You know what I love? I love “yes”. I love “yes” so much, and so hard, and also its more boisterous adjutants “hell yes” and “fuck yes”.
I don’t really know why people fear middle age, or dislike it. Middle age is the time you become yourself, or at least when you’re offered the greatest chance to become yourself. For most of us, our kids are grown-up or pretty grown-up, our bodies and minds are still strong and vital, and we’ve maybe, hopefully, learned a thing or two about the microcosm of self and the macrocosm of everything-else, so that the conditions of our lives conspire to a peeling away of the occlusion that protects but also smothers the sweet kernel of true self, that little wonderment that we sometimes hide or overlay with duty and expectation and fear.
It took me a long time to be ready and able to write the way I write — I spent years in wildernesses of not-writing and kind-of-writing because I thought there was a way I was “supposed” to write — and that way wasn’t my way. I tried very hard to constrain my unrulyness, to be neat and tidy and rule-following when I wrote, tried very hard not to be too loopy or eccentric or idiosyncratic and so what I wrote was workmanlike, but not more, and about as satisfying to me as getting the laundry washed and folded and put away, which is to say: minimally.
Nobody did this to me; I did it to myself; I wish I knew why. If I have one regret in my life it’s that I have taken so long to learn the lesson that it’s okay — way, way more than okay, actually — to be free enough to be the creature I am and to be free enough to invite all the “hell yes” I can into my life.