the mysterious beauty of the life cycle

We’re back East for the holidays, spending a whirlwind of two weeks back and forth between family members and friends.

I’ve been drinking it all in. There’s just something good about being back with the people who have always known you, even changed as you are by time and distance. We’re all a little older now, with some of our rougher edges worn a little softer. It’s neat to see, the way grown-up looks on each of us who knew each other when grown up was still a long ways off.

I’m sleeping in the bedroom I lived in growing up, which looks almost exactly the same, except for the addition of a crib. When I can’t sleep, I listen to the deep, breathy almost-snores of my husband next to me (THERE’S A BOY IN MY ROOM. AND MY PARENTS KNOW. IS THIS REAL LIFE?) and my toddler daughter, the symphony of my adult life, set in the backdrop of my adolescence.

It’s a crazy thing, the overlap of old and new like this–a beautiful conglomeration of the people who gave me life and those to whom I’ve given it.

In this very same bed, I dreamed of these people who sleep in the room with me now, wondering what they’d be like and when I’d meet them. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie here and think about what my future husband might look like or how we’d meet. I wondered if I’d have kids and when. Now, here we are, the imagined colliding with reality and it’s all better than I could’ve dreamed up.

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