Each morning as I awaken and I wiggle back into my skin returning from dreamtime, and try to unwrinkle the bits that droop and sag, I recall the days of my youth, when who I was slipped on as easily as my flip-flops, and was as light and ready to go. Now my self is worn and stretched and sags a bit, more like my hiking jeans of old than the flip-flops I wore until they were paper thin. My old patched and sagging jeans were comfortable in a different way. Reliable and filled with memories of past adventures. Embroidered and colored in shades of blues, they worked just fine in all terrains and all weather. So I have become like my comfy old jeans. Deeply lined and stretched, pockets filled with bits of things and lists of tasks that need to be done. Working and worn, and still mostly functional, and the patches I wear add character, hint of stories still to be shared, lessons learned and then forgotten to be relearned again with irony and humor.
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