Elizabeth - Imperfect, and Largely Modest
There is an old woman who lives in a shoe. There is a middle-aged woman who lives in a box. There is a young woman who lives in a vase.
Which one of these women am I? And why must I be young, middle-aged or old? And why should I live in a shoe, a box or a vase?
This is all quite stupid, really. Just an exercise to loosen my fingers. A writing warm-up to lure my sleepy, Sunday morning frame of mind into a state of increased nimbleness.
But here’s the truth of it. I am only days away from 46 years old. I guess that makes me middle-aged. And I do live in a box – well, I suppose it’s more of a rectangle, really. But I do not feel middle-aged - not one bit. I feel thirty, at best. Young and supple – as if the majority of my life still stretches before me. As if I still have the time to experience different revolutions of self – different careers, different communities, different homes, different expressions of love. Different hobbies, even. At some point in the future, I swear I’m going to have a flower garden that I lovingly tend. And in that same vague, hazy future, I will feel content and sated. Rooted in my being.
Well, why not feel rooted in my being today? Even though my mind believes that I am in the throes of youth, some days I feel exhausted waiting for rootedness to come, and then I believe myself to be very old, indeed. I can go through the laundry list of methodologies that are meant to coax rootedness from the shadows: being present; caring for the self before caring for others; learning to forgive; expressing acts of compassion; taking a moment to listen to ambient sounds, to feel the tide of breath, to notice the various points of contact between body and earth. I qualify each of these motions as worthy, as time well spent. And I try to engage in practice on a daily basis. Every morning in the pre-dawn, I sit on my couch with my eyes closed, with my posture straight and I simply listen. I stare at the darkness behind my closed eyelids. I contemplate the sensations in my wrist, my scalp, my sit bones. And every day, usually toward evening when I escape work and flee outdoors, I stop in my tracks to notice grass pushing through concrete, the play of light and wind through the branches of a tree, the swarm of a beehive. And, as I know in my deepest being, those small moments are nourishing and solidifying. Calming.
Yet, sometimes just a few moments later, in creep the doubts. In creep the swells of loneliness, or the prickles of irritation. Sometimes these unwelcomed guests ambush me in moments when I am otherwise entirely happy. Here is a common experience: I am out for my daily hike with my earbuds in. I am very happily rocking out to my favorite play list, imagining all sorts of future heroic accomplishments. I am a beloved author, I am a sexy vixen, I am a killer dance partner. I’m so tight and taut that you can bounce quarters off my thighs!
In short, I’m indulging in all these rock-n-roll fantasies with complete abandon when something happens to prompt me to suddenly press pause and remove my earbuds. Perhaps it’s a neighbor flagging me down, or a dog suddenly barking and jumping behind a fence, or a gnat that has flown into my eye. I take off my earbuds, tend to the matter at hand and then have a good look around.
Oh…, I realize. Damnit! I am not a famous author sidelining as a sexy vixen. I do not have twenty invitations sitting in my inbox imploring me to be a guest speaker at such and such an event. My most recent blog has only garnered 7 likes on Instagram, and 0 on Facebook. And, last time I tried, the quarter did not bounce off my taut butt checks. Instead, it sort of wobbled, and then pathetically slithered to the floor.
I am, simply, Elizabeth: nearly 46 years old, residing in a modest rectangle (but I love it; I do! I love my little rectangle!) with very little to speak of in way of a flowerbed. To add salt to the wound, I just fed my cats diced up turkey dogs that expired weeks ago because I have not dragged my lazy ass to the grocery store to stock up on cat food. Hardly the femme fatal who never misses a beat!
I guess that my Elizabeth-ness is what makes me human, and averagely so. And I suppose that this humanity - this very average human experience that I am living – is also what renders me compassionate and loving. I know how it feels to take a long look in the mirror and fight back. To wake up every day and try again and again and again. To indulge in fantasies about how magnificent I am, only to realize that I can count my genuine friendships on one – maybe two - hands. But perhaps this is where fortune lies. Fortune lies in the fact that I have friends to count, and the will and perseverance to keep trying. To keep writing even though I often doubt that my efforts will be noticed. To keep insisting on claiming those silent moments that are available to us every day. To look for the places where beauty expands. To have faith that there is a wealth of experiences yet to come. And that, despite my largely modest existence, living still favors me, and will continue to do so for years to come. I suppose, then, that that is who I am. I am not Elizabeth – the famous author sidelining as a sexy vixen.
I am Elizabeth – imperfect, and largely modest.