In Writing

The other day I was out to lunch at Whole Foods with my brother, when I cracked open some supplements I had bought and began to dilute them with water.  I’ve been having unspecified stomach complaints (which I’ve self-diagnosed as stress-induced irritable bowel syndrome) and I bought the herbs that were supposed to help with that.

My brother laughed.  “Isn’t it funny how we just never change?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… remember that time I didn’t feel good at your apartment and you fed me all that sawdust?”

I do remember.  He was eight years old and I was eighteen and he came to sleep over at my new apartment.  Sometime during the evening he began to complain of issues and I… let’s just say I came up with a solution.  I won’t get into details, but suffice it to say it was not sawdust.  Not exactly.  But he did scarf it down like the obedient brother that he was (it took some convincing).  And it did solve the problem.

Twenty plus years later, I’m still tinkering with biology instead of putting my trust in doctors.  (At least I’m my own guinea pig now).

Is it true that the same themes recur all through our lives?  That the things we love and pay attention to actually change very little?  The old me, the one who believed I could “fix” everything I didn’t like about myself, would have hated that notion.  But lately more and more I think about how similar I am to the girl and teenager I was.  I still love so many of the same things.  I still think my powers to heal and do are endless, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.  I still sit and listen to the rain.  I still love the written word, although now I believe in my power to create it and not just enjoy it.  So maybe we don’t change that much.  And maybe now that I appreciate myself a bit more, after all this time, that’s just fine.



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