Forty

She studied her face in the mirror.

Forty.

There were a few more wrinkles, a couple of sunspots and some deep laugh lines in her cheeks, but the rest ...

Same hazel green eyes, deep black eyelashes, same wide smile and round cheeks.

Forty.

It seems monumental. It seems she should feel different, or older or something. The other day, she did notice a younger woman who kept on listing her credentials during a meeting, as if trying to convince herself, more than anyone else, that she was qualified. At days before forty, it  didn’t even occur to her to list the hours and hours and hours of work that set her up perfectly for this gig. She offered help, take it or leave it, no questions asked.

Forty.

She studied her face in the mirror. Freckles still dot her cheeks and she can still feel the hot New Mexican sun turning her face golden brown summer after summer after summer. Each one of those sun spots now dotting her face has it’s own story to tell. The year she hiked up Kitchen Mesa with a  wooden block taped under one foot and leading a blindfolded friend. The summers of friday night camp outs and cooking hamburgers for breakfast under the shadow of Pedernal. The summer of fancy new clothes, new boots and learning how to swing dance in the barn. Riding horses after school and on weekends, just for fun. Getting frustrated with Poco, who wouldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, go through the gates by Chuck & Ginny’s house. Two summers of leading guests through the winding trails of the San Juan Mountains, looking at the old gold mining town of Golconda and watching the string of 8 year olds behind her hit a patch of ground bees and fall like dominoes.

Forty.

The creases next to her eyes echo with laughter as she and her sister and Andy run from the table to the kitchen to snag the last boiled potato from the pot. Laughter around her childhood kitchen table was long and hard and often. Laughter continued through snowshoeing adventures, mountain bike crashes, extra long hikes and long runs toward the coast. Painting a first home and biking through the Tuscan countryside. Playing with friends and a husband and now their two girls. Screaming as a yeti almost grabbed her in Florida and laughing, hysterically, as she whirled around corners and down splash mountain.

The two heavy lines that now crease her furrowed brow started with years of silent protest of hospital tests and recovering from surgery and grew deeper as anxiety and worry crept into her life as a new mother.

Forty.

She studied her face in the mirror. Life, a reel of experiences, dances behind those eyes. Her journey has felt like a slow and steady, uphill climb. But the views keep getting better, so she keeps on climbing. Plus, she’s always up for a challenge.

The twinkle in her eye comes from the boys she loved, the man she chose to share her future with. And from walking into Diagon Alley with the two girls she walks to school every morning.

Forty.

She may have the same eyes, smile and cheekbones, but as she looks a little deeper, she can see life and growth and change in her face. She likes this forty year old version of herself.

October

A cacophony of color surrounds me. Shades of red, yellow, orange fall softly into my eyes. Everything gilded in beautiful October light. It drips from every leaf, every corn stalk, every blade of still green grass. Pumpkins polka dot my vision.

October lives in my bones and runs through my veins.

The air is soft. Soft with the remnant of summer and filled with a steady stream of yellow honey locust leaves. The next breath will float one into my afternoon coffee.

The world is screaming to be noticed, yearning to be smelled, to be touched, to be tasted.

Light blue sky with cotton ball clouds.

Sweet drops of juice from a crisp apple.

Leaves rattling as they tumble down the street.

Warm, soft sunshine caresses my face.

Damp earth, ready to receive this year’s leaf crop.  

Oh October, how you demand attention.

Hay tractors drive down my street, but their gait is slow and steady now, much less urgent than the driving of early, summer mornings.

Now they rumble by in mid afternoon, as if they too have a little time.

The harvest is over and winter is still out on the horizon.

October is a pause.

A breath.

A chance to look around and gather up warmth and color and the fullness that is right now. Reflection on lives lived and people who have passed on.

Masquerading as witches and pumpkins to try and trick the inevitable. Pretending in a moment of joy as we wait for the sharp cold and the white snow and the inward turn of winter.

But for now, October.