Growing out

I tapped this poem out the other night when I had nothing better to do. I showed it to a new friend of mine; someone I hardly know but with whom I share a similar wave length. Their response made me cry. That's not to say they didn't like it, but sometimes I forget how much people can see me.

Why is it called growing up when surely it’s more like growing out? Body and mind expand in all kinds of unexpected directions. And never stop.

At some point you learn to tie your own shoes and balance on a bike. Facts, figures and crafty techniques become forever embossed in the brain. Talents honed.

Gems of knowledge previously scoffed at in folly as old wives tales are proved correct and finally start sticking to the sides. A new appreciation for the wisdom of age and experience. And you learn never to say never, because you just never know.

Emotions become friends. Once the realisation hits that they are intended to be felt and not suppressed. Understanding the beauty and simplicity of like attracts like. It’s called smiling from your soul and living in now. Why would you want to waste a single moment?

Fear. Mostly it never happens, unless dwelled upon too long. The deepest and darkest are best looked at straight in the face and firmly requested to move on. No vagrants here please.

Here I find my limbs outstretched ready to embrace. Like the Pilates class of being. Spirit fingers tingle, feeling for life’s texture in some kind of Braille. But then, I’m only 33 and two thirds. What would I know really?