First, I awoke early (not ungodly early, but much earlier than my usual time) today for the second time in a row. Feel good. Tomorrow I will have to wake at 4 to catch a 6.30 flight. I am traveling for a bereavement, but am inappropriately excited because I will be meeting cousins after nearly a decade. That’s that w.r.t. routine.
Having extra time this morning to do whatever I wanted, I perused my reader. I stumbled upon two posts that spoke to me. I am not linking them because of my own privacy issues, but the crux of one of the two posts is as follows:
My favourite mommy-blogger writes about how we can be compassionate to others having the faults over which we beat ourselves black and blue . I had written a post on this earlier (tried searching for it, but couldn’t find it in the jungle of uncategorized and disorganized posts) about how, when other people do the same things I do, I see them in positive light and my own actions, whatever they be, are always seen with a hypercritical eyeball. The post I read resonated with me, especially in the mood I am in (continue reading, I dare you).
My guest visited for half an hour yesterday and we chatted over coffee. I use the word “chatted” rather loosely. I wasn’t a chatter as much as a chattee. Which is fine. I am not much of a talker, and if the other party can hold a passionate conversation on her own, nothing better, what? She is a wonderful person, but I was stressed around her as always- she is unbelievably perfect, and in my younger days, I’d often try to emulate her and fail miserably. I don’t anymore, I have come to terms with my own imperfections even if I have not quite embraced them yet – have you seen the welts on my figurative back? Yes, I can’t hold an interesting conversation, yes; I am not doing gazillion things efficiently; yes, I am not attractive – I am what I am. Yet, yesterday as she sat across the table rattling off nonstop, I felt exhausted and for hours after she left, I stayed disturbed. When I went to bed last night, I realised with a shock that my fists had been held tightly clenched all day. Will I ever accept myself unconditionally? My eyes well up as I type the last line.
Another question I have is this. Some of you have been reading my blog for many years. You know that I have no dearth of words in this blog and can spew them continuously until something gives. Yet, why is it that I can’t talk to people? Beyond the fist few minutes of greetings, I am at a complete loss. When I say complete loss, I mean absolute loss..total loss…abject loss. I know people who are, in general quiet – I have a cousin who is worse than I am, she can’t even make the first few minutes of greetings, but she does not write either, and communication is not her forte. The written word is like oxygen to me – I must communicate. Yet, the cat gets my tongue when I have to talk. Pretty disgusted with myself, I say.
There was one other post on my reader, which hit me right between my eyebrows. I can’t even bring myself to write about it yet because it hits too close home and while I do wash dirty linen out here, the linen that this thought involves is too filthy.
And with that, ignoring the irony, I wish you peeps a lovely weekend.