Saturday, September 3, 2011

Shrinking Violet

The longer I'm on this Earth, the bigger it becomes. Of course the mass of the rock I sit on doesn't change, and it certainly doesn't become any more important... maybe I just slip further from words like 'seminal' and 'pivotal' every day. Some of that distance is admittedly because both of those words sound like some kind of sexual reference.

I really enjoy cut flowers. I stare at them unabashedly, taking in their beauty - snipped from the bush at their most beautiful moment. They only dry up and grey a little, reserving a ghost of what magnificence once held your attention. I like them much more than the flowers who bloom on the plant and stay there to wither away and give rise to seeds, even though it's a fantastic and interesting process. No one wants to deadhead a daisy. It's a reminder of what happens to all beautiful things... and much harder than tossing an old bouquet in the compost.

I might actually be shrinking as I age. It's a consequence of life that the real atmospheric pressure we feel compresses our weak little bodies in spite of how tall we stand. We grow to a nice height in our late teens and then struggle to stand tall for the rest of our lives. Literally! How outrageous! I want to realize JUST ONE GOAL in this life that is mine forever. Height would be nice.

It's not only smallness that greets you in your thirties... fortunately there is a little shred of wisdom you gain as you lose inches of confidence. Pride, boastfulness, and even anger (for me) have gradually given way to patience, resolve and forgiveness. If I get to hang out here another 30 years, I'll be much happier with myself, albeit utterly alone and unable to share the feeling.

Today, I bled honesty. I opened my mouth to stifle the truth, and found it singing past my lips... joyful, vibrant... vindicated. It's becoming less important to be 'right' and far more vital to be 'me'. That kind of honesty is impossible to rush. It only shows up when you've carried your metaphoric umbrella under your arm every day in a yearlong drought. Eventually, you'll be wrong, and it will inevitably rain. This kind of bloodletting is the most healing type.

I'll sleep [eventually] tonight knowing that tomorrow I might just wake up a little less anxious, a little more willing, and a little closer to living honestly than I did today. I'm not proud that my body betrays my mind and makes me tell my secrets, but I'll enjoy the consequences and resulting unburdening of my soul.

Shit, I'm complicated. And tired. I'm even bothered to read this.

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