Sometimes I shiver with the thought of getting old. This shiver, like a wave of panic, reminds me: Time marches on and stops for no one. Logically, I knew this all along; however, now that I’m over fifty, it’s beginning to really sink in. It’s quite the paradox, for as I gaze into the mirror, I see a body consistently aging, but my soul seems to remain young. I ask myself, how can this be? When did my body catch up and pass my soul? My body descends into frailty, but my soul remains a kid of yesteryear.
I have come to the conclusion, that the soul never ages. Bear in mind, I have no scientific proof to backup this theory; it is just that…a theory…or simply put, reflections from my redhead. I hold to this logic because, as I said before, my body is beginning to feel its age-parts of me hurt that I never knew I had; and, all the while, as this daily decline marches on, my soul, on the other hand, desires to frolic like a freckle-faced kid running barefoot, and climbing trees. Could this mean, I’m still a kid at heart? I’m not sure, but this I know: The melody of my soul, still plays an energetic tune.
I further, believe it possible, that at the moment our soul entered our body, whether in the womb or upon birth, it came to us fully whole and fully competent. The soul, the essence of us, came to us “ready to roll,” and was only limited by our lack of cognitive development.
In theory (mine of course), as our mind matured, we became aware of our soul, and this awareness, was the key, that unlocked the knowledge and power held within. Our “soul power” has always been inside, waiting patiently to be released. The more we tap into its power, through thought, prayers or meditation, the more spiritual we become. And so, this continues, until we reach a point in our life, where our soul grows stronger, as our bodies grow weaker. I think this true, regardless of one’s religion or lack thereof. It’s a matter of tapping into the soul and everyone has a soul.
Often, when I think about getting old, I liken it to a bird, captured within her cage. My soul, of course, is the bird, and my aging body, the cage. Like the bird, I presume, the soul will be agile, still yearning to play; but my body will be too tired-too old-to satisfy her cravings.
I am reminded of Maya Angelou’s words, from her poem Caged Bird:
“In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” John 14:2