Caring about yourself. It sounds so selfish and yet. And yet as I grow older it seems so necessary. Perhaps it was necessary all along, but I was too busy, too overwhelmed with unexpected circumstances, unstable relationships, the raising of children, and the getting on of living, daily, to notice me, until — I was no longer who I was, but who I am — now.
Now is a wonky location to be at fifty-eight years old.
I don’t remember having a map. I don’t remember setting out in any particular direction. Were there crossroads? Did I travel the road not taken? Did I travel the road more taken? Was I even on a road?
Outside of family and friends, I have been known to say I don’t care. But I do. Oh, yes, I most definitely do! I care about my job. I care about my purpose in this world. I care about me.
Caring about me is a scary feeling. Jeepers Creepers where DID I get those peepers?! I’m simply not used to taking care of, paying attention to, preening over, fussing about, or watching over — me.
This concept of caring for myself is akin to being on a Ferris Wheel, alone, stuck at the top and waiting…waiting…waiting for it to resume its course, all the while contemplating how to safely get out and off without falling.
Be care-full about you, dear friend