Once she was a dreamer on the hill without trees. Once another time she taught about old, wicked kings. And she rode through oak valleys, sailed storms, cast spells in smoky darkness, wore bells around her ankles. A tumble of ghosts live in her reminiscent heart. And she's old enough now to look back on them with love.
But she doesn't want to be them still, for all that she misses their days. She wants to have grown older. That feels right. Shedding skins as she goes through life. What she was then, she gave to then. She lived it deep, she loved it wild. It does not belong in now.
And she understands finally it is not about letting go. It is the womanly way of becoming. She is living all of herself, thoroughly.
illustration arthur rackham