scribblechic

I conjure images of myself expecting the momentum of a vision will sweep me into action, thoughts coordinating into movement. Spontaneity spurred by intention. In truth, inhibitions or insecurities intervene and I cannot shed the stream of thoughts that betray false bravado, tethering me safely to the perimeters of unpredictable spaces. I watch as others relax into whim, marveling at the ease of their openness. My own hopes and fears are stowed safely outside the scrutiny of others. I fail flamboyantly at letting go.

I stewed internally over this personal truth during an evening outing with friends. Our plans to paint over wine and conversation promised a keepsake of play; I had hoped to create something of myself on canvas that I could anchor firmly in our home. Instead I uncovered uncomfortable truths that I would rather cover up with bright brushstrokes. Overwhelmed by the uncertainty of creating something from nothing I felt disheartened by a familiar measure of discomfort.

Following my emotions I silently identified other moments when my thoughts and actions contradicted one another creating frustration and disappointment. Where my feet halt abruptly at the edge of certainty, I watch others tread onward with confident gestures of self. My joy in solitary endeavors and intimate settings seem dispassionate against examples of women whose actions and words seem to project a careless confidence.

Today I am wondering if there is a secret wish in my heart for a sense of otherness, remorse hidden beneath chances untaken. Perhaps I must simply accept my truths unapologetically and forgive myself discomforts that hold me to the shadows of others’ light.

This day seems to linger in distraction. Efforts at industry seem empty and directionless. I am unsettled, uncertain where to begin. Carefree days of busyness allowed me to shuffle decisions among indecisive possibilities, now time seems to be holding me tightly to emotions that demand attention.

The question: Do I return to a place from which I eagerly escaped, never looking over my shoulder to remember the way?

It is the eve of my 20th high school reunion. My connection to classmates is limited to the impersonal voyeurism of social media. Still, time and relationships with others have found new meaning in motherhood. A nagging curiosity and a previously dismissed connectivity to pieces of my past have fostered feelings of doubt for feigned disinterest.

No longer do I see my classmates through the narrow perspective of a self-centered teenager, overwhelmed by her own burdens. Instead they have become a cast of characters veiled in mystery for the unknown. The wanderers whose stories I am curious to hear.

The word reunion taunts an undercurrent of truth racing through my heart and mind with an intensity that seems to suffocate the air around me. The physical space of a place once my home is haunted by ghosts that cannot die.

Truth: I am hiding from memories of myself and a collision between the past and present. Do I meet myself among old harms, or do I stay present allowing the past to slumber?

In much the same way I scribbled my heart into the folds of old letters passed between the hallowed halls of high school, these are the words caught between breaths I cannot take and decisions I am struggling to make from conversations unspoken.

To my father,

I wonder if the calendar has marked my absence these past twenty years? If you found my truths in my absence or if we carry our own wounds too close to see each others’ heartache.

Here is the thing I could not say – it was never that I didn’t love you, it was needing to be loved in return. The impossible standards and ever-present disappointment, fear for your anger and empty trust that opened the door to my departure. I was a shadow long before I left, simply feeding off the light of hope waiting for you to materialize.

I forgave you quietly over time, but I never outgrew the hurt that accompanies old wounds. Between us we are caught in memories and faded photographs from another lifetime.

If I return I move into the past as a mother, unable to invite harm or inherent tragedy to the children I guard from heartache. They are my promise to myself.

When I imagine the possibility of sharing a sidewalk with my past in present tense, I mostly miss what never was.

M

Most days between the layers of busyness are quiet insecurities. I am unkind to myself, silently. Yesterday, watching my children unwind from the routine of the school day into themselves, their interests and humor, I caught myself marveling at the unassuming brilliance of their self-assurance. In the safe, non-judgmental space of our home they glow with a playful and unpretentious confidence.

I wonder where my children acquired these gifts? I am too careful with my joy, too calculating in my risks, too aware of my imperfections. Most days I race between moments, measuring my value against impossible standards. By day’s end I am tired and feel misplaced.

Today I determined I would set aside the nagging doubts and worries that cloud my light. With a headache tugging at my attention and slowing my movements, I pledged to spend the hours I am alone walking in my children’s footsteps. I am practicing compassion by permitting myself unproductive minutes to heal the persistent throbbing in my head. I am gifting myself small indulgences of time and care to create joy within discomfort. More importantly I am finding occasions to be kinder to myself.

Today I am Enough. Without bullying myself into productivity or criticizing failed accomplishments, I am inviting possibility and peace. I want to see myself with the same frame I see my children, an image filtered by love.