In my middle seventies, I have a thirty-year plan. Centenaria, my 100-year-old self, her stark-white curls tangle down to her waist, a disarray of beauty and wildness. But she’s calm with age. Her wisdom comforts me.

Seventies, yes, but my second book has just won a prize. More importantly I’ve found a way into the gift of daily writing. I’ve been entering dark-morning practice into the words with bright spinning tools, a place where I come alive. My patch-work of music/pain/illness/beauty/glory swirls into a complicated semblance of art. Poetry. The glory is in the entering. The connection, devotion to the work, I’m endlessly thankful for this. 

Since it’s taken me so long to find this place, since I’ve lost so many years, I practice all the health&well-being I can. I want to take back years. Thirty more for new poems/books/teaching, Dear Ones. I fear I’m making a fool of myself here. I fear I won’t be able to do the work. I fear I’ll do this badly, and that this has no relevance.

Despite the new contingent of microbes, thousands that pulse through the wound, I cannot have my purpose interrupted. I have too much to do here. Despite the blue/black center, the rounded-red swelling surrounding it, forming a noticeable bulge on the inside of my left calf, I continue the daily QiGong practice. Hello Lyme Disease, Old Friend. You can no longer frighten me. I’ve lined up the battery of herbs/tonics/frequencies.

Nevertheless, I speak with Centenaria as I work toward her existence. She answers me, her earlier self, with kind support, as my wild-cowgirl teen-age self still rages sometimes. As I dance to rock ’n roll in the night. She encourages the lady-like child in me, who was always told to modulate her voice. Will I fail? Will I die before the thirty years? Perhaps. But hungry with purpose, I pray I will not modulate my voice.

As we plunge into whatever is going to happen, I hope you’ll share this process with me. I hope there’ll be something here for your own purpose. Devotion. What you came here for. 

I’ve come to believe that control is an illusion. Who knows what will happen. Maybe we’ll merge illusion, gifts, purpose, what ever comes; as we press forward microbes surging, carrying our fears/illnesses/short-comings in all their glory. Our lives. Living well. Living badly. As we enter the continuing chapters. Let’s see what we can make happen!