Here, Now, and Then
This is for the woman who looks out onto the horizon of herself, straining to see what she might become. With the sun in her eyes, squinting, she takes cautious steps—part of her wanting to run, skip, and bound into to the vast expanse of the unknown before her, and another part wanting to shrink back, scurry away and frantically search for her mother’s leg to cling to and hide behind. This is to remind her that each of her steps, no matter how small, is a small victory. This is for her, so that she might remember to walk with her eyes wide open, aware of all around her, but to follow her heart, as if her eyes are closed and she instinctively knows the path. This is for the woman who supposes that she’ll know where she is supposed to be when she gets there—so that she might remember to enjoy herself along the way.
© 2011 Elizabeth Barton