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I am not yet me.
I am still becoming.

Lines in a poem by Jim Rogers.
Thank you, Jim. You certainly stirred up the cobwebs in my brain.

I am not yet me.
I am still becoming.

Earlier, I thought at some point I would know. I would understand.
I would BE. I would be fully me.
But when?
It didn’t happen at 30. Or 40. Or 50. Or 60.

And I had as many questions at 70 as at 30.
Maybe more.
Yes, I think more.
So when?

I am not yet me.
I am still becoming.

But here’s the thing, Jim Rogers. More and more, I have shed “not me.”
I think that’s progress.
Each day, it seems, I let another not-me go. Nope. Not me.
Another layer peeled, another idea up in smoke.

I am not yet me.

So many rough edges and shadows I’m finding.
(How many layers are there, anyway?)
And still dreams come, quests, experiments, wonderings, wanderings.
New possibilities, new recipes, new hiking trails – flatter perhaps.
New spring times with new flowers.
New learning.
New questions.

How do you arrive when there’s always wonder?
I wonder.

How can I become when I’m always becoming?

Maybe it’s a practice.
I practice being me.
And perhaps day by day I get a little better.
Like the pianist, the artist, the writer, the grandmother. The self.

I practice.
And stumble over my stumbles,
dust myself off,
Sorry. I wasn’t myself. Please forgive me.

I am not yet me.
I am still becoming.

Maybe when I’m 80. Maybe then.
Or maybe the changes and wonderings and wanderings
will send me back to 21 when I knew so much more
but was miles away from being anything close to myself.

It’s a conundrum, Jim.
I am so unfinished.
So far from being myself.

I am not yet me.
I am still becoming.