I ponder the passage of another year. On birthdays some distance past, I would think of an oft quoted line from Anais Nin: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. "
I looked for the blossoming, worked the parched and long untended soil and waited in vain for the peak efflorence which never came. Certainly there was growth, there were patches of beauty, some branches bore fruit. But I still wished for a riot of colourful flowers followed by fine fruit on every limb.
Now I view things differently and another quote by the same interesting author presently resonates more strongly:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."