When the River Carries Me
Aging is not a sudden break — it is a river that keeps carrying us onward, sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely.
Between letting go of the old shores and trusting the new currents lies a quiet initiation — one that can feel unsettling, yet deeply sacred.
Aging — that mysterious word that at times frightens us and yet inevitably calls our name.
It is not a standstill, not a fading, but a transformation that unfolds right in the midst of life.
As we learn to struggle less and trust more, a different space begins to open — softer, wider, truer.
This text is an invitation to stop trying to control the river of life and to surrender to its flow.
It is a reminder I whisper — or sometimes say out loud — to myself every day.
A piece of soul work, a touch of magic,
and perhaps a gentle recognition that aging is not an ending,
but another way of shining.
Of Aging, of Letting Go, and of Becoming
As you may have noticed, I’ve been spending more time lately with the theme of aging.
Perhaps because time itself feels quieter now.
Perhaps because the mirror has grown more honest.
Or perhaps because the inner call to become still has grown louder
than the noise of the world.
Against the Current
How long has it been?
That wild, defiant, radiant time when I swam against the current —
relentless, fierce, carried by the firm belief
that staying forever young must somehow be possible.
I swam as if my life depended on it.
And maybe it did — the life that still needed to prove itself back then.
I wanted to be invincible, luminous, swift —
a spark of stardust refusing to fade.
The Secret of Letting Go
And then, at some point, words began to drift toward me — quietly, yet unstoppable:
“Aging is not the end of swimming. It is the art of being carried.”
Since then, I have been practicing.
I no longer swim against time, – at least I try.
I let myself be carried. I let myself be changed.
Because, truthfully, there is no other way.
So I allow myself to be the river — not just the swimmer.
It sounds poetic, yes — but in truth, it is also uncomfortable.
For being carried means to trust what is greater than my will,
stronger than my ambition, older than my body.
It means making peace with my own finiteness —
and that is not an easy conversation.
The Art of Transparency
I discover: I have not become less.
I have become more porous.
Life moves through me like water through a sieve of light.
The forms change — the essence remains.
Sometimes I think of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess,
who descended into the underworld to surrender her garments and crowns,
until she stood naked and vulnerable before herself.
Perhaps aging is exactly that —
a sacred descent, a shedding of roles, certainties, and masks.
Not to lose oneself,
but to become more true.
The Breath of Heaven
And yet — sometimes, when the wind runs through my hair,
I feel the whole sky breathing within me.
As if everything I have let go of has returned,
softer, larger, transformed.
I realize: aging is not a vanishing.
It is a returning —
to the rhythm that carries us all,
to the place where the “I” no longer struggles,
but becomes part of the great river itself.
Who Am I When the Roles Fall Away?
When the parameters of identification begin to dissolve —
all that you believed yourself to be, your roles, your tasks,
the reflection you’ve seen in the eyes of others —
a trembling begins.
A fine, unsettling vibration at the very core of the self.
It feels as though the ground on which you built your life
suddenly turns soft —
not because it disappears,
but because it turns into water not because it disappears, but because it turns into water — or something like quicksand.
At first, there is often fear.
Who am I if I am no longer who I was?
The therapist, the mother, the warrior, the wise one, the lover —
each of them begins to loosen and peel away,
like skins you have worn for a long, long time.
It is a kind of undressing,
not before the eyes of others,
but before the mirror of your own soul.
The Quiet Revolution of Transparency
Socially, it can feel as though you’re slipping out of the grid.
The old answers to “So, what do you do?” dissolve into a gentle smile, -sometimes.
You begin to notice that belonging no longer arises from roles, but from resonance.
That identity is not fixed — it breathes.
In this state, something quietly revolutionary happens:
You begin to no longer have yourself — you begin to be yourself.
Not as a construct, but as a living movement.
The form of “I” becomes permeable,
and through its openings flows life itself — unedited, unmasked, unapologetically real.
It is not a state for vanity —
but it is one for the soul.
And you?
How do you meet your own aging?
Which myths accompany you — which images, which voices?
Would you like to share your reflections?
I would love to hear them.
Because perhaps aging, when we look at it together,
is not a decline —
but an initiation into the mystery of a becoming not yet visible.