scribblechic

It’s easy to journal the tender moments, uncomfortable to make permanent the difficult pieces of complicated experiences. I am a fractured woman, flawed in behaviors so deeply entrenched in the continuum of my experiences I struggle to claim change even as I aspire to wake up each day a better version of myself. Inconsistent and insecure I contradict myself in riddles of intention.

I don’t wear my awareness or apologies as clearly as defensiveness and joy, anger or disappointment. Even on the most complicated days I wear a mask of contentment to keep my dreams safe beneath the bravado of my pride. It is disingenuine to hide ourselves from the world, to sacrifice the fullness of our offerings by making ourselves small.

Here, where I so often celebrate my experiences of family and self, it feels both deceptively safe and frighteningly necessary to hold a light to the broken places of my story to better illuminate my faith in vulnerability. Today I am wondering at where I can invite light into my day, living more consciously unguarded; stretching myself to claim the space of trust.

I have spent a lifetime navigating invisibility in plain sight; hiding behind the boisterousness of a louder companion or the deception of disinterest, the fullness of my doubts and dreams more easily masked by assigned roles tangent to more colorful personalities. I learned this first as a child shuffled between new schools in my parents’ divorce. Uncomfortable in a space of extended uncertainty, I began to lean against other’s for direction; moving through days in borrowed shadows.

There is a magic to disappearing; watching the world unfold like actors on a stage. Expectations are safely impersonal, opinions ignored as irrelevant; failure and loss are guarded from the fragility of exposing the intimacy of hidden vulnerabilities. This too is a trick of perception. Just as I have escaped the criticism of others in consciously crafted illusions of confidence, echos of unrest reverberate in the silencing of self.

I celebrate those who walk uncomfortably into unforgiving spotlights, dropping the veneer of security for a moment of brave authenticity. I champion the stranger who falls dangerously along a path of their own design, bolstered by the boldness of their courage. Each imperfect articulation of someone else’s sense of self whispers to my soul the warmth of knowing and being known.

Today I am looking inward for direction, setting my compass to new intentions and old dreams.

I possess an undeniable affinity for messages of worth that empower an appreciation for, confidence in, and expectation of growth; values and endearments, affirmations and declarations that speak to individuality and resilience. I scribble words into the texture of my day with artwork and jewelry, letters and lists; goals and promises that guard the sanctity of my dreams for the life I craft with my choices.

Still, some days the language of my hope suffocates the joy from more imperfect experiences as the words that measure my accomplishments do not align with the image of self that is fractured with shortcomings.

What if instead of holding to the cookie cutter, hashtag culture of abbreviated, social media mission statements we edited our wishes to a quieter contentment? Perhaps it is enough to Be without more grand aspirations of excellence trapped in exhaustive adjectives that suffocate gratitude for less with expectations of excess.

I speak only of my doubts as I sift through emotions and questions that challenge my assumptions and tendencies; condensing an image of self into catch phrases that overlook the complex contradictions of individuality that resist generic exaggerations of accomplishment. Perhaps our greatest accomplishments require only the courage to be ourselves.

There is an unwanted voice in my mind that interrupts my comfort with unkind whispers. Insecurities that exaggerate my flaws and dwell in criticism. It is a voice I would not use to address another and yet I give this companion residence in my heart. My mind debates the manipulations with logic and well rehearsed messages of unconditional acceptance for personal imperfections, but confidence fails me still. This morning, curled into a cloak of gentleness I am tempering the quiet battles with care; an unhurried cup of coffee in a quiet house, clothing so soft it falls weightless on my frame, a naked face and freshly washed hair. Little indulgences that bind me to a sense of delight; a letting go and coming to.

Awake and attentive, intentional and intuitive. I like to believe I aspire to live a life entrenched in authenticity, but some days I catch myself toying with judgments and certainty that blind me from my own consciousness. That awareness sits heavy on my conscience.

