A quiet soul

Neither young nor old, I have again come of age...matured from the realm of carefree...into feelings of a more staid nature~~~

I have already done this life thing, so...why am I Lost...I feel lost , alone...as if every day is just a repeat of the day before, the day before and the day before that.

Having to find a new voice...again..my older one faltering.

I am sinking deep into the mist, the mire of the feeling of nowhere-ness, of a familiar sameness where everything matters, yet does not...except the twirling vortex of ... ... ...a seething void

New oldness...old newness...unfamiliarity...scary echoes

What name can I allot to this infernal spinning...something which I fear I cannot control.

.....

My path inadvertently led me to the Church of life...the kindly pastor entreated me, without coercing..."come unto the light and be baptized...be born again, in a visual interpretation of your inner sanctuary...a reclaiming, a coming of age, again...so to speak 🕊️ Let’s see where the metaphor leads you"...

And so I became a symbolic illustration of re-awakening and continuation...a dove rising from the water of baptism, embodying transcendence and transformation. 🌊🕊️ How this vision takes flight will be a new experience into life abounding...unfolding.

Born into a large family, it was easy to have her personality lost within the stronger voices of her eight siblings. She was not at the beginning or the end of the whole commingled, entangled lot...she was somewhere stifled in the middle...where personalities entwined in a tumbling bundle of large, medium and small bodies vying for the position of center stage...be it leaders and or followers.

Her narrative was a capturing of the quiet storm of emotions often felt by a middle child...those caught between echoes and expectations, presence and perception.

In the Middle. Born not first, not last - a page between prelude and epilogue. The eldest casts shadows of leadership, the youngest glows with a golden hue of newness -

and I? I walk in twilight.

I am the echo in the hallway, the comma in a sentence no one rereads.

Too young to command, too old to be coddled. Yet beneath this camouflage of neutrality, brews a spirit seeking its own canvas.

There are days I feel like a bridge - connecting shores that never meet. Or a mirror that reflects everyone's face but my own.

But in that quiet, a strange gift grows... the art of observation, the strength of solitude, the courage to speak without shouting. I learned to paint my presence with subtle colors... not loud, not lost, but layered.

I am the ugly duckling swimming apart from the beautiful swans around me. Fighting hard to keep my head above water, as everyone stare and jeer.

And though I am not the banner-bearer ...nor the baby with a crown,

I carry a melody that neither can sing. Not forgotten...simply unfolding.

My silhouette lingers, bare feet pressing into memory

In one hand, an hourglass, its sand dyed red, not bleeding time, but burning with remembered moments.

In the other, a cracked mirror, reflecting faces I've outgrown., but my shoulders wear a cloak stitched from rebellion, threaded with defiance too soft for shouts, too strong to unravel.

It flutters, not as armor, but as a promise to stand, unseen but unyielding.

I wish to escape back to the familiar, from that which I had longed to escape...yet now seeing how safe, how comfortable my family...my tumbling siblings really were. I am sorely missing its secure and protective embrace. I cannot turn back, ahead lies progress.

I remember that I returned to them during my other lost times...when life felt too much to bear. A first time, a second time...as many times as it took to become myself...fully matured, grown in thoughts and deeds.

Yet, why did this time seem so different. It is my second first life and death rebirth, staring at the after across the bridge. It gets scarier with the passing of time.

I see bright lights beckoning...my ancestors cheering me on. There are two bridges. One they guard until the time for the ferryman.

For now...the bridge between here and there awaits...the brightly lit one dazzles...daunting but not unattainable.

Be it dawn, twilight or a cascading sunset...OK LIFE~~~

Here I come. I sure hope you are ready for my re-emergence!

The bridge does not end.

It loops, spirals, dances.

Each twist revealing a petal of truth,

each curve a brushstroke of clarity.

To be in the middle

is not to be missing...

it is to be the meeting place!