The recognition that I prefer to live in my small self came late in life and I would not now trade it for anything. Growing old helps slow me down, limits options, provides cover for the tenderest parts of myself. Small is where I am grounded, nourished, whole. Digging deep into these new-found sensitivities, I find myself capable of stopping mid-sentence, taking refuge in silence. In this state, alone even when others are present, I can be perfectly fine.
If I encounter someone while I am in this state, I may share a smile, but I no longer feel the need to perform, justify or explain my existence. I listen, I appreciate. I muse. I would have once judged one such as this dull. But in this place, where being complete is purpose enough, I can look admiringly at the life teeming about me grounded, enduring: the immutable rock in the river and no longer the driven salmon.
This is not a ploy, an enhanced attempt at eliciting care or attention. The truth is, what I have discovered is that no one minds or even notices and I am now more often than not delighted to be getting away with it.
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