scribblechic

For a moment, I felt beautiful. Every limb flexed in repose and still. I might have napped if the dog hadn’t insisted we play.

The picture was an impulsive frivolity. I was bookmarking a place I wanted to find my way back to; trying to remember the landmarks to such gentle contentment.

It was only later, when I viewed the image, that I marveled over the shape of my neck, the happy lines around my eyes, the casual sweep of dirty hair that fell lazily into place.

I wanted to whisper to this other self that I see her. Not the tired, broken woman I look for, but the tender soul just beneath the bravado.

I wonder why it is so easy to search an image for disappointment and criticism, instead of appreciation and kindness.

To see ourselves in the right light.

As is so often the case, life gives me clarity in chaos. Pieces of wisdom that lend insight inside inconvenient moments. When my hands are full and my mind is occupied, little earthquakes rattle small truths for alignment.

An online course challenged me to think about difficult choices. I’ve been deconstructing the social truths I gave emotional currency with a submissive, unquestioning validation. Taking back a little authority over self.

A new job pulled me further from the immediate distractions and false urgency of superficial nonsense. Resounding to other’s actions or managing my children’s responsibilities have been shuffled out of my in box.

Stolen moments curled into my daughter’s stories or braced against my son’s frustrations invited connection over concern. I’m listening more actively from a place of purposeful stillness.

A new book shone a light on old assumptions and adjustments to routines shifted my energy. I’m moving and thinking in ways that spark small fires; lighting me up from within.

It’s all too much for the tidy word count of a spontaneous post, but there is something exquisite to the raw tenderness with which I am living inside the skin of greater awareness.

For today it is enough to mark the moment and section off space to rest inside wakefulness.

This morning I was recklessly hopefully, almost obnoxiously joyful as I woke to a personal milestone. Today marked the first time in over sixteen years I was invited to interview for a job I desperately want.

If I am painfully honest, I had already choreographed my celebration; contrived in photographs and status updates how I might announce my news. It felt anticlimactic to return home without word, to unsheathe my legs of the nylons and pristine ballet flats that are in such sharp contrast to my more typical leisurely attire. Except, I’m a stubbornly hopeful person.

Today I interviewed for a job I cannot imagine loosing. There were so many lovely indicators that the universe had aligned to draft me for this calling. My birthdate stamped on the post where I parked. My son’s birthdate engraved against the brass plate of an antique bench sitting in the foyer. Even the greeting card that proclaimed “you’re hired” as it sat misshelved among birthday cards as I ran an errand post-interview.

There’s something tragically fearful in hiding our hopes, we unwittingly undermine the joy that comes from wearing our vulnerability where other’s may witness our courage.

I may not get this job. The very thought is heartbreaking for its impossibility. So, instead, I’m celebrating taking chances and leaping joyfully toward something new. Whole heart, fingers crossed, knock-on-wood hopeful.

The past and the present do not feel so neatly defined in the curious spaces of social media, old friends and once forgotten memories trailing sentiment and nostalgia between the quieter experiences of my days.

I have watched friends shed the awkwardness of adolescence as they flourished into entrepreneurs and parents, artists and academics. They are politically passionate and community oriented. Travelers and therapists, writers and athletes.

There was a time, in the arrogance of adolescence, I considered myself better than the experience of my environment, suffocated by a short sightedness that could not perceive the commonness of my confidence.

I thought I might change the word, trampling the mundane in elegant armors of elaborate degrees. Instead I have watched from the sidelines of my own doubt as others raced past my hesitation. Disoriented by a restless admiration for the certainty I no longer posses.

Contentment has made me comfortable within a new dream, appreciative of a gentler experience of joy.

The youth that was so eager to escape the company of her classmates, is suddenly curious to make their acquaintance, anew.

Last February, as part of my Living Brave coursework, I was tasked with creating a personal manifesto that acknowledged intimate values with a commitment to self. In the safest possible place, scrawled across scratch paper in the margin of my days, I sounded out a beginning.

I considered painful lessons and tender hopes, forgiving errors in judgement while relinquishing remorse; hesitating in my doubts to name my certainties. All the while considering the shape of my legacy, the life I wanted to honor with integrity and passion.

It is an imperfect practice, the work of living outside the armor of disinterest; settling among your fears to better tempt fate with dreams come true. Some days I fail colorfully at kindness, other days I muscle grace by the skin of my teeth. Most days, I find the truest path to joy is marked by conscious gratitude.

Every day I want to wake up to a promise to live wholeheartedly.