Age, the term we use to talk about the number of years on earth, is concrete, and therefore, something that others use to anchor judgments. I get that. This idea fits into the collective understanding of reality that we have universally determined and accepted. But such judgments are limiting: they place us in uniform boxes. One box for childhood, another for the teen years, another for early adulthood, then we move into the adult box, then middle age, and so on. I’ve noticed that from middle age we are placed into the old box and “old” seems to be the one where we live for the longest time.
I don’t live in boxes. I just don’t.
My soul flies; my heart sings. Spirit is undeniably dominant in my existence. In the scheme of ME, the physical body, and therefore by extension, my age, is nothing more than a small spec in the whole beautiful mosaic of who I am.
Age, in terms of the number of earth-years one has lived to date, is really not very relevant to how I live my life. I have never had friends who are only my age, and never have same-age friends been in the majority. My friends reach the far ends of the earth-years spectrum.
Each generation has its own set of adjectives that serve as rudders to guide us along the river of life, but living only in the wake of that one rudder is so ridiculous that I can’t even begin to wrap my pretty-little mind around the concept. Nor do I want to. The adjectives of my generation are just imprints on the formation of my earth-life; they are neither absolute definitions nor boundaries. I want exposure to all the adjectives in our human language and the possibility that any of them can become a part of me.
No, age is not a determinate for how I live my life. My soul is ancient, an age that has no number; my heart springs from a place we call “childhood”. If you were to put a number on them (though I do not believe we can), the distance between the two would be tremendous. Within this thought, the number of my earth years is really quite random in the big design of my existence.
Oh! The richness of a child’s first discoveries!
Oh! The profundity of an elder’s wisdom!
Oh! The beauty of diverse perspectives of shared experiences!
These are the people I choose as my friends.
And age is irrelevant.
Some people say I’m a “late bloomer” because of they way I’ve come to embrace life somewhere in “adulthood”; others will say I’m “immature”. These judgments are based on rules of age. Such labels mean nothing to me except to wrap me in chains and secure them with locks. Chains and locks defined by some notion of the rules of age.
Who is to say I can or can’t; should or shouldn’t because of my age? The lines of obedience are not defined for me by a number, but rather defined only by laws of respect, compassion, inquiry and discovery. In a word, the only thing that governs my life and how I live is LOVE.
So do you really want to know how old I am? Go ahead and ask me, but be forewarned:
- Your question will tell me more about the definitions that rule your life than you may wish to share;
- You will be stepping into a philosophical discussion (it might be a one-way lecture with you as the listener) that is beyond your interests; and
- My answer will leave you void of the information you are seeking.
To be honest, my age is none of your business.