I have just returned from a walk with a man named George.

He had attended the poetry reading event that I hosted at The Colonial Theatre last month, sitting in the front row, with rapt attention and smiling eyes. It turns out that he is my neighbor, he lives just a mile from my home in Pottstown. He and his wife are retired, so we set a time to walk together along a nearby trail.

 

“I'm glad we scheduled this today,” I begin. “I've been frustrated by my writing progress this week." He begins to laugh. I laugh right along with him, fully aware of how ridiculous I sound, hearing the youth in my own voice. We mimic sounds of a crooning violin, a lighthearted mocking bringing us together.

 “I don't mean to tease,” he insists, “but this WEEK! How lucky to have only been frustrated for a WEEK!”

 “I know, I know!" I say, remembering all of the times that my elders have reminded me of how minuscule mere days are set against the backdrop of a lifetime. Grandiosity at its finest.

 

I have just turned 33, my children not even in public school yet, and I probably have a solid fifty years or so before my knees start to go. What is a week to me? What is a DAY? And yet, I still agonize over them. Have I done enough? Have I worked hard enough? Have I made enough progress in my hours allotted for nothing but progress? 

I have been told that I am mature for my age for my entire life, but I have also always still felt…young.

Maybe it's because I try to make frequent contact with people older and more experienced in the ways of the world, because in doing this I can see my own lack of maturity as they hold the mirror of wisdom up to my face.

I know that turning to my peers will feel good in the way that all blanketed affirmation feels good, but they cannot offer the wisdom of one who has lived two or even three times my lifetime. 

 

Turning to our elders offers us the great solace of perspective, and I have never come away from my time them with anything less than Hope.