Letting go of age

I look at my huge mini-van and my huge house, and I think that it's not possible that a woman of my age owns these things - actually, my exact thought is "I am so young. When did I get all of this stuff?" Putting aside the entire idea of extreme North American wealth, I am still shocked at everything that I have and how adult it all seems.

Who bought that pineapple that is sitting on the faux-granite countertop in my kitchen? What adult snuck in here and left a "land owner information letter" next to my computer? When did my parents leave all of their furniture in my home? Furniture I had never seen growing up? Where did all of this "purchased for entirely personal reasons" art come from? Why isn't my house still decorated in an "early American IKEA" style?

I'm afraid I don't know the grown-up woman who lives in my house, my clothes, my skin. I am aghast that this same woman just spent 2 minutes wondering about the punctuation of the last line. Why do I still feel young? And why can't I put an exact number on "how old I actually feel?" Because I can't.

My thinking is that this obscure age is my "heavenly age" - the age I will be when (and if) I ever reach heaven. It must be an age "outside" of myself, because the feeling is a reality but - when I reflect on it - I can't describe exactly what I mean. It is bigger than me - a bigger reality than who I am today. Because the truth is that I do know myself. I can recall many of the memories which contribute to the person I am right now. I am comfortable with who I am and with all (ok, most) of my internal workings (or, at least, I recognize them even if they don't thrill me). But this young stranger who also inhabits my soul is always there - staring in wonder at the life she leads - amazed by the man and boy who share her daily world. Impressed, if still confused, by the trappings of what it means to be an adult woman in this place.