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.
The bubble has burst, as I knew it would. Said it would, actually, eight days after arriving. “I feel so wonderful,” I texted a dear friend. “I’m a little worried this bubble can’t hold.” Dear Friend responded with assorted breeds of happy-face emojis and applauding hands. Assured me that the bubble didn’t need to burst at all. Life could simply be like this from here on out. That the winds of forever-ever-after-loveliness would only e’er more gloss my cheeks and kiss the backs of my receptive hands.
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.)
I consider myself a bit of a beauty glutton. It’s important to me that my view be gorgeous—if not exactly the view from my house then at least the view when I get in my car and drive somewhere nearby to bask in nature’s best.
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.
“Give, even if you only have a little.” – The Buddha … Though we may feel lost, weakened, and left with little, we can give.
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.
I believed marriage would be the blueprint for my years and that it would give me the babies, the houses, the shared beds and car payments and memories that come with being together this way.