notions of time

“I Am the Changer” by Cotton Jones is playing gently into my ears as the smoke from my dried rosemary that I got months earlier at a sustainable market in Guayaquil, Ecuador burns in through my nose and washes over me with warmth. There is something about the smell of rosemary that puts me at ease, while at the same time, makes me nostalgic for a period of my life that doesn’t exist anymore.

Change hurts. I know it’s coming when every fibre of my being starts to tingle and the alarms sound off in my brain and in my body. “This is a public service announcement from Micaela’s brain to the rest of her body. Change is coming. I repeat, change is coming. Prepare yourself. It is unavoidable.” No matter how many times I have heard this “PSA” come through my being, every time change arrives, it rocks me to my core. I feel things deeply, and within my capacity for depth, there is more than just sadness and happiness. Everything in between hits me like a ton of bricks; grief, nostalgia, rage, anger, frustration, joy, enthusiasm, excitement. But there’s something about those first two feelings, grief and nostalgia, that stay with me longer than any of the rest. Maybe it’s because I think at length too long sometimes on my feelings and where they come from and what they mean, or maybe it’s just because I have always been curious and forever striving to understand the depth at which I feel things, but grief and nostalgia, combined with change, are just so mind-boggling to me. How is it that life can change so quickly? How is it that one day, all of a sudden, you wake up and realize that it is February 2023 and the past few years feel like a beautiful blur of travel, and adventure, and love, and heartbreak, and joy, and growth to the highest degree.

Time is such a weird, funny, crazy, frustratingly-beautiful thing. It creeps up on you so slowly, and then, in an instant, it’s staring you right in the face, asking you, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (Mary Oliver).

Oliver’s words ring true for me more than they ever have before because for the first time in a long time, I feel at peace with my life, where I am at, where I am going, the woman I am becoming, and the people and experiences that I am attracting and welcoming into my life. Life no longer feels like a giant question mark, but rather, a warm embrace, a welcome home. I have been waiting for you to arrive for so long, and oh, how I am glad that you have.

“Sit. Feast on your life.” (Derek Walcott).

I keep pictures of my younger self all around my apartment to remind myself of who I am and where I come from in moments when I need to get grounded. My favourite in particular is the one I keep on my bedside table. I didn’t have lots of hair for the first few years of my life so my straggly beach blonde curls sit atop my head looking like a bit of an alfalfa cut. I have my tongue out in the picture and am casually carrying around some sticks while on a hike with my parents and older sister. Why I had my tongue out in such a goofy way carrying sticks through the forest is unknown to me, but it really doesn’t surprise me. Little me was weird. Little me was goofy. Little me loved to make people laugh and feel loved, and little me loved to be outside. And honestly, not much has changed. That photo serves as a reminder on days when I forget who I am that the young, goofy, nature-loving girl inside me is patiently waiting to shine again, all I have to do is set her free.

All for now,

All my love,

Onward.

-m