve accumulated, roughly estimating the years they have left. I’m only 26 and I can already feel my mortality weighing heavy.

So here I am, waiting until I’m old to say my piece; trying not to grow old. The thing is though, time passes, and as it does I can’t help but observe a change in how I view the world. Slowly but surely I’m seeing what people mean, or rather, what they meant when they told me something years ago. The classic moment when a child becomes a parent and can suddenly see through their parent’s eyes and so many things they had questioned now become clear. The more I experience the world the more I understand. The more humble I am when others share their troubles and the more willing I am to ask for help. And I’m learning why I was waiting for that old lady to show up on my face - it’s because time comes with a consolation prize - the gift of a broad perspective.