When I was a girl I was very flexible. I can still feel the muscle memory of running down the yard and bursting into a front handspring. If I’m not careful I could probably delude myself into thinking such a thing would still be possible, except to do so now would only be a cause for serious injury to my back. The arch ability needed to do such a thing is not there. I knew I’d never truly be able to make it as an Olympic gymnast, not just because I missed the early years of training, but because I was tall.

I’m in one of those weird reflective places where I don’t know what I am looking at. I don’t mean the outer appearance. I am used to the changes that have happened to my face and body. People talk about looking in the mirror and not recognizing the other person staring back at them. That’s kind of what it’s like but in the metaphorical way. Is that me? What about xyz? I don’t know this person.

Because something is different. It’s an acceptance of my tiredness and a walking away from the pastor’s family who is here for a week. It’s Wednesday and I still haven’t been in the right place to go talk to them. It’s the hum of God’s comfort as my background noise while I play other songs. They talk about women being invisible after a certain age. Truly worse things have happened. I think I now think those people who get all bent out of shape about navel gazing really ought to try it sometime.