The irritation I feel for self-centered, busy body behaviors of others distracts my attention from my own tendency to dwell in a space of self or interject my opinions against another’s experience. The woman whose world is a perpetual catastrophe of need is not so different from my role as a mother navigating special needs. I judge the woman who gossips about others in unkind tones to my husband’s ear without hearing the hypocritical undertone that taints my purity. Were someone to cast a stone my walls of glass would cut painfully into my own distorted sense of entitlement.

I have come to stand too long in a place of self.

Even my recent wishes to shield my children from unhealthy familial relationships assumes that my guards are less damaging. Perhaps it is healthier to let my children see the truth of an unpleasant situation, the brokenness of family, from a place of safety rather than deny them the exercise in unconditional love. On this note, I am yet undecided, but I am aware that in protecting my children there is a new harm as they grieve the loss of something they do not fully understand. To balance the emotions of grief and assumptions of security is an impossible scale for certainty.

I tell myself that I am maturing into boundaries that define respect and foster kindness, but the abruptness of my certainty is unforgiving in its noisy righteousness. I am not like her, don’t want to be them, wouldn’t do that, or allow this are petty whispers that speak more of my shortcomings than others’ character. Perhaps the greater truth is that I am certain of very little and so I cling to threads of dignity.

The only true surety, for me, is the accident of awareness that perpetually humbles me in my assumptions. Last night I found a borrowed perspective in the musings of a woman I barely know, a college acquaintance I remember only tangentially to my own muddled memories, someone gracefully navigating a terminal health crisis. In her words I read a clarity of value for imperfect days  and a vulnerability for her death that informs acceptance for an absence of control. There is no pettiness or greed for what is lost, no comparison to what cannot be.

The universe rarely whispers once and so this morning I recognized the lesson still unformed in a friend’s company. In the warmth of her ease I noted a similar grace; a bright soul who sees the world’s imperfections with an amused acceptance for inconvenient truths. Without an unkind thought I am drawn to her lightness.

Perhaps this is the lesson for me today: the little things that collectively inform a burden are only heavy when we carry them across our days. Today I am letting pebbles of unkindness and certainty slumber beneath my path to better navigate the day with a lighter sense of self.

I harbor a genuine admiration for a beautiful expression of style, an appreciative recognition of an artistically authentic statement of personality in the fabric of individual fashion. I admire other women’s ability to infuse self with eclectic articles of clothing that underscore a quieter confidence or curious expression of creativity. For some the physical becomes an extension of something intangible, an outward representation of an internal awareness.

Lately I have been struggling to piece together a wardrobe. The act itself feels almost ridiculous in its self-importance. However, the material value of the endeavor is far less significant than the personal cost of undressing old insecurities.

It is a dirty secret I carry beneath the carefully contrived and often uncomfortable efforts at dressing, the layers of unkindness for the body I live in. I hide behind threadbare t-shirts and unassuming forms that belie a hyper sensitivity with a false air of detachment. Other times I escape beneath more formally intentional ensembles that mask vulnerability with invisibility.

As my favorite jeans were recently retired for time well served and my t-shirts and sweaters have become exhausted with overuse, I am facing the self I cannot escape in the harsh light of uncertainty in unforgiving dressing room mirrors. There are no paper doll costumes to dress the secrets of old harm. The choices are too many when you are lost within your own skin.

I want to feel beautiful and strong, comfortable and self-assured; to move between activities unbound by old insecurities and informed with an elegance of confidence. It is a raw and vulnerable experience, undressing old wounds while building an image of self.

There are uncomfortable experiences of self that are centered in perfectionism; pages torn whose rough remnants are stubbornly stapled among those unmarred. I sometimes feel the knowing tug of sharp expectations as they pull at my thoughts and ruffle contentment. They are self-imposed standards that speak to a perceived ineptness scaled against impossible expectations.

Failure is first painful for the uncomfortable perceptions of self that glare unkindly, taunting old wounds. Slowly, persistently, the mind smooths over crumbled insecurities, stretching emotions to accommodate a gentler logic; one that forgives sharp creases for the fullness of their texture.

It is a personal poetry, the faults and fears illogical once voiced, but too cumbersome to be kept in silence. Instead I speak the difficult truths onto clean pages, gathering fragments of self from torn pages.