You can tell a lot about a person by the way they open a door. I was contemplating this the other day in the women’s restroom as I stole a short, desperate break from work. (Real estate offices are total mayhem in the spring.)
The topic of permission came to me recently courtesy of my ex-husband, who has a genius for texting me what has been on my mind before my mind can process it. We all have our gifts. One of his, it seems, is of mental midwife.
A friend once told me she envied my ability to dream, and to remember these stories after waking. At the time I didn’t think this was much of a gift. I was dreaming in fearful fragments—odd parabolic universes that threatened to undo me during what should have been my respite from an equally upsetting life.
I came out on social media the other day. I didn’t plan it—didn’t even think coming out was necessary for me.
I can feel the strings between us tugging—stretching—unraveling. This awful and endless taffy pull I chose isn’t sweet most of the time. It sticks like a bone in my throat.
As the Buddhists say, each moment is a birth, a life, and a decay into the next. (If the Buddhists don’t actually say something along these lines, they should… because that is how it freaking is.)
There is nothing like a big decision to bring you face to face with yourself. The big decisions… the ones that rock the paradigm…
According to Google only a completely flat piece of mirrored glass will show you “what you really look like.”
Whatever the hell that means.
I’ve been a liar all my life. It started in childhood when I learned that I could tell stories to get what I wanted. And to conceal who I was from the world.