HOW TO FIND THE THREAD OF WHO YOU WERE

   At the ripe old age of 77 (and why in hell do they call it "ripe"?) when it is more like the "dry old age", I am thinking a lot, almost constantly, about my mortality. It seemed that I had so much time before, even up to the age of 74. You'd think with 3 kinds of cancer at 70 I would be more focused on death, but I had faith I would survive.

 

 But what is more apparent to me now as I age is my heightened awareness of all the different persons I have been throughout my blessedly long life. There was the sparky, agile young girl I was who fought with her brothers, played with dolls and her dollhouse,

 and climbed a pine tree to lie on a big branch and feel the wind blowing me up and down, one with the world. Nature was my God, and I felt her flowing through me.

   Then there was the developing girl in Middle School, uncertain of what my body was doing but excited about it. I remember crumpling up colored kleenex to stuff in my tiny bra, and exchanging a friendship ring with another girl. That young girl who went to her first dance in 8th grade is still with me, even to the dress (maroon with a bow in front) I wore.

 

  The thread of who I was and am now is vibrant in High School, even in my tiny, conservative New England town. We had to hide the fact that our parents were Marxists, only telling my best friend who basically saved me during those 4 years. She was a Quaker, and her parents were progressive pacifists, dear to my heart. I was laying down the ground of my writing career as I read: Kalihl Gibran, William Blake, 

Walt Whitman, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and so many more. I believe that my mystical trend was hooked by William Blake, who saw angels in a tree. How I loved him and his incandescent paintings and poems.

 The past self merged with the present one in Oxford, England (JYA) when I feasted on literature, politics, Evensong, and finally my conversation in Christ Church Cathedral, 

hearing St. John's Passion. Suffering and joy, both present, taking root in my body and soul.

 Without going through all the rest of the decades--marriage at 21, witnessing my mom's death, building a house with Rick, having two children, making many gardens--I can feel the rootedness of my self through those years.

 When I want to reconnect to them, I only have to go outside and sit on the warm earth. I only have to paint a picture, delighting in the colors and remembering how my mom had us do so many, many art projects 

at our big table. I can even feel the excitement I had at completing an oil painting of a horse (one of my loves), which has stayed with me. Cooking reignites those old and present loves, as I chop red peppers, saute red onions in butter, put in chicken, broth, pomegranate molasses, and a bit of yogurt. I am painting with food.

 That little girl with wildly curly hair is still alive within. The girl who rode horses is there, feeling the warmth and energy of a horse between my knees. The teen who was so passionate about justice and peace has never disappeared. Without being preachy, I think if we want to pick up the threads of who we once were, we need to engage in the activities which gave us joy. All of our selves are still alive, sometimes giving joy, sometimes anguish. But there. Not dead. Informing our lives today. And when I slip this mortal coil and fly towards God, all of those Annies will be flying with me.