TIME
One morning, like any other, but different from all the others that would follow, she looked in the mirror and saw, not casually, the first gray hair growing according to its own order and decision, without following the classic path that everyone else took, and which, with its power, shone brightly on her forehead, drawing attention – even from those passing on the other side of the street? How could she, at the height of her thirty-five years, cope with such disorganization of thought, which did not connect with the perfection of her body's time? Unable to digest the situation, she wielded the tweezers that were on the counter as if they were a sword and plucked the hair by the root. A lesson well given early on so that she would learn not to age so suddenly in the light of everyone and of her own reason. It is not easy to accept the ephemerality of being, of seeing oneself passing while some grow and others arrive.
"What is man? A heap of diseases that, through the spirit, turn to the world: there they want to make their prey." Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, p. 39.
From there, they arrived, and not quietly. They all came, in an almost breathless sequence, to tell him that new times were beginning. Allergies, fibromyalgia, kidney stones, appendicitis, viruses, burns, hospitalizations, and surgeries. The body opened itself to the most diverse experiences of illness and pain, bringing to physical consciousness the maxim that time passes and spares no one, neither saints nor demons, neither fools nor intelligent people; all are under its designs. Then he asked himself countless times who the unfortunate person was who had created this unscrupulous measure called time. He cursed his own species and then, against nature and perhaps, against whoever invented the idea that being alive was good.
"Thus the body traverses history, coming into being and struggling. And the spirit—what is it to the body? Herald, companion, and echo of its victories." Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, p. 73.
But that same time, which leaves the indelible mark of its force on our skin and in our experiences, must ultimately be a good advisor when we learn to see it with different eyes. At forty, she looked at her short, undyed, gray hairs sprouting generously, recognizing her victories and inglorious days. The marks on her body carried so much courage that she became proud of them. Yes, because it takes courage to be alive and to seek paths to health and well-being, to happiness even when it's not the only way. And the contemporary, difficult terms to name her past experiences, like that "cringe" of her children's generation, aroused laughter, curiosity, and even some good memories of that time when she only thought about growing up and getting somewhere – who knows where, because we never actually got there, or in the way we had planned.
So now it will be like this? No news? Has time calmed the indignation, the surprise, and the mornings of fury, giving way to the comfortable acceptance of everything that comes with old age? Obviously not. For now, she can hardly imagine the day when her eyes will fall upon her own vulva, noticing a white hair there, or even the moment when she will put on reading glasses for her eyesight, operated on at thirty, which today still recognizes a sign from a good distance away. In truth, what changed that morning, like any other, but which would be different from all the others that would follow, was the redirection of her trajectory, which would be permeated by an intimate desire to perceive beauty in everything and to be amazed by it.