Driftwood

Good Day Bloggers,

Did you ever really look at driftwood and the quiet beauty of the wood?

I have an idea that while we often think we are in charge of our lives, the winds of change are scouring and shaping us into new and different beings.

When I look in the mirror, I see an old woman. My features have blurred and my hair can't decide how to behave. Unlike men, who can grow beards to disguise the troubles life has etched on their mugs, I can only tie back my thinning tresses and look upon the countenance time gave me.

Inner beauty does not seem to come through the mirror, and so the question of who is fairest of them all becomes moot. All one can do is to hope that the metamorphases of age reflect a beautiful and instructive life.

Driftwood, after all, echoes the past life of a tree that blossomed in spring and harbored the mockingbirds and jays and owls that called to me in day and night.

I hope the next person sees me as driftwood, stripped to the quiet beauty that remained hidden in my youth, and that the tide washes at my feet carrying bits of sea glass and shell to wear in my hair.