Unfettered or defined by clothing, a sleepy and some what dizzy me (thanks to the lingering gift of the Christmas shingles) climbs into a warm shower and lets the focused stream of water gently bring me to my senses. Seemingly deep thoughts begin to visit my awakening brain.
This morning, I had two solid insights or thoughts about myself and my place in the universe.
1.) I feel compelled to write and to share it with others because in the act of doing so, I discover myself.
2.) I am an extraordinary individual and so is most every body else. The problem is a whole lot of people haven't discovered that about themselves and I often forget.
About the first. . .I often wonder if my public blog is a new form of embarrassment. Shouldn't I be a little more guarded. . . a little less willing to bleed in words? In the same thought, I'll also start wondering how to increase my readership. . . how to make my writing more relevant, more marketable. . . Somehow the words keep coming. They have a life of their own. I am a mere conduit. I rarely know in advance where they are going to take me. I'm just a bystander. The words march by. Their value, their worth doesn't really matter. They simply are. They walk along side, ahead and behind me, graceful squiggly lines, symbols that string themselves together to form a meaning that is usually a complete surprise to me. They create me. I find a home within them. This home is ever changing. It's never big enough to hold me but it's home all the same. I live here.
There are a lot of voices encouraging the practice of journaling. I add mine to it. If you feel at all inclined, write. You don't have to share it with any one. I know that like me, you'll find yourself in your words. Patterns, themes emerge in your life that you never knew existed. By writing about your thoughts and feelings, you will find parts of yourself. It's a wonderful way to spend Just10 minutes with yourself. It won't always feel wonderful. Sometimes, meeting yourself in your words is painful. It is a pain that serves a higher purpose. Embrace it. Write about it.
As for the second shower revelation, this odd thought often flits across the sound stage in my head, "You are an extraordinary individual."
I'm always the first one to argue with this. "There you go again. I don't feel extraordinary. Actually, I feel a little less worthy than most people most of the time. How full-of-yourself can you get?" I have a tendency to mix pronouns when I talk to myself. It makes perfect sense to me. When I call myself, "you" I can distance myself from the subject. "I" gives me ownership. Ownership isn't always a comfortable thing.
This morning, in the shower, I own myself. I quiet the nay saying voices of self that crowded my head. A calm quiet voice speaks over the dark void. "You are an extraordinary individual. Most people are. They just need to discover this about themselves, accept it and start living as if it is true." This I buy. It feels right.
By now, my hair in a towel turban, I'm staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. I line of frothy toothpaste drips from the corner of my mouth. The eyes that look back at me are a combination of my mother's and my father's. I see the imperfections, my wrinkled and flawed skin, the new creases in the corners of my eyes. I also see my dimples, the welcoming softness of my expression even with the line of toothpaste. "It's ok to enjoy being yourself, at least once in a while."
I know this is true this morning. All the imperfections are not erased. They are just part of a larger package. They are not as important as my strengths. How often I forget this.
I let my wet hair down and comb through it. The gray is easy to see in this morning light. They pop against the dark chestnut brown of my wet hair. I smile this morning. I like how my hair looks with these streaks of gray. I smile at my reflection.
The morning continues to unfold like so many other Saturday mornings. As I hurry the kids to get ready to run errands, I find myself losing my cool. A system that I devised to help my son, failed to be followed. My concern over what this means in a larger world dominates my better self. I scold him. It's my fear talking. Less than a half hour later, my daughter fails to listen and process my explanation, one I was giving to try and make her life easier. Again, I scold her but this time her father joins in as well. All of us overreact to the situation. We reach our destination in an angry silence.
Taking a few deep breaths, I try to regain some of my morning shower peacefulness. Our daughter walks away to avoid us. Her body telegraphs her anger. I take a few minutes and suddenly find my feet walking toward her. I bend down and quietly say, "I'm sorry we got off on a bad foot this morning. Your father and I overreacted."
She looks at me with an open face. I add, "It might be a good idea to say you're sorry to Dad."
She paused and pulls back, "I don't feel like I did anything wrong."
I say, "Sometimes, a simple I'm sorry really helps make life easier. Sometimes, it is the bigger person who can say I'm sorry."
The openness returns to her face and I spontaneously kiss her on her forehead and return to the details of my Saturday morning errands.
Yet, I wonder where my words came from. This must be some of the extraordinary aspects of myself. I managed to get out of my own way long enough for it to take over and shine through. "Yes, I am extraordinary. My job is to remember that, go with it and to learn to open my eyes to the extraordinary in others."
I haven't been very good about acknowledging what a lot of the world has been observing this time of year, Lent. Easter is tomorrow but this morning I'm very aware that it's Holy Saturday. As this holy week, slides into Easter morning, I feel the hope of the reborn, the resurrected. Morning shower you've been very, very good to me.
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