On my Just 10 walk this morning, I swallowed a bug. I didn't notice it going in. Apparently, I failed to use my teeth as an effective grill to screen out my unwanted morsel. I might have missed his entrance completely if this bug hadn't made one valiant struggle to live. Its' tiny legs and fragile wings flailed against the soft tissue of my uvula before falling down the inky black tunnel of death, also know as my esophagus. This isn't the first bug I've swallowed. I'm sure it won't be my last. I'm a hopeless mouth breather. My mouth has an open invitation to many of my flying insect friends.
Notice the word, "friends." I've made peace with many inhabitants of the insect world. I've been playing with potato bugs and caterpillars as long as I can remember. I also had enough sense to leave centipedes and suspicious looking spiders alone. My children don't share this affinity with insects. If my son had swallowed the bug, he probably would have returned his breakfast to the earth, choking up his revulsion. I pondered my peaceful acceptance of my bug morsel this morning. My mind had been a whirlpool of thought. All right. For a few moments the word, "cesspool" may have been more descriptive. I was still feeling very vulnerable after my last blog entry. Despite all the wonderful encouragement and support, I still feel exposed. I'd found myself in an undiscovered country of emotional candor. I am a bit lost.
It hasn't helped that our womens' book group has been reading and loving, Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. We all love her candor, her ability to capture feelings we experience with her wonderful use of the English language. I want to write like she does. I would dearly love to have a New York Times Bestseller, not to mention a movie based on a part of my life (The convent years have great movie potential. Don't you think?) That would sure end our financial worries. I compare myself to Liz Gilbert and I find my writing almost juvenile and inane.
Ah, I recognize that voice. It's the childish voice of my ego. "Hey, I thought I showed you the door the last time you showed up here." It replies, "I found an open window. Get used to me, Baby. I'm here to stay."
But, I digress. Let's get back to my bug. My mind kept returning to it as I walked. Obviously, part of me wasn't as nonchalant about its' ingestion as I'd like to think. I wondered if its' death was pointless. I also wondered if my writing really had a point as well. Almost instantly, I got my answer. The bug and I were doing what comes naturally. The end doesn't matter. It's all about the journey. It's about being true to who you are. It's about me sharing the simple truths in my life for the joy of the sharing, not for recognition but for the pleasure of writing. (That would be great by not necessary. . . immensely helpful though.)
So, like my little friend the bug, who made one last stand against a seemingly senseless death, I will not curse the darkness or the fact that I am not Elizabeth Gilbert. I will honor my truth until the end and I will derive pleasure in the simple act of writing, the sharing of who I am.
I pay tribute to the bug. "Bug, you did good. You were all bug. You lived a simple bug life. You fought with your little bug honor to hold on to that life. You taught me how important it is to hold on to mine." Thanks, bug.
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