My mom loved rhythm. She was always tapping her foot or clapping to the beat when a song was playing on the radio or my dad’s record player. She didn't let age slow down her enthusiasm for the tempo and lilt of good times.
As she got older, she didn't have many wrinkles, except for her hands. And her head of gray hairs (in between colorings) indicated her many years of earning them. Her hands though--they were beautiful, with a rugged, honest quality about them. They were hands that had not sat idly by--these hands had worked...hard. But they also had a gentle contour and a tangible affection--these hands spoke love...abundantly.
If I can keep my exuberance and infuse life with rhythm, welcoming the wrinkles as they appear--because they mean I've lived hard and authentically, I will have aged well. For I was born not to age with plastic surgery or with a schedule book filled with appointments but with the rhythm of a band and the wrinkles of a seasoned warrior princess, like my mom. Bring it on.
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