Disclaimer: My purse is slung over my torso making my girth much wider than it is in reality.
Is my reality, really reality? Much time is spent pondering this notion. Is how I am viewed in this world congruent with my thoughts about myself? I think not.
“I am really shy,” I admitted to a long-time dear friend. She burst out laughing, not able to hold the hilarity of that statement within. I am really, really shy, I thought.
When I was a kid, I remember being pretty confident and sure of myself. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I have lost this. Sometimes, I stand on shaky ground. I go through periods of confidence and then it vanishes and I have to fight to wooo it back to where it should reside within.
I see other busy mothers working out at the Y. They make time to exercise, relieve stress and tune-up their bodies. I can’t seem to sustain a focus on myself month after month, year after year. There are too many other bodies I am responsible for nurturing and protecting. I know, I know that is a cop-out. This self-care thing has been an elusive goal that I grasp for a year or so at a time, but them I flail about over and over like trying to get the wooden ball attached to a string into the cup. Impatience gets the best of me.
Writing is one way I take care of myself. The act is purely spiritual. I bought myself an orchid, a deep fuchsia-colored orchid. We both need attention on a regular basis-my orchid and me. My body, mind and soul need to be revered and nurtured. My incongruent reality, does it really matter? My current focus: I am worth the bother.