At the age of 15, my son told me, “Nothing lasts, Mom, not even the good stuff”. It’s a wise observation but then Scout, as I call him in my writing, has been my masterclass in Stoicism.
When he got his first tattoo, I wasn’t in favor. How could he commit to some passing fancy to wear on permanent display for the rest of his life? Whenever I caught sight of it, it was like finding scribbles in the margins of a beloved book. Never mind that the ‘book’ didn’t belong to me, I felt as if something that should have been important and enduring had been defaced and trivialized.
But then I found myself in need of reinvention and revolution.
